At the beginning of my second year at Elulakeni Secondary School, the Ministry of Education sent out a couple of new teachers. We always needed teachers because it was such an awful school, that the first thing that new teachers did was head into town their first weekend, and file with the Ministry for a transfer. This was so prevalent, that after only a year there, I was third in seniority of the teachers.

One of the new teachers was an English teacher named Funda. She had taught before at a school with a Peace Corps volunteer, and immediately chatted me up, and we became instant friends. She spoke in imperatives, no matter what she was saying. Her first night, as it got dark, she called out of the door of her teachers quarters house, which was next to mine… “Maseko! You must bring me a candle. I have none, and I can’t see.” So, of course, I went and got a candle out of my stash, and took it over to her.

She was late getting back from town a couple weeks later, and I said when I saw her, “Wow, Funda, you are very late.” She replied, “Maseko, a teacher is never late. She is only delayed. Remember that.”

She had a daughter who was about 6 years old. Unlike most small children in Elulakeni, she had interacted with Americans before, and was not scared by the color of my skin.

I often went and visited families of my students, and sometimes when I would arrive at a homestead unannounced, the small children would see me, and run screaming inside the house. Moms were always scaring the kids into proper behavior by threatening them that the ghost people would get them if they didn’t behave. And here I came, obviously one of those very ghost people that mom had warned them about.

Funda’s daughter took to me right away, and she would see me sitting on my bench in front of my house in the evening, and would run over, and climb right into my lap, and sit there contented until her mom called her to come and go to bed. She was a peaceful, curious little girl, and I enjoyed her trust and companionship. She would accompany me whenever she could, walking down to school with me after hours, or walking up the road to the tiny little store there, to buy bread. Always either holding my hand, or riding on my shoulders. I had noticed that when I had a small child by the hand or on my shoulders, people were more accepting of me, and calm around me.

She was tiny, with braided cornrows in her hair, and just full of questions about everything. In fact, she looked like a tiny Bob Marley, and I took to calling her that. “Hey BobMarley, I am going to the store. Do you want to go with me?” It was always yes. “Go and ask your mom for permission,” I would say, and she would scamper off, and come back a minute later, and we would go.

One day Funda asked me, “Maseko, what are you calling my child?”

Me: I am calling her BobMarley, because she looks like him.

Funda: Yes, you are right, in a small way, she does.

Me: I hope you are not mad that I call her that.

Funda: No, no, I am not mad. She enjoys your company very much, and I am always happy to let her go with you.

So I took her with me as often as I could. Soon, the other teachers picked up on the BobMarley, and before long, everybody but Funda was calling her that. “BobMarley, come here and help me gather the chickens eggs.” “BobMarley, go and tell your mother that I need to talk to her.” And even, “Go find Maseko, BobMarley, and tell him to come here.” I took her with me to local weddings, and to visit the families of my community. And to the community garden to buy whatever they were growing right then.

I even once took her with me when I went to visit the Indvuna of my community, an assistant chief, in charge of giving permission to do things in the community, who was an important and dignified man, very solemn. He asked me if she was my daughter, and he smiled at her. Even complete strangers were more open to me when I had the hand of BobMarley. It was like a disguise. I went from being the white teacher at the school, to being BobMarley’s uncle. And being with a small girl made me a family figure in people’s eyes. It was a wonderful friendship.

 I miss you BobMarley

The magic of children Matters