SOMO-SOMOLOGY

“I don’t expect you to yap buts to me!” Mr. Sunday Changa banged the table, sending a few files flying about like ruffled feathers. “Tell me why the floor is dirtier than a cowshed when I pay you a salary every month.”

“Sir, my child is sick. Please…,” my desperate groans of despair were irreverently cut off by his next bazooka-level volley of insults.

“Get out of my sight, useless man,” was the next majestic eruption from the man who poured out venom like lava from a volcano. His index finger pierced the space to his right, stabbing a direction for me to follow; towards the door. “I don't see any sick child on your paycheck, do you?”

“But sir….” this time he cut my plea with a thunderous bang on the table.

“Are you deaf?” he was shouting and his mouth was trembling like that of someone experiencing an epileptic seizure. “I said get lost, out of my office, now!”

He was a tall black monster, a huge man with a temper probably inversely proportional to his size. He looked at me with an impossible amalgamation of rapacious joy and implacable hate. The way his eyes glittered, and his mouth twisted in a curve, made it clear to me that he was probably enjoying his grip on the power of life and death.

I almost broke a knee crashing to the floor in prayer to get some sympathy, but had to stagger back to my feet when I realized that my present god didn’t care about entreaties. That desperate attempt at worship only drew what looked like my last warning.

“Go and work hard!” the hissing instructions escaped through his mouth overflowing with froth. His nose dilated rhythmically as the heaving chest rose in crests and troughs when talking. “Or else you may find your miserable job has vanished like morning dew.”

Clearly, there was nothing for me there. His angry dismissal left me with no option but to dash out of his office. I dropped my gaze, tore it from the vicious eyes blazing with hate. I dashed for the door. Within seconds my hands started searching for the door handle. But I can’t tell whether I was too slow or what, he almost tore my eardrums.

“Gooooo!” the monster shouted into my troubled ears. The shock made me jump like a startled rabbit. But still, I failed to reach the door handle. No, it was not failing to reach the damned thing. It was not there. The damned thing had vanished before my eyes, probably gone on vacation. My fingers scratched and scratched for it, but to no avail. My mouth joined in the desperate reactions by uttering disgraceful wails. I was calling on my ancestors to intervene. I even regretted having refused some juju from my uncle; a talisman that he claimed brings luck.

Then I realized why the door handle was missing. It wasn’t missing in fact. The door was already wide open. It had been all the time, but it had let me scratch empty airwaves without saying anything. It would take ten seconds for me to realize that because the roaring monster kept yelling insults that crippled my computers.

I flew out at great speed and crashed into the corridors on my way to my workplace; sweeping floors and corridors.

In the corridors, I almost collided with my workmate Maureen Mukombwe Kabwe, we used to call her double MK. This was the same Maureen who kept me awake every night, wondering how I could pop the question, or even just convince her to let me touch the delicious cucumbers on her chest.

This was the same Maureen who made me regret having married Jenipher, my present wife of ten years. She always made me regret things except meeting with her. She was brown with pouts on dimples and an undulating curve running from the neck down to her hips. Upon seeing my agitation, she acted like I had either collided with a train or just escaped a building on fire.

“Mackay darling! What is the problem?” she called to me, jamming my computers with new sensations, delicious ones. Did she want me to touch her cucumbers also? If not, why call me darling, of all things?

“This is worse than a problem,” I said but now my heart had stopped beating wildly. It was facing a new challenge which required me to act like a man. Could this be the best time to propose to Maureen?

“But you look like a pregnant fox in a roaring bush fire,” she persisted. “What is it?”

Before I could answer her new volley of questions, I heard the beast roaring, a belly kind of laughing you hear in a drunk who has just won a fight. His next flow of words jogged my mind backward; “the future belongs to somo—somology,” he was thundering and slamming fists into his open palm.

It became clear that my work culture had nothing to do with his hatred. But why my problems would give him boundless joy was still a mystery to me. Why should he derive sadistic kicks out of kicking my teeth in? And where did he get our slogan? Was he also at Pemba Secondary?

Two days later. Maureen came running very excited like a nurse who had performed her first surgery unaided.

“MacKay!’ she called, “I now know what somo—somology means.”

“Where did you hear that?” I asked.

“I heard the boss boasting that there is nothing that can beat somo—somology,” she said, her eyes owl-sized like someone trying very hard to remember something. "Oh really," I said, "so what has the fool sa ....?"

“Somo—somology means …..”

“Studying very hard,” I finished it for her.

I remembered the slogan from some fifteen years ago when I left school. The fifteen years that saw me marry Jenipher, a woman now as shapeless as a drum. The fifteen years that saw my social degradation from a highly revered prefect to a floor cleaner, the lowliest paid job in a company. The fifteen years that brought me under this new manager who was anxious to kill me with frustration, if nothing else. Something must be done to wipe off the effects of these fifteen years from my life. Even if it is just to escape this horrible manager.

I also realized why the man was torturing my soul. Probably he was my junior at school where I graduated with ten points shy of the maximum fifty-four points. He knew that record very well and probably did better than me. Not probably, he did better, that is why he was my manager. And I must have done things to him while at school. Mind you, he was my junior. What is his name? He said his name was Mr. Sunday Changa. Yayayaya now I am finished. This must be the same Changa we tried to drown in a flash toilet when he was in grade eight. Now he has advanced in education and got papers that I don’t have. The truth is I can’t work under this man and expect him to treat me like his bride.

One month later. I went to get enrolled in Monze Secondary school to do a secondary school certificate. I am determined to change my status from that of failure regardless of what it might cost. The School Head, a fox faced and dirt bearded wreck is surprised. He doesn't even mince words.

“MacKay, from drinking kachasu, you want to come back into class, strange thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes Nkolola, oh sorry sir," I squealed in fear because his eyes clearly showed that he would rather share a tin of beer with me than see me as his pupil. "But I hope to do well this time.”

“What about your children?” he belched into his hands and persisted with his refusal. “Will you manage to pay school fees for yourself and them?”

“One will drop out of school….” I couldn’t finish.

“Personally, I would be happier teaching your children, not you,” he said, “but you can try at another school. Here I have no space.”

At the other school, Tagore Secondary, I had to pretend my son had the same name as mine. The trick worked, they enrolled me instantly and gave me a class.

First day at my new school. I was seated on my chair, earlier than any other pupil. The first pupil to enter almost ran back into the corridor. He checked the label on the door and then looked at me with the eyes of someone who had found a monkey sitting on his porch. He was still hesitating at the door when a flood of other pupils pushed him inside.

“Teacher, that is my chair,” one small boy, with a long nose, came to demand his chair from me. They called him Jokass. Except for the Johe was really an ass because he could hardly do anything academic.

“I am sorry, my boy,” I said standing up.

“Are you our new teacher?”

“No, I am not your new teacher.”

“But what are you doing in our class?”

“I came to learn, just like you.”

I talked on while waiting for everyone to be seated. Then I sat on an empty desk near the blackboard, and that was a minute before the teacher entered the class. It was a madam, almost the age of my daughter.

“Good morning…...” she greeted the class. But upon seeing me she dropped both books and specs in shock. “I didn’t know there was a parent in class,” she complained.

“I am not a parent, madam,” I hurriedly said, “I am a pupil like all these.”

"Noooooo!Neverrrrrrr!"The whole class exploded both in rejection and mirth. I had to leave the class for peace to prevail.

The next day I decided to use a little trick, to gain admission.

I was again first in class. I was seated on the same desk again when the other pupils came in.

"Hey! Good morning friend," I greeted them and gave each a sweet with a promise to give them more if they welcomed me.

“Dad, oh sorry Mackay you are welcome!” they cried hysterically and clapped hands noisily. The madam rushed to the class thinking there was a fight.

“What is this noise about, Boston?” she asked the monitor.

“It is dad, oh sorry Mackay. Please don’t chase him from class, madam,” they requested her on my behalf.

The madam stopped in her tracks, but upon realizing that she had no option, she ignored me and decided to just start teaching instead.

I studied very hard and when we had our first test, I came out fourth in a class of fifty-six pupils. I never in a million years expected that my performance would raise other problems.

“Jackson, you got zero but look Mackay here got eighty-six percent. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?”

“Why should I be ashamed?”Jackson asked, his face twisted into a wink to his friends, “In fact, I don't even care, after all, I don’t do witchcraft.”

“But who does witchcraft?”

“Mackay there, can’t you see the grey hair?” Jackson was now laughing, his mouth twisted into a snarl of a dog chewing a difficult bone. “He is using your brains to pass, can’t you see that madam?”

The madam rolled her eyes and widened them to look like an owl. She looked unsure of anything, but she quickly recovered her composure to hold her ground; “Try to have some respect, Jackson, okay?” she warned, "this school has a motto of inclusiveness, remember?"

"But why laugh at failures and not include them like you preach?" Jackson asked.

"But you don't aspire to be a failure, do you?"

That night in the library I had an encounter with two youths.

“Khatazo, that old witch has taken the book I want.”

“And who is he anyway?”

“Don’t know, but seems some junk that couldn’t stay afloat out there with poor grades.”

“Elton, let's beat  up that jerk and grab ourselves a Chemistry book.’

I didn’t want the so-called book that much. I slammed it on the table and hurriedly left the library making sure I was far from the youths. I ignored their whistles and hecklings of "coward! coward!" as I walked out of the library.

I didn’t know what would bring me peace in that school. If I passed with flying colors like number one, they called me a wizard who used juju to pick other pupils' brains. If I failed the exam completely, they referred to my grey hair as the reason. “He is too old to remember things.”

However, I soldiered on until the final examinations. I did more Somo-Somology throughout the night twenty-four seven. My body started showing signs of stress but I just had to fight on.

The examinations were tough. I almost started believing what the youths were saying about my old age. Grey hair and studying are parallel one boy had said. In spite of so much studying, the questions were so hard that mostly I just left blank spaces. I panicked staring at the possibility of failure. And the danger of continuing as a cleaner. What will I do with another bout of failure? How will Sunday treat me?

I resolved to do more Somo-Somology, studying very hard even during exams to try to get a decent result.

And luckily enough, when the results came out, I had sixteen points, a division one. I smashed my fist into a palm and roared my own "Nothing beats Somo-Somology!" I would no longer wear the tag of a failure only fit for lowly paid jobs like sweeping floors and corridors. Now I was qualified to go higher, even to the University of Zambia to study law.

It was my turn to celebrate now. Somo—somology has done it. Somo—Somology has taken me away from the ante heap of humiliation into the glorious glare of progress where champagne fumes rule the airwaves.