One day, when I had a free period between classes, I decided to walk up to my house in the teachers quarters and get something to eat before my last class of the day. As I passed the English classroom, I looked in the door, and it was chaos. Kids were running around, and throwing paper wads at each other, and generally being out of control. In Swaziland, when you were a teacher, you were a teacher all the time, in whatever situation, and I hated the idea of wasting a classroom full of thirsty minds, so, I stopped, and walked into the classroom. I went to the front, by the teachers desk, and addressed them loudly.
Me: All right you meatballs, settle down and take your seats.
And because students always obeyed the authority of teachers, they actually did. I looked around, and only recognized a couple faces. None of the students were woodworking students. But I knew one pretty well. Rejoice was a beautiful Form 3 student, who was also the house girl for my next door neighbor in the teachers quarters. House girls were students who would live with a teacher, and clean the house, wash clothes, and sometimes cook for the teacher, in return for having their tuition paid, books bought, and be fed by the teacher. Most teachers had one. I had had many conversations with Rejoice in the evenings after school. She was animated, and intelligent, and had a wry wit, and I had become good friends with her.
Me: Rejoice, what class is this?
Rejoice: It is Form 3 English class, Maseko.
Me: Where is your teacher?
Another girl: She is not present, sir.
Me: Well, duh. I have a college degree, I could see that she is not present. Where is she?
A third girl: She has gone to help my small mother give birth to her baby, Maseko. (small mother meant Aunt)
Me: Ok, what have you been working on this week?
Nothing. Blank faces. I wasn’t worried. English was my mother tongue, and I had done well in English classes, back when I was in school during the Paleolithic Era. And tho I wasn’t an English teacher, by then I had had plenty of experience taking charge of classes of unruly woodworking boys, so I figured this might be fun. I walked over to Rejoice, and asked for her class notes. Hmmm, it looked like they had been studying irregular verbs.
Me: Ok, well, I am taking over this class, and since I know English, I can teach irregular verbs. But just for grins, let us make a consensus on what I will teach. We shall vote on what I will teach.
Blank faces. They were not used to the Maseko style of teaching. In woodworking, if I had a class that was between things, so to speak, I would have the boys brainstorm ideas, and would write them on the chalkboard, and we would vote on which idea would be taught.
Me: So, let’s have some ideas on what you would like to spend the next hour doing. Anybody?
No response. So I stepped right up to the chalk board, and wrote… 1. Sleep
Me: We can put our heads down on our desks, and sleep. Anything else?
The students looked at each other. No suggestions.
Me: Come on people, Have you no ideas about what you would like to learn today?
And I turned and wrote… 2. Study irregular verbs.
Me: OK, what else can we do?
Nothing. So, I wrote… 3. Paint Duma blue. Duma was the class troublemaker, I saw that as soon as I had walked in. The class tittered about that suggestion.
A random boy: Um, sir, we could have you tell us about America.
So I wrote… 4. Maseko tells tales about America.
Rejoice: (with a twinkle in her eye) Maseko, we could eat some of the cake that I smelled you were baking before school today.
The class looked startled at how familiarly she was addressing me. And it was true, I had baked a cake early this morning before school. Peace Corps had given the trainees “The official Peace Corps cookbook”, and from it I had learned how to make a cake from scratch, and using a wetter batter, cook it on low heat in a frying pan, which made a 1 inch thick pancake sort of thing, and with 3 of them, and some frosting made from butter and powdered sugar, could assemble a nice little 3 layer cake. They were very popular among the teachers. Nothing stimulates conversational interchange better than sitting and eating cake. I made at least one every week. I would invite 3 or 4 teachers to my house, and we would sit and eat cake, and talk about worldly things. And over the months, I had brought back from town, food coloring, colored sprinkles, shaved coconut, and chocolate chips. So the cake I had made that morning, was a 3 layer white cake, with chocolate chips, and light green frosting, with coconut and colored sprinkles all over the top. My frying pan was only 7 inches in diameter, so it was a small cake, but very pretty. So, I turned back to the chalkboard and wrote… 5. Eat Masekos cake.
Me: Ok, that is enough. This will be a secret ballot, so let us close our eyes, and I will call out the suggestions, and when you hear the one that you wish to do, raise your hand. So they did, and the votes came out like this:
- Sleep. 3 votes
2. Study irregular verbs. 0 votes
3. Paint Duma blue. 2 votes
4. Maseko tells tales about America. 13 votes
5. Eat Masekos cake. 13 votes
Me: OK, open your eyes. We have a tie vote, so I vote that we do both, eat cake and hear Masekos tales. Rejoice, here is the key to my house. You and Busisiwe run up to the teachers quarters and fetch the cake down here. Bring the big knife that is on the shelf in the kitchen.
And they scurried off, and were soon back with the cake and the knife. The kids eyes were big, looking at the beautiful green cake. I imagine some of them had never seen a cake before. Cakes were not part of the Swazi traditional diet, and this was way out in the bush, where cakes were not available.
Me: Ok, Rejoice, since it was your idea, it will be up to you to cut this cake into 31 equal pieces, so everybody gets a share.
It was only a 7 inch cake. The pieces were not very big, but everybody was happily munching some, and I spent the last part of the class telling about growing up in America, and how when I was a small child, I had heard about the Kingdom of Swaziland, and how I had wanted to visit there, and here I was after 39 years, living my dream.
English class was over, and I went on to my last woodworking class of the day, who were disappointed that there was no cake for their class. Later, Rejoice came by my house with my plate and knife, nice and clean, for me to put away.
Rejoice: Maseko, I hope that you were not angry that I put your cake up for the vote. It was very delicious.
I hugged her and said, “No, Rejoice, I was not angry. The class enjoyed the cake, and my story, and everybody was happy. Never be afraid to speak your mind.”
Cake Matters 
Rejoice