For Whom the Bells Toll

The old clock tower chimed three times, its echo announcing to the boarding houses across Peter College that the Witching Hour was upon them. Fast asleep and without any plans of mischief, no students heard the clang of the hourly watcher’s cries, that is to say, no students but for Jacques and Kagumbo.

Despite the boys crouching within the thicket, of what was a neatly trimmed bush prior to their arrival, wearing nothing but their old rugby shorts, Jacques found himself sweating profusely beneath the streaks of moonlight that illuminated their hiding place and nefarious deeds. In contrast, Kagumbo seemed content in the dry heat associated with the term end.

“Crisis, Dutchie. I won’t be taking you to Nam for a jol anytime soon if you can’t handle even the slightest bit of humidity”, whispered Kagumbo, keeping his voice down, so as to not alert the guards.

Jacques wiped his brow, keeping his slick black hair from covering his eyes, “Three things boet. One: You’ve known me for how long now? Ten years? Why do you think I blast cold water in the shower every night before lights out!? Not for my health, that’s for sure. Two: If I wanted to go jolling in the desert, I’d drop some acid at AfrikaBurn, you can run around Namibia by your lonesome for all I care. And Three: Unlike Captain Fantastic over here, some of us are on final warning. You get caught; you lose that fancy tie of yours. Me!? I get expelled.”

“Chill out man, both figuratively and literally”, Kagumbo was aware Jacques didn’t know the difference, but he thought himself clever, “Just stick to the plan and we’ll be fine. Worst case scenario, I’ll charge a guard and take the hit. You run off while they haul me to Johnson’s office, it’s not like I’m gonna snitch on you”

“Ja whatever headboy, I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you”, said Jacques, “Although… truth be told, I reckon I could toss you pretty far”.

“Yup, the magic of steroids”.

Jacques snickered, he certainly wasn’t one to question their properties.

The boys sat in silence for a moment, waiting for a lull in the guards’ conversation from the boom gate. Jacques lay listening intently with his eyes closed. Growing up on a farm in the Eastern Cape meant his isiXhosa was better than both his English and Afrikaans – Kagumbo’s Oshiwambo proved less handy – however, despite his headboy status, it allowed him to say anything he wanted to his Namibian friends in front of their teachers, without any consequences. 

“Fok it”, cursed Jacques.

“What’s up?”, said Kagumbo.

“Well the good news is, it’s only the one guard patrolling tonight”, Jacques took a deep breath, “Bad news, it’s September”.

The dreaded September, the bane of any wouldbe troublemakers and the local fitness freak who showed up the star track athlete at the school’s athletics exhibition day, combat boots and all.

Kagumbo dropped his head, “Maybe… maybe we should just call it tonight. Try again another time.”

Jacques took a moment, “Fuck it, new game plan, you run ahead of me and I’ll cover the rear. I’ll hold him off while you make a run for it. Don’t want you losing your scholarship over bullshit like this”

“No dude... I really think...”

“Kags, enough talking let’s do this. I didn’t come all this way to have a sweaty tumble in the bush with another lad”, Jacques handed Kagumbo a pair of wire cutters from his pocket, “Let’s do this!”

Kagumbo got to work cutting and bending the lower fence, snipping the tough metal in time to the rhythmic tap of the electric fence pulsating above their heads. In time a small hole formed, allowing Kagumbo and Jacques to leopard crawl through the thick shrubbery and dry earth into the grounds of St Anne’s School for Girls.

The boys lay low as they dusted themselves off and proceeded to strip down, discarding their shorts and jocks into the spiky, dusty portal from which they emerged. They knew the route well, the unofficial course to secure their “Colors for Streaking”, it was laid bare on Jacques’ whiteboard in his room. Fortunately, the housemaster was more preoccupied with searching his room for cigarettes and booze to take note of anything written on his board:

Plan of action swaar!

1.     Stretch out those hammies! (Double up on Arnica Massage Rub and muscle relaxants the night before!)

2.     Wake up Kags! – Throw rugby togs at head if need be! 

3.     Hook a short left through Kings Field, (No hoodies… too suspicious)

4.     Bushdiving my man!

5.     Hammies 2.0 – hold silent prayer, asking God to make September take annual leave.

6.     Kit off. Sun’s out, guns out! (Klap an arm sesh beforehand, the ladies must know!)

7.     Slow jog to the right, passed Maywater residence.

8.     Carry on through the English quad.

9.     Pop out at Lower Field, (Flippen sprint, floodlights will be on).

10.  Take a breather by Sunningfield residence, (Stop Kags from visiting the missus, for a late-night tumble in the hay!)

11.  Solid run over the flowerbeds to the central quad, ring bell, sing song, get colours, (Lekker!)

12.  GTFO!!!!

13.  No detours straight to: “That which shall not be named!” (DUNN DUNN DUNN!!!!!!!!)

The boys set out as agreed, with Kagumbo taking the front and Jacques watching the rear. Both figuratively and literally. The jog passed Maywater residence and through the English quad proved simple, as the boys remained light on their feet, doing their upmost best to keep their footsteps from echoing passed the walls of the empty corridors. The harsh light illuminated their naked bodies as they made their way across Lower Field, large purposeful strides on the hard ground quickly granting them access to the cover of darkness once more.

Slowly they crept passed the Sunningfield residence, once again being careful not to draw any attention to themselves as they lightly skipped across the hard cobblestones underfoot. They stood for a moment as they spied the central quad’s center piece standing tall among manicured flower beds. An ancient bell loomed over the grounds, its pristine white arch’s holding it steady.

The boys began forward, mulching the immaculate rose petals and wild flowers, as their heels dug into the soft, fertile earth. Kagumbo reached the bell first, standing to attention as he cleared his throat. Jacques followed suit, stood by the arches and began heaving on the rope which lay dangling in dry the heat. With each tug of the rope, the heavy brass bell gave a weighty clang, the sound reverberated within Jacques’ bones and broke the stillness of the early morning.

All around the quad, the lights of the residences shone bright from the dormitories, the girls sticking their heads out the windows and pouring out the entrances to see the commotion wrought by Kagumbo and Jacques’ antics. Kagumbo, pleased with the arrival of his audience began a warcry, his deep baritone tremor accompanying the clanging of the bell:

“Amadoda bulala! Bulala!”

Jacques replied, “Awoo! Peter College! Awoo!”

“Amadoda bulala! Bulala!”

“Awoo! Peter College! Awoo!”

 Kagumo changed up the lyrics, “Who are we?”

They replied in unison, “College!”

“Who are we?”

“College!”

“Who are we?”

“College! College! Peter College!”, the boys shouted in triumph as they abandoned their post and made a beeline for the exit, passed the sniggering and cheering girls. They made their way passed Maywater residence and swiftly began closing in on their makeshift tunnel of wire and shrubbery, when they heard a shout behind them, “Hey! Kwedin!” and the thundering of September’s combat boots bouncing of the cobble stones in the darkness behind them, his determined scowl illuminated under the full moon.

Kagumbo reached the hole in the fence first, diving into a leopard crawl as he clawed his way in the dry earth, which cacked itself on his slippery body, as sweat continued to pour from his brow and chest in greater amounts. He slipped on his shorts and saw Jacques’ torso struggle through the fence into their hiding spot.

However, Jacques’ labored breath was cut shorty as he felt a pair of strong, clammy hands grabs his ankles and drag his exhausted body through the bush and into the clutches of September, “Fucking run man!” shouted Jacques, as he noted no movement from Kagumbo on the other side of the bush.

To his surprise, Kagumbo shot out the bush with feline agility, brandishing the wire cutters which he thrust into September’s tree trunk leg with a sickening squelch. September howled in agony, living Jacques to wriggle free of his iron grip and shuffle into the bush, with Kagumbo close behind.

Jacques awkwardly wrestled with his shorts, putting one leg in after the other as his shuffling feet became a determined sprint across King’s Field and back into the heart of Peter College. All the while Kagumbo, kept chase with his wire cutters in hand for the next leg of their escape.

Knowing that it was only a matter of time before September radioed the Peter College guards, the boys opted to stake out their morning in the King’s Field cricket shed, until such time as they knew for certainty that the search calmed down to a simmer, allowing the boys to quietly slip back into the boarding house.

The rickety old shed stood squatting next to the scoreboard; its wooden doors barred with a piece of wire which was rapped numerous times around it’s large, thick handles. Kagumbo having made short work of a thick fence embedded in hard ground found little resistance from the thin wire, as him and Jacques tripped into the shed’s musty interior.

The doors slammed shut with a thud, as did the exhausted boys upon the rolled-up cricket pitch covers, which lay bundled upon each other in the corner. They took a moment catching their breath, sweat easing their hot bodies, which threatened to overheat in the humid and dusty air of the old shed.

Jacques slowly arose, his skin sticking to the hard covers as he did so. True to his own advice, he gave a stretch which loosened his tight hamstrings and fell to his haunches as he lifted the heavy folds of a cover, underneath which stood a bottle of Klipdrift brandy.

He cracked open the bottle and gave a hearty swig, the sweet, syrupy liquid gave a sharp burn as it passed his dry mouth and roared with ferocity in his belly. The knots of which seemed to loosen, allowing his stiff, panicked demeanor to melt away, “Crisis Kags, you had one job! Run while I fight off September, honestly it’s not rocket science”.

Kagumbo got to his feet, taking a swig from the bottle, his face scrunched up as the harsh brandy hit his pallet. He gave a cough, “Yeah, well good thing I’m studying law and not engineering”. The tension lifted as he gave a laugh, “Besides Dutchie, with all the shit you get up to, you’re gonna be my number one client! Can’t have you being mauled to death by September before then!”

They sat on the floor of the shed, leaning against the hard covers. Jacques’ heavy swigs of brandy contrasting with Kagumbo’s meek sips, most of which were accompanied by a cough or splutter.

“Hate to break the news to you my man, but if you can’t handle half a bottle of Klippies, you’re gonna come short at that fancy law school of yours next year!”, Jacques smirked and gulped the last quarter of the bottle, little to no emotion showing on his face.

“Eish, I know man. You farm boys drink like troopers, gonna have to start on some Castle Lites and work may way up to the hard stuff. Anyway, what about you? Plans still the same?”

Jacques strode across to the other side of the shed, unsteady on his feet as he leaned against its splintered wall, “Agh Ja hey! I was thinking about doing a Bcom or maybe a Zoology course, but honestly, I need to go help the old man on the farm. The sisters don’t want it, so may as well learn from the old toppie and take it from there”.

Kagumbo looked down at his feet, his shoulders feeling heavy, “Just don’t be a stranger man, been too long. Way too long! From Pokemon cards and Dragonball Z to streaking and hitting a bottle of Klippies, it’s been something my man”. His eyes began to water, as he stifled a sniff, “Not many more nights like this, maybe ever”.

Jacques made his way across the room, stumbling as he did so, his heavy hand adding further weight to Kagumbo’s shoulders. His balanced faltered, before finding his voice as it cracked through his tears, “Always Kags, forever my man.” He gave himself a second to smile, “Just please, for God sakes, just as long as it’s not Nam!”

The boys’ tears became laughter as the clock tower chimed four times.

Four times out of thousands.

Four, which would become none. 

Language Index

Jol/Jolling – Afrikaans slang for party/partying;

Boet – Afrikaans for brother, often used to indicate friendship;

Ja - Afrikaans for yes;

Fok it – Afrikaans for “fuck it”;

Swaar - Eastern Cape, South African slang meaning friend/buddy;

Klap – Afrikaans for hit, but used as slang to indicate doing something;

Lekker - Afrikaans for nice;

Flippen – South African slang to indicate urgency or to emphasize something;

Amadoda – isiXhosa, Zulu and colloquial South African word for men/husbands/manhood;

Bulala – isiXhosa, Zulu and colloquial South African word for murder/to kill/injure/attack;

Kwedin – isiXhosa for boy;

Eish – South African slang, used to express shock or surprise;

Agh Ja – South African slang to indicate agreement or concession;

Old toppie – South African slang for old man.