Blessing. Florence Ndiyah

competing with his wives for his property. As concerns the five youngest sons who still lived under their mothers’ roofs, Temkeu let go no opportunity to make it known that he had only one favourite. Though just eight years old, Mosa showed signs of conquering where his other brothers had failed. Unlike the other young boys, Mosa went to the farm every day, either accompanying his grandmother, mother, two stepmothers or at times his sister, Fatti. In the evening, he moved from one hut to the other doing whatever there was to do – fetching water, gathering wood, lighting the fire. His was the first name that dropped from every mouth in need.

      It was the first day of the school year, and the day had dawned with a huge smile carved on Temkeu’s mouth. He walked out of his hut wearing one of his pair of jumpers, his raffia bag and the pair of leather slippers which Makam had brought for him – Makam had shown up unexpectedly the previous evening. By 7.00 a.m., Temkeu was walking out of his compound, dragging along a new Mosa clad in the Catholic school uniform – a sky blue shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. ‘I am sending you to school today,’ he said to Mosa as they walked down the road, ‘because I want you to grow up and be like Makam. Have you heard?’

      ‘Yes, Papa.’

      ‘You take the white man’s book seriously and you become like Makam!’

      ‘Yes, Papa, I have heard.’ On this bright Monday morning, Mosa had two exercise books clutched in his armpit and a sharpened pencil trapped in his fist. His friends ran out of nearby compounds and hailed him. It was easy to tell they would have loved to be the ones wearing the Catholic School (CS) Nchumuluh uniform and heading for the school premises.

      Temkeu and Mosa walked on without talking for a while, except greeting and acknowledging greetings from passers-by. As they neared the school Temkeu said, ‘The white man has done a good thing by opening a school at my nose. Last year it took only a short walk to register Totso, and I am doing it again with you. I remember the days when I used to walk right to Santa to register your elder brothers in the Council School.’ He paused in reflection. ‘Yes, if not for the white man, you would have followed the school to live in Santa with relatives who sing welcome songs but sigh the moment I turn my back.’

      The duo covered the thirty-minute walk from their compound through the village square to the mission premises and were now standing in the administrative office of CS Nchumuluh. After a few casual words with the Headmaster, Temkeu dipped his hand into his raffia bag, brought out the fee of one pound three pence and was about to hand it over when the office owner asked Mosa to step forward. The headmaster, popularly known as Teacher Alfred but fondly called HM by his colleagues, was one of the few educated indigenes of Nchumuluh. He was a secondary school dropout from Saint Joseph’s College, Sasse, in Buea.

      ‘Mosa,’ Teacher Alfred called out, ‘you think you are ready for school?’ He squinted as if to scare the boy.

      ‘Yes, Sar,’ Mosa replied, failing in his attempt to sound brave.

      Teacher Alfred got up from his seat behind the small wooden desk. His bulk rose to occupy two meters of air space. When he took one step forward, Mosa took two steps backward. ‘If you fear me, a mere man,’ Teacher Alfred said, ‘what will you do with the alphabet which you have never before set eyes on?’

      Mosa was speechless. He could not take his eyes off the headmaster.

      Teacher Alfred moved closer, flaunting his muscular torso clad in a blue shirt partially covered by a black velour coat so tight his biceps barked with each swing of his arm. The red pair of trousers went only as far as his mid shin while his feet were covered in a pair of washed-out blue socks and tucked into a pair of white sandals. ‘I hate to have to beat knowledge into pupils, you know.’ As he spoke, he tapped a yellow, wooden ruler on the palm of his right hand. ‘School is not made for every person. Do you agree with me, Mosa?’ His thick lips formed a queer smile.

      Unable to open his mouth Mosa simply nodded.

      ‘Come here, Mosa.’

      Temkeu urged the reluctant child forward.

      ‘Take up your right hand.’

      Mosa’s eyes flitted left and right but his hands did not move.

      ‘History has shown that pupils who require me to repeat myself are those who go on to repeat classes.’ Teacher Alfred grinned. ‘I will repeat my request only because this is your first day here; but I hope it does not happen again, that is, if at all you would have the privilege of talking with me again.’ He took a deliberate pause, cleared his throat and said, ‘I repeat: Take up your right hand, Mosa.’

      Mosa started lifting his left hand but before it was midway above his head, he brought it down and lifted the right, then the left, as though he were learning how to move his arms for a march. He again took up his right hand and was about to put it down when his father answered his silent plea for assistance. ‘That is your right hand. So leave it up.’

      Teacher Alfred, who had been staring at Mosa with amusement said, ‘Now, place it over your head towards the direction of your left ear.’

      Mosa did.

      One eyeful and Teacher Alfred declared, ‘He will have to come back next year.’

      ‘But he touched his ear,’ Temkeu objected.

      ‘I am the judge here. I am the one representing the white man, and I say that this child is not yet ripe for school.’

      Temkeu was about to fuel the fight that was brewing when Fr. Max strolled into the office, casually dressed in a short-sleeve white shirt and knee-length khaki trouser. Both men immediately dropped the fingers they pointing in each other’s faces. Teacher Alfred took off his twine cap, greeted the priest, turned towards his desk and started fumbling with some sheets of paper; Temkeu tapped the ntamp cap on his head and folded his arms over his chest.

      ‘Has day come, Pa Fopou?’

      ‘Yes, Mr. Father.’

      ‘I see the head of the compound has decided to bring another child to school. What is your name?’ Fr. Max asked the prospective pupil.

      ‘Mosa Fopou,’ Temkeu answered.

      ‘Mosa, how old are you?’

      Temkeu seized one of the exercise books from Mosa’s hand, pulled out a piece of paper and stepped forward with the determination of one eager to prove a point. He held the paper in front of his eyes as though to read out the answer, but all he succeeded in doing was turning the paper several times in different directions.

      ‘Let me help you,’ Fr. Max offered, taking the piece of paper with little effort. ‘A birth certificate and the name is actually Mozart’ ‘Mosa,’ Temkeu corrected.

      ‘The name is Mozart but since the villagers have difficulties pronouncing the Z sound, the name has been transformed to Mosa. But you are correct, Father, –’ Teacher Alfred smiled ‘– the name is Mozart.’

      ‘Well, Mosa, I hope that one day you will be a famous person,’ Fr. Max joked. ‘Do you know the person after whom you carry this name?’

      ‘My uncle gave him that name after a German who lived here before people from your country ever came. The German went back to his country after it lost that first big war.’

      ‘Now that we are here,’ Fr. Max said with a smile, ‘I hope you will name some children after us.’

      ‘You mean you the British and the French who now rule over us?’ ‘You have plenty of sense, Pa Fopou. Let me just finish here with Mosa and we will go to my office to add more time to that talk.’ As he spoke, he ran his eyes over the birth certificate. ‘Eight years old! Why did you not bring him to school last year?’

      ‘I brought him this year because I, Pa Fopou, need to have another son in school. I am sure you know my Totso. He is in class three. I removed him from the Council School in Santa to bring him here to your school. I am a real man in this Mumba!’ Temkeu nodded. ‘Yes, only a man like me who knows the taste of sweat can have two children in school.