There are those days when you sit down and think about the past and find yourself swimming in those retro thoughts. It happens to everyone. It is inevitable. Every person’s past memory forms a bigger block called history. No past, no history. A person who neglects his past is like dog without a home,it wanders aimlessly without any plan or direction. No matter how bad a person’s past might be, there is always something good to reminisce about. From the bad past we learn and from the good past we improve. It is always good for a person to walk on a memory lane, either to heal or to cherish. It is an undeniable fact that each and everyone of us has a unique story to tell about our past. Stories like these never seem to lacklustre, they are always tantalizing and interesting. These stories hold our memories. Some memories make us laugh, some make us sad and some even make us wonder. It is for this same purpose that I decided to share a memory that is probably the most commonly memorable to most people, including yours truly. This story will focus on what I call my (I am sure many people of my age will agree) early childhood. This is the period between 1987 and 1990, nowadays early childhood period comes much earlier than back in those days. This is the time that is coincidentally my first school years period. Some memories are vague but some are as vivid as full moon at night. Vague or not, I am still keen to share my memories.

I started my Sub Standard A or First Year ( now known as Grade 1) at a small farm school known as The Dormers Lower Primary. It was situated in a place called Balgowan. Balgowan is a farm dominated area in the Midlands of KwaZulu Natal. To other people from townships, places like these were labelled as boring and backwards, to people residing there, nothing was abnormal. The Dormers stood proudly in between those farms. To us, there was nothing dull or boring about that place. It was just another hopes and ambitions bearer. The school’s uniform was different to most schools, it was green skirts or gym dresses and khaki shirts for girls, khaki shorts and shirts for boys, green socks, brown shoes and green jerseys for everyone. It was very rare to find a student with full uniform, especially with the jerseys and shoes because those were uncommon for non-white schools, they were expensive and hard to find. Since it was a farm school, it is safe to assume that this school and many others like it were built for farm workers’ children. Despite that bleak era, nobody saw anything wrong, everything was just normal, or maybe people just preferred not to ‘see’. Farm school or not, education was education. Like many of my peers, I did not attend Grade R because there was no Grade R in the area and I doubt if there were any Grade Rs in the country then. Maybe there were, for certain classes people. The Dormers was convenient for us because it was a walkable distance from home to school and vice versa. The school had two classrooms, one for SSA and SSB sharing. The other was for Standard One (Grade 3). There was no electricity in both classrooms but none of us really cared. Electricity was a big luxury back then. Many of us did not have electricity at our homes. There were two female teachers at the Dormers, Ma’am Mhlungu and Ma’am Mngomezulu who was the principal. They had cottages within the school premises, it was common for the teachers to have cottages since many of them came from places very far away. Every teacher in those days shared a common characteristic: the infamous ability to unleash punishment. Ma’am Mngomezulu had a loud voice, she was very energetic, so was her ability to beat the living devil out of her students when provoked. The common weapons used by almost every teacher were hedge sticks. Every school had hedge planted within or around them. The Dormers had plenty too. Most hedges never run dry, even during winter and that was convenient, for teachers of course. Every school child hated that pain inflicting, fear instilling plant that became synonymous with every teacher.

I still remember my first day at school. I was excited. It was drizzling. I was proudly wearing a light blue shirt and a khaki short with no shoes. My father had spoken to the teachers about my shirt and shoes. He was going to buy them once he got paid by his baas. For some reason, teachers did not mind when a child came to school without shoes, as long as the child was clean. I started school a few days after schools opened. I remember attending my first morning assembly which was mostly singing, jumping, praying and marching. Although I did not have a clue what was going on but I enjoyed that first assembly session. Unbeknown to me that, assemblies would form part of starting my day at school in the morning and ending it in the afternoon for the next few years. I really enjoyed school assemblies because they represented the start of the new day and the end of it. When the instruction “March into your classrooms” was issued by the principal, pupils went into their respective classrooms. I followed suit, I sort of enjoyed the marching. I cannot remember what I did in the classroom that day but I remember that after break I did not go back to the classroom. I continued playing outside and for some peculiar reason I also cannot explain, nobody seemed to care, not even the teachers. I just continued playing outside, running into mud and water poodles. I played until my clothes were as dirty as mud. While I was busy playing, oblivious to where I was, everybody continued nonchalantly with what they were doing. My older brother was already doing SSB. I still wonder what was he thinking during my first day fiasco. Did he want to play with me? Did he feel embarrassed? I never asked my brother about that incident because it is one of those ‘I do not want to know’ type of incidence. As for other students, I know exactly how they felt. They felt jealous. How I know this? The same incident happened two years later on another young lad’s first day. I was doing Standard One then. The boy played outside for the whole day. We were all quietly jealous, pretending not to notice, except for his brother who was visibly embarrassed. After school the big brother yelled to his sibling, so much that his younger brother cried. It is painfully funny, when I think of it now.

The following day, which was my second day, I was as good as every learner in the school. The next days became a norm. Days became months. By now we were all The Dormers’ children. We would sing Ma’am Mngomezulu’s songs with pride because she also sang them with pride and energy. We would sing with joy, “Izinhliziyo zethu, zimhlophe ngaphakathi.” Indeed, our hearts were white back then. Young and innocent. The school became a part of our lives. The following years gave birth to scholar unity. We became fond of each other, irrespective of our backgrounds. Maybe because we shared common backgrounds. Our parents or guardians were farm workers. We were all under one tent. For that same reason, we became extremely oblivious to all the political shenanigans of that particular era. Maybe our parents did not want us exposed to them, or maybe the area we lived in did not want us exposed. The school became a place where we were forced to learn, forced to participate in many activities but most of all, forced to build our future. Some people dropped out from school during that time, not because their parents were poor, but mostly because they could not take the heat. There were times when I would also curse my parents for forcing me to go to school. I loathed the teachers for beating us with those God forsaken hedge sticks whenever they thought we deserved it. I quickly learnt to minimise the chances of getting the hedge by participating more, listening to instructions and by doing what I was told to do. This is the trick most of us learnt as years passed by. The more you mastered this trick, the lesser were the chances of getting that nasty punishment. Not everything was doomed and gloomy during those things. Fridays were probably the best of all days. The school would go to break at eleven in the morning after that the bell would ring and it would be cleaning time and then we went home. Exciting. Also during the end of the last term. We would go to school to do nothing in particular except to play. It was like holidays before the holidays. The teachers seemed to forget about the hedge. During final exams we would write our exams or orals in the morning for an hour or so, after that it was playing time. After exams the teachers were busy with preparing reports, we would come to school only to play. That would be followed by school closing day which was characterized by ever nerve wrecking live report issuing during the assembly. Assemblies like those would bring uncertainty even to a smartest learner. Top ten learners were called out first, given their reports, congratulated and then the rest of the pupils followed. That was the only activity for the last day at school. Passed or failed everybody would go home, some sad, some happy. Life goes on.

We had a great time during those years at The Dormers, especially when we were in Standard 1, which was supposed to be our final class at the school. Ma’am Mhlungu had left and we had a new teacher, Ma’am Dydo. By then we were regarded as school seniors. That came with exciting responsibilities. Responsibilities like: we took turns on cooking the soup. Yes, there was a soup provided by the government for learners. The teachers sold a quarter of bread for 20 cents. The quarter was just equivalent to four slices of brown bread and small piece of margarine or on rare cases with a peanut butter or jam. If those breads were finished, the seniors were sent to the shop to buy them and the shop was almost ten kilometres from the school, that was a treat to those selected for that duty. The trip to the shop was always fun, those selected would leave early in the morning and would come back just before break time. Another treat was when a person was given a letter to take to the principal of the nearest school, I got most of these duties because that school was near my home, so I would select someone to go with and in most cases I would select my best friend. This particular treat was very special because we would leave earlier than others and never come back to school. The disappointment would be when a reply was required because that would mean going back to deliver that reply.

Nothing lasts forever. There always comes a time for everything to come to an end. That inevitable fate came to us too. Standard 1 was our final class at The Dormers L. P. School. We all knew that the day would eventually come. The school had became a second home for us. We were now used to the environment and the teachers. Going to a new school, especially during those days was one the most dreadful experiences for most of us. New school, new teachers, possibly new friends and of course new uniform. New school meant new challenges. There were all sorts of bullying back then, all in the name of new students’ ‘initiation.’ That was never really a big issue for me because I had always have that older brother one step ahead of me. A very wise brother too. My brother was very good at making friends with right kind of people. My brother was not a fight loving person but nobody messed with him. He was very bright too. He earned respect from every class and teachers. Mostly of what I reaped was what he had sown. Even with that kind of protection assurance, everybody was bound to experience some sort of bullying. You had to be ready and be able to deal with it, otherwise the following days would be as unbearable as cold winter morning.

Towards the end of that year everybody was sombre even our teachers . It was during those days that we received some exciting news. The news were that the school was going to be extended to Standard 2 the following year. We were all grateful. Another lifeline. Another year of fun and hedge. That year was great. To top that year’s excitement was that trip to Durban. My first trip to Durban. Nothing will ever beat that excitement. I could not sleep. I watched my mother preparing all those mouth watering food for the trip. During the big day we waited anxiously for taxis, my older brother was also there. He was now attending a Higher Primary School nearby and both my school and his were going on the same trip. There was my eldest brother too, to look after us in the big city. The taxis arrived after what looked like many hours of waiting. We shouted. Excited. The taxis did not have sound systems in those days, luckily in our taxi my eldest brother had brought his two speaker Tempest radio cassette player, it was a big thing back then, to own a radio cassette player. I still remember “Via Orlando” was the song playing when I first saw the ocean. Vast beautiful water with big waves. It looked blueish. I was stunned. Durban was beautiful, with tall buildings, colourful rickshaws and Mini Town with all those game machines. Almost everything I saw that day was for the very first time. I had a great day, memorable day.

I visited The Dormers recently. That trip was worth it. I literally walked all the way. Nothing has changed much since my school days there. As I was walking that same road I had walked many times during my early childhood years. I was showered by those nostalgic memories. I had met many people during that prestigious period. We all took our first educational journey there. Some of those who walked that road with me are alive and well. Some are forever gone, such is life. Some of them I last saw during that great final year at The Dormers and I hope they are well. Maybe we will meet one day and walk that trip down memory lane together again. Wouldn’t it be nice?

I took that walk and that dusty road took me up to where the school was. The school that once stood there to feed knowledge was no longer there, even the walls were not there anymore but all the memories were there. I stood there like I was in a deja vu vision. I saw younger us playing, joyfully and nonchalant to any other earthly ills, I saw the two classroom school and I saw the two teachers standing infront of the singing children, all singing gracefully. To be there was a bittersweet moment for me and for some reason I felt younger. Revived. I was standing, but the school that made me was not standing anymore. However I felt grateful that I was also the product of that school. Standing there I felt proud of those teachers like Ma’am Mngomezulu who against all odds managed to put light and hope to those young minds. It is sad how teachers are sometimes forgotten, but I have noticed that teachers do not care much about appreciation. Teachers care much about seeing their former students becoming successful in life. Just like parents on their children. I learnt something from that trip. The Dormers Lower Primary School and many other schools that suffered the same fate had stood for decades, creating doctors teachers, nurses and many other professionals. They had served their purposes.

Recently while I was motivating students I said to them: “Everybody has a purpose in life. There is a reason you are still alive, be very grateful. Sometimes taking a small trip down memory lane and looking back at where you come from will revive that willingness to do great things. To help others. To have a purpose. To succeed against all odds and to be able to tell your story.