Towards the front of the bus the teachers were discussing the possibility of rescheduling the upcoming prelims when Mrs. Huggins suddenly said, “Cathy,” referring to Ms. Robyn, “did you hear what happen up at this lodge a few years ago?”
“No, what?” asked Ms. Robyn as she looked up from the magazine she was reading.
“Well, apparently some kids were tragically killed up there a few years ago. Things got quite volatile between the owners of the farm and some of the deceased children’s parents because they wouldn’t allow them to come and do some or other rituals. Isn’t that bizarre?” remarked Mrs. Huggins.
“Ag please man…” said Wessels dismissively.
“Good gracious!” Ms. Robyn exclaimed. “How did the poor souls die?”
“Read this,” said Mrs. Huggins as she passed Wessels her phone.
“Well, according to Eric Gardner over at Saint Theresa’s, there was a school visiting the farm lodge for some career guidance thing, and the one night some of the boys were smoking or something up in that barn. Next thing the barn was up in flames in the middle of the night.”
By now some of teachers were leaning in, straining to listen over the blaring music coming from the back of the rumbling bus. Ms. Robyn just covered her mouth in shock.
Out of pure curiosity Wessels asked, “What rituals did the parents need to perform? Maybe it would’ve been bad for business or something.”
The isiZulu Teacher looked annoyed at his colleague’s ignorance. “In some cultures,” Mr. Mabuza started, “if someone dies anywhere outside of their home in a tragic or unnatural way, special customary rituals must be performed in order to calm and fetch the deceased’s spirit and bring it home, or to its final resting place.”
“Is that so Peter?” Damelin asked, turning towards Mabuza with wide eyes.
Mr. Mabuza nodded.
“Why is that so important?” Huggins asked, genuinely interested in the answer. “And what if the special ritual can’t be performed?” she added, now obviously intrigued.
“Growing up we had a family member who was killed in a car accident, and I remember my grandmother saying…” Mabuza pauses for a moment, as if trying to summon the exact words. He resumes, “Saying the family must prepare to go and fetch my uncle’s wandering spirit and bring it back home.”
“Ag I’m so sorry Peter,” Damelin said as she put a comforting arm around Mabuza’s scrawny shoulders.
“The belief is that if the wandering spirit is not fetched it will become troubled and never know peace. This could lead to all sorts of untold problems,” Peter Mabuza concluded.
“It’s such a beautiful thing to do for those poor innocent souls,” lamented Mrs. Damelin.
“Now what Basheshebahleka was saying makes sense.” Mabuza tilted his head contemplatively.
Wessels jerked his head and said, “Basheshe-who?”
Never one to hold back, Ms. Robyn turned to face Wessels and said, “And you’ve been teaching this child for how long now?”
Not one to entertain nonsense Peter Mabuza, once again ignored the mathematics teacher, and explained what had happened with Basheshebahleka Ndolvu.
As the road meandered its way through the countryside, back towards the city, the excitement and sense of adventure that had preceded this trip had been sucked out the air. Most Grade 11s sat silently; others stared out the window; and Xolani’s speaker remained off. Basheshebahleka just sat there. Motionless. Teary.
Tell us: What did you think of this story?
NOTE: This story is based on and in memory of my own school leadership camp many moons ago. #QHS2001