TOP DOG SOUP
Sousa Jamba recalls the scandals of the school cauldrons
SOME sociologists believe that schools are a microcosm of society. I agree. When the names of prefects for 1983 were announced at Mwinilunga Secondary School, in Zam- bia, I was bitterly disappointed not to be included among them, and came — along with likewise unsuccessful colleagues — to the inevitable conclusion that the selection had been unfair. For nearly a year, during which the teachers assessed our suitability as prefects, we had tried to impress them. We never forgot to call them sir; became submissive whenever they were angry; and some of us even went to the extent of becoming born-again Christians.
Once the names had been announced, vices that had been submerged surfaced again, for we had nothing left to lose. The pupils were themselves once more: drunk- enness, fighting, kissing girls and swearing made their reappearance. The temporary suspension of these enjoyable activities had been all for the attainment of the prestigious position of school prefect, to which many desirable perks were attached.
While most pupils wore grey trousers and navy-blue shirts, prefects wore dark 'And now here's a letter from a very angry lady at No. 10 Downing Street.' green shirts and blue trousers. All senior boys ate on the stage of the dining hall, looking down on the juniors, but the prefects had a section to themselves. The diet consisted mainly of nshima (maize gruel) and kapenta, a tiny fish like whitebait. The fish was cooked in a huge, encrusted soot-black drum. The cooks never stirred the contents, so that the tomatoes, onions and cooking oil formed a kind of nutritious scum on the top. This was always served to the prefects, and was known as 'top soup'. The junior boys, who received only the bottom-most layers, nev- er saw as much as a piece of tomato skin in their kapenta.
Although I was not nominated a prefect, I held the almost equally prestigious posi- tion of deputy editor of the school maga- zine, the Mwinilunga Express (Mwinex). Having failed to become prefect, I consi- dered the distribution of the soup very unfair. I wrote an editorial calling for the formation of a fair soup distribution com- mittee, with my editor, Caesar Sichula, as a member (he was later imprisoned for making a master key to all the locks in Zambia). The committee was duly formed, and at five o'clock each afternoon it stood beside the huge drum to ensure that the head cook — who called himself executive cook — stirred the contents thoroughly. For the first time, junior boys experienced the great pleasure of cooking oils and vegetables. I became a hero, and imagined the junior boys all wanted to stand by my side.
But things were not that simple. It was soon discovered that members of the fair soup committee were treating themselves to the top soup before it was stirred. In the true spirit of investigative journalism, I set out to discover if these rumours were true. They were, but there was nothing that I could do. My editor was a member of the committee, and he would have been able to mobilise other members of the editorial board of the magazine against me. The best thing was to remain mum. The com- mittee was soon disbanded and things returned to normal.
In mid-year I was appointed a prefect and my joy knew no bounds. I realised my newly found power when the deputy head boy, nicknamed Kuzakula (Great Beater), ordered me to administer five strokes of the cane to a boy who had been caught urinating on the flowers outside the head- master's office. Most of the other prefects had gathered in the head boy's office (called the Gas Chamber by the junior boys) to watch me perform the sacred ritual and congratulate me on becoming one of them.
The miscreant was ordered to face the wall. He was a Christian and I mustered my anger against him by thinking of Fidel Castro, who had invaded my country, Angola. The boy started to sing hymns. I gave him the first stroke, which the other prefects discounted as having been too light. Meanwhile, the boy said lugubrious- ly: 'Forgive him, Father, for he knows not what he does.' The other prefects laughed, but I felt like one of the soldiers who crucified Christ. I apologised to him later, but he said that he had forgiven me the moment the first stroke landed. My failure as a caner led to my appointment as inspector of the ablution blocks on Satur- day mornings, a job no one wanted.
Then there was the famous pork scandal, known as Porkgate. The head boy and his deputy had ordered the removal of the entrails of a pig that had been slaughtered for independence day celebrations. The entrails were eaten with nshima by the school elite; but while we were eating, other pupils demanded to join us. I was deputed to tell them to go away; and next morning it was known all over the school that I had stolen a whole pig. I offered my resignation both as prefect and deputy editor, vowing publicly to return only if there was popular pressure, but I returned all the same, in order — so I told everyone — to serve my fellow pupils.
Mwinilunga was one of only two coedu- cational secondary schools in our region. As a prefect I was entitled to several girlfriends. I dropped them all in favour of the niece of a local tycoon, who bought me biscuits and tinned beans. The headmas- ter's chief spy among the students was called Pinkeye after the Pig in Animal Farm who tasted Napoleon's food. Pink- eye's duty included finding out who among the students was having an affair and reporting them. (The headmaster was later suspended and transferred, after he was caught in flagrante delicto with a girl pupil in his office.) In public the headmaster was highly revered, but in private he was called unflattering names, just as in public Zam- bians chant Kumulu Lesa Panshi Kaunda (God rules in heaven; Kaunda on earth), but in private they say, 'The old bastard has f—ed up the country.'
One of the prefects in my year, I hear, is standing for Parliament. One day, perhaps, he will be a minister. He has received a good training at Mwinilunga Secondary School.
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