There was deafening silence in the classroom. All the other forty students held their breath.
I stood there in front of the classroom, ready to explode with anger. I took two steps towards Nkosi who had insulted me.
As I drew towards him, his eyes remained unflinching in a gesture of defiance.
There was no turning back.
All the other forty students were watching me, some in trepidation and others with curiosity.
Nkosi was the classroom bully. But this time, he had crossed the Rubicon line, a point of no return.
I grabbed him by the collar, slammed him hard against the whiteboard.
I slapped him on the face and completed the assault with a hand.
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He stared back at me with fiery eyes. I felt his hatred in his eyes. He staggered backwards but stayed upright, eyes burning with fierce hatred.
I had shattered his aura of invincibility before his classmates.
“I know where you live makwerekwere. From today onwards, sleep with all your eyes open,” Nkosi said.
It was a chilling warning. I had to control myself. I suddenly turned around and swiftly walked out of the classroom before I could hit him again.
Loud noise erupted in the classroom.
I went to see the Principal, Mr Madonsela. I found him in the office.
“I’m quitting,” I said.
“I just hit one of the students, I can’t take it anymore,” I said.
As teachers, we were not allowed to administer corporal punishment on our students. It was prohibited by the country’s laws.
I was an expatriate teacher and Nkosi had not only insulted me, by calling me makwerekwere, but he had stood up to me and challenged my authority.
“Sit down and be calm,” Mr Madonsela said before leaving me alone in the office.
After a few minutes, he returned back with Nkosi trailing behind him.
“I heard it’s Nkosi causing you trouble,” Mr Madonsela said.
I nodded. This time, Nkosi avoided my eyes. Only the previous week, he was busted for selling drugs to other students.
His mother pleaded with the school authorities to keep him in school but that did not stop the school from reporting him to the police.
What served him from jail was that he was still a juvenile but he had to report once every week to the nearest police station.
The police wanted information from him about the drug kingpins who were behind him.
And once he named them, he was as good as dead.
The school had issued him a final warning pending expulsion if he was involved in trouble again.
“Apologise to your teacher now Nkosi,” Mr Madonsela said.
“I’m sorry Sir,” Nkosi said. He did not look me in the eyes. He did not mean it. His apology was hollow.
I knew it was not over. That was the beginning of trouble for me.
Nkosi did not even waste time before he carried out his threat.
That night, soon after midnight, a hail of stones pelted the roof.
I was sharing the house with Billy a South African and Kwame who came from Ghana.
We took shelter in the sitting room. The attack on the house only stopped after there was a sudden downpour of rainfall.
The next day in class, I could see Nkosi taunting me by his eyes.
The leer on his face said it all.
It was just the beginning. He was not going to stop.
He was going to bring his gang. I had to protect myself.
Soon after break, when I went back to the classroom, I found my laptop on the floor, shattered to smithereens.
The story will continue next time.
*Onie Ndoro
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