The Solar Heater by Lara Reilly
Mr. Gordon, a disgraced and lonely teacher in Botswana, faces a new challenge when the daughter of a Sri Lankan immigrant joins his class.
At that point in my life, I had decided that the loser tag given to me by my mother as a child, and by my wife now gone back to England in disgust, was more than likely correct. At 47, I was teaching standard six in a private primary school, called Sunnyside. A school that could only afford recycled paper and teachers with no other options. We taught in classrooms that had the amazing ability to be colder than the outdoors in winter and hotter than the outdoors in summer. For most subjects we had one book, which was photocopied onto the recycled paper for lessons.
That winter day, I was in the middle of a reading lesson with my class of eleven children. Since the school was so ill equipped, few parents brought their children there, making for small classes; a good thing for the teacher, but unfortunately it also ensured that the school remained impoverished.
"The charc... character." Refilwe struggled. He was a dark-skinned boy, too small for his age of fourteen. He'd been held back twice and still he found it hard to keep up.
"Characteristic," I corrected.
"The characteristic that they most liked was his nose." The class giggled.
"Class, pay attention to the story," I said. Refilwe continued. Just then there was a knock at the door and the students became quiet. I turned and saw the headmistress, Mrs. Molefi, a long-retired teacher who had never gotten further than head of department in the civil service despite putting in an astounding 32 years. The chip on her shoulder caused by the government's oversight was a heavy one, and all of us, both staff and students, carried the burden of it along with her.
Mrs. Molefi filled most of the doorframe with her ample girth, but peeking behind her I could see a man of Asian descent. "Mr. Gordon, can I see you?" she asked in her way that made it not a question.
My heart stepped up its beat. What would Mrs. Molefi want with me? She always did her best to stay away. She was a devout Christian and found me only one slight step up from Satan thanks to "my incident", no matter what the courts might have decided.
"Class, please read silently until I return," I said.
"Yes, Sir," they responded in practiced unison.
I stepped outside onto the shaded verandah of the classroom block. I saw the man clearly now. He was of slight build with disheveled hair, his shirt only tucked in at the front; a crumpled tie, obviously only used during special occasions, lay quite unwillingly down his chest. He smiled at me with the most extraordinary overbite and kind, watery eyes.
"Hello, I am Somasundaram."
He held out his hand and I shook it. "I'm Mr. Gordon."
Mrs. Molefi explained. "Mr. Somasundaram has a daughter he would like to enroll in your class."
"She no speak English. We come now. She clever. She learn quick." There was a pleading in his voice, as if I were going to say no. There was a fearful edge to his words.
"I'm sure we'll do fine. Where is she?" I asked.
Mr. Somasundaram's face lit up. "I will get her." He rushed toward the car park as Mrs. Molefi and I waited in uncomfortable silence.
"It's cold," I offered.
"It's winter," she responded with a stern face, and we reverted back to silence and waited for Mr. Somasundaram's return.
Soon he was back, and with him was a very thin girl. She had inherited buckteeth and a dark complexion from her father. Her hair, thick and long, hung heavy down her back. She had huge black eyes that took up most of her face, fringed with impossibly long lashes. Her hand held tight to her father's, and her eyes darted back and forth in fear. "This is Chandrika. She a good girl. Clever girl." He then turned to the girl and spoke something in their language. She let go of her father's hand when he stopped speaking, and stepped forward as if the concrete of the verandah were thin ice on a pond.
"Well, Chandrika," Mrs. Molefi boomed, and the girl rushed back and grabbed hold of her father's hand again. He spoke some words to her and she let go, but kept her eyes on Mrs. Molefi. Mrs. Molefi tried again with reduced volume. "Mr. Gordon will take good care of you." Then she turned to Mr. Somasundaram. "Let's you and I sort out the paperwork in the office." And they left us alone.
As Mr. Somasundaram walked away, Chandrika seemed to shrink. She was hardly there at all, completely lost in her fears, when I spoke. "Chandrika," I said, not used to supplying words of comfort. "I will help you find your way." I doubt she understood what I said, though she did seem to, inch by inch, come back to her normal size. I reached my hand out, and she took it.
I came to Botswana a newlywed, 37 but only just married. I'd met Pauline through my mother. She was the daughter of a woman she played cards with. I can't say it was love at first sight. Pauline was 35 and not pleased about it. She'd developed a mean mouth and deep frown lines on her forehead as if to emphasise her unhappiness. I realise now that our marriage was based on two undeniable facts: Pauline was desperate to be married, and I was shocked anyone took notice of me. Not a strong foundation for matrimony, I realise that now.
I had just finished my doctorate in English literature with a less than impressive result. It was the 1980s and boom time in Botswana. Things were growing by leaps and bounds and they desperately needed lecturers at their new university, so I was hired. Gaborone was a lovely place to be. My colleagues were friendly and, thanks to the residue of colonialism, believed me smarter than I was because I was white and British.
Pauline was happy at first. She made friends with the other expatriate wives and we got along all right. But as her friends, whose husbands were snatching up the million-pula government contracts hand over fist, became more and more wealthy, we stayed exactly where we were. This was fine with me, but not for Pauline. She wanted things and she wanted status. Our life began to be a constant struggle.
More and more I stayed away. I loved the university and teaching. My students were so willing and capable and they thought me intelligent. For the first time in my life, I was respected and successful.
One student in particular made an impression. She was called Tebogo. She'd often stay after class to discuss a point with me. Occasionally, she'd arrive early asking questions about assigned passages or homework. She was always captivated by my answers. At first, I thought nothing of it, I was happy for the interest in my subject.
Then things changed. One day we went for tea at the hotel on the mall. We walked, and I could see eyes following us. She was young and beautiful and I gained status by being with her. I'd never felt so worthy before. I had always been the plain boy in the corner. The one no teacher would remember. The one girls didn't even see. In an instant, all of that was gone and it felt wonderful.
After that day we often went places together. Outside of the university, she called me Thomas and I called her Tebby. On one sweltering hot day she suggested we go for a swim at the hotel across town. In the water, we touched by accident, and then on purpose, and in minutes we were in a room and it was exactly like every dream I'd ever had.
To the heights that my happiness soared, within days I plunged that much deeper into desperation. My life came down like a house built of toothpicks. Tebogo threatened that she would tell everyone about what we'd done if I didn't ensure that she got an A in my class. I refused. Not out of a strong sense of morality. I refused because she had deceived me, had given me feelings so strong that they choked off all the rest of my life, and then in a moment she showed me that I was being choked by nothing more than invisible feathers.
To teach me a lesson, she filed a charge of rape against me at the police station. Uniformed officers handcuffed me at the university during a class. I was paraded through the campus for colleagues and students to see. When I finally got out on bail, Pauline had gone back to England to her card playing mother, my own having left a weepy message on the answering machine saying she was so ashamed, that she'd rather I never speak to her again.
A trial took place and I was found not guilty, but I didn't rejoice in the victory. Instead, I retreated to my newly assigned position, with the other broken people at Sunnyside.
As the days passed, Chandrika progressed. She learned a few English words mostly thanks to Deirdre, the self-appointed leader of the class. She'd taken over the care of Chandrika from the first day. Still, in class Chandrika struggled. She worked hard, though the progress was slow. One day at teatime I saw Deirdre playing with the other standard six girls, but Chandrika was not there.
"Where is Chandrika?" I asked her.
Deirdre pointed at a bench at the back of the playground. "She said that she doesn't want to play."
It was a windy July day and the bench in the shade was not very comfortable. Nevertheless, I sat down next to her. She was looking out at the vacant field behind the school. In her lap was a paper. I could see she'd been crying.
"Are you okay, Chandrika?"
She looked up. Her big, black eyes filled with tears, her nose red. "Look how stupid!" She handed me her recent social studies test. I knew the mark, I'd written it myself.
"It will come. You must just keep working."
"My mother and father, they wait for me. I am alone now. But I'm stupid and they will be not happy. I will make them sad. Mr. Gordon, I wish I not stupid." She was crying, overcome with frustration.
"Chandrika, you're not stupid," I tried. I wanted to say something, to show her how infinitely inconsequential a social studies test in standard six really was. I wanted to take her in my arms, but hesitated. Instead, I sat in the cold shade and we shivered together watching the tall brown grass blowing in the wind.
Chandrika's life before coming to Botswana was mostly a mystery. Occasionally she'd reveal bits about her old school or the weather of her country, but then other times she gave us all more than we were ready for.
One day in class I was working alone with Chandrika on an English grammar exercise. I wanted her to get more practice speaking English, as she was often shy in class, afraid of making errors.
"What is the name of your home country?" I asked her.
She smiled, this was easy. "My home country is called Sri Lanka."
"What does your father do?"
"My father is a builder." I nodded, encouraging her.
"What does your mother do?" I asked. Immediately, Chandrika's eyes fell to her lap. Though we knew her father well, he came every day to drop off and collect Chandrika, we never saw her mother.
She waited some minutes, then she said, "My mother is sick."
I felt embarrassed for having asked the question, but my curiosity overcame it. "What is the problem?"
Chandrika struggled to explain. "Her legs cut."
"Her legs cut?"
"The bomb in the ground that kill my sister, it blow and cut her legs off." She fell silent. Nearby students heard what she had said, and they too became silent.
Like most people outside of the area, I knew very little about the conflict between the Tamil Tigers and the Sri Lankan government. I was shocked to hear such a thing. This young girl had lived a life none of us, in that cinder block classroom located in the peaceful stability of Botswana, could even imagine.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know," I said.
Unable to offer anything else, I continued. "And what school do you attend?"
The last day of second term had arrived. As the class gathered up their bags, I reminded them about the third term science fair. "Over the holiday, start thinking about your science projects," I shouted above the din.
"Mr. Gordon, I'm making a security system to keep the thieves out," Palalani, a brilliant boy who always took top in the class, said.
"That's great, I can't wait to see it."
"I'm going to make a better project than him," Deirdre said, forever annoyed that someone had the audacity to take her place as supreme ruler of the world, even if that world was only as big as the class.
"What are you going to do?" I asked her.
"I don't know yet. But it will be great. Maybe I'll win and go to Gaborone."
Chandrika stopped in front of me and smiled. "Have a nice holiday, Mr. Gordon."
I patted her on the back, surprised at the improvement in her English. "You too, Chandrika."
Holidays were unbearable. I had no interest in traveling, so remained in the dusty village confined to days that failed to finish and nights spent at the sports club, drinking myself into a stupor, and, if I were lucky, going home with a willing local girl who for the price of a few beers or air time for her cellphone would put up with my inept nighttime fumblings. It gave me only temporary relief until the bright, African sunlight of morning revealed, without mercy, how lonely and sad I was.
That holiday I was haunted by Chandrika. I wondered what other horrors lived in her past. I wanted to know about this sister that died, about her mysterious mother with no legs. I had made a promise to help her find her way, but knew now that I would be an ineffectual guide for this brave girl carrying so many burdens on her shoulders. How could a broken-up, useless man like myself help this little girl, full of so much sorrow, find her way? I would fail in my promise and it tortured me to admit it.
I was happy when school finally opened. It was September and hints of the scorching summer already hung in the air. My class was happy to be back together, rushing to tell each other everything they'd been up to during the holiday. Chandrika came up to me. "Mr. Gordon, I have chosen a science project."
"That's wonderful, Chandrika. What is it?"
"I am going to build a solar water heater. I have read about it at the library and I am going to build a solar water heater for the science fair." I could tell that she had practiced these words, but I was happy nevertheless.
While other students lost interest along the way once the novelty of their science project idea wore off, Chandrika's enthusiasm increased each day. I'd set aside time in our schedule after lessons each day for the students to get out their projects and work on them before the end-of-school bell. Most days, Mr. Somasundaram had to come to the class in search of Chandrika because he'd sat in the parking lot watching until all of the children had left.
"You are here still, Chandrika?" he'd say, relieved.
"I'm coming just now, Papa," she would say, finishing one last thing she could not leave for tomorrow.
Her project was taking shape. A big black box cut diagonally on the sides. The inside was lined with aluminum foil. Inside the box was a stand made from wire with a loop at the top, which held a cup, painted black. In that cup Chandrika would put 100ml of water measured carefully with the plastic measuring cylinder we kept in the class, and a thermometer to measure the temperature of the water to see if her heater worked.
As the regional science fair grew closer, Chandrika was forever out in the sun testing her heater. She compiled charts and tweaked her heater to make it more and more efficient.
The solar heater was performing magic. Not to the water poured carefully into the black painted cup, it was creating miracles in Chandrika. With each degree that it raised the temperature of the water, Chandrika gained confidence. She smiled more. She ran free with her friends, no longer sitting in the cool shade alone. The magical solar heater healed wounds that no one could see.
The day of the regional science fair had arrived. All of the other primary schools in our region attended the fair each year. We rarely received any prizes because they were all better equipped than us. I had some hope for Palalani's burglar alarm and Deirdre's inspired eye model, complete with mascara and eye shadow. In my heart, I was rooting for Chandrika's solar heater, but a large part of the points came from the child's explanation of their project and I accepted that she would struggle with that.
We set up our projects and waited for the judges to arrive. There was a wide array of topics. Plants in Styrofoam cups, helicopters with rotating blades, distillation projects that boiled away fogging up the windows, and collections of traditional medicines. Unfortunately for Palalani, there was another burglar alarm. Where Palalani's alarm only rang a bell taken from an old buzzer, the other alarm also flashed on all of the lights in the model house in which it was installed. Palalani lost hope before the judges even arrived.
"I told you that stupid alarm was too easy," Deirdre said. "No one has an eye model." I frowned at her, but to no effect. "It's true, look around Mr. Gordon."
Chandrika sat quietly. She was nervous and fiddled with her charts. Her solar water heater was outside in the sun waiting for the judges. Just then the panel of three judges arrived. There was a young energetic man who taught at the local senior secondary school, an oldish woman who was the education officer for the area, and a middle-aged man with a scowling face who was in senior management at the nearby power station. They all carried clipboards and pens. They started with Deirdre.
"Please explain your project," the young teacher said. And Deirdre was off. She talked non-stop about every single aspect of the eye including the shade of eye shadow, sky blue.
Exhausted, the power station man finally stopped her. "That's fine, young lady. I think after that explanation we don't have a single question to ask you." The others laughed and they moved on to Chandrika.
"Please explain your project," the teacher started again.
"I want... I mean... we must go outside." Chandrika lost courage. She looked at me and I smiled, hoping to calm her.
"My project, it is a solar heater, we must see it outside." The judges and Deirdre, who wouldn't be left out, followed Chandrika out the door. I remained behind in the class. I was too nervous to listen, too afraid for her failure.
After some minutes, they returned. The judges' faces look sombre and my heart fell.
Chandrika said, "I tried my best, Mr. Gordon."
"She's being modest, Teacher," Deirdre said. "Chandrika and I are going to Gaborone!"
And it seemed that those were prophetic words, because later that afternoon, just as Mr. Somasundaram pulled into the parking lot to collect Chandrika, the judges went before the anxious group of students. The education officer judge cleared her voice. "And in the primary section we have in position three from Sunnyside Primary School, Deirdre Molele with her project called 'The Eye'." Shrieks rang through the crowd as Deirdre jumped up and down shouting. We could barely hear as the judge said, "Second place, from Sunnyside Primary School, Chandrika Somasundaram with her project called 'A Solar Heater'. And at position one..."
We heard nothing else except for Deirdre's voice echoing through the crowd. "We're going to Gaborone, we're going to Gaborone!" she sang, while she danced in circles arm-in-arm with Chandrika, whose smile could have easily been seen from the moon.
We had a month to prepare for the national science fair. Though I knew the competition was tough, the enthusiasm of the two girls was infectious. I started to believe that our school of losers might just come out on top.
We set off on that Friday morning, as the projects needed to be up by Friday afternoon for judging. Saturday morning the public was invited to tour, and Saturday afternoon there would be the prize giving ceremony.
In the excitement, I'd forgotten how going back to Gaborone might make me feel, especially going back to the university where the science fair was being held. As we pulled up, I felt a crushing weight and I wondered for a moment if I was going to manage. Memories and feelings covered me. I felt weak, unable to see clearly.
"Mr. Gordon, come on! Let's set up first then we'll find our rooms," Deirdre shouted through the closed driver's window. Her taking over the controls seemed to snap me out of it. I took out the projects and we walked towards the university.
Deirdre began to quicken the pace. "There's the sign." She grabbed Chandrika's hand and they ran towards the door with a manila paper sign tacked to it saying 'Primary Science'.
I looked around, wondering what I would say if I saw one of my former colleagues. Would I tell them that I now worked at a decrepit primary school in a tiny village full of other misfits like myself?
There were some university students milling around. Did any of them knew about me? They looked so young and fresh, and the image of Tebogo became vivid in my mind. All of the feelings, first the joy of being chosen by such a beautiful woman, then the sadness of the betrayal, the lie. I stopped and held the wall. I could feel tears forming in my eyes. I felt sickness overtake me. I looked around for a place I could vomit.
Just then Chandrika came out the door. "Did you bring the Bostek, Mr. Gordon?"
I shook my head, pushing the images and their emotions away. I needed to be here today, nowhere else. These girls depended on me.
"Mr. Gordon?" She was next to me now. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine. Let's go. The Bostek is in my bag."
When I entered the Primary Science room, reality set in. Somehow I had thought we really had a chance to win, but then I looked around at the projects. Posters made on computers, projects with high tech equipment rich Gaborone parents could afford; I had to accept that we didn't have a chance.
Teachers were not allowed in the room during the judging so I left the girls and went in search of our accommodation. After dropping off our bags, I decided sitting outside in the warm afternoon sun was what I needed. With a book and a tin of juice, I made my way down the stairs to the bench at the back of the hostel block.
The hours passed as I got lost in my book trying to keep my mind off of the judging.
"Gordon, is that you?"
I looked up and there was one of the English professors from my former department, Thato Moagi. "Thato, hello how have you been keeping?" What I feared would happen, had.
He took my hand in genuine friendliness. "I'm well. Gosh it's good to see you. What are you doing here?"
"I'm here for the science fair. I teach primary school in Mahalapye." There, I'd said it, and the world didn't end. I didn't shrivel up and die. In fact, I felt proud. "I have two students here."
"That's great. It's really nice to see that you're okay. I often think about you, wonder how you are. I think they gave you a terribly raw deal."
"Well, it's worked out in the end." I was surprised to hear myself say that.
"Yes, I see it has. I've got to run. But really, great to see you."
I sat a bit longer trying to sort through the mixed-up emotions in my mind. After some minutes, I realised I felt happy. It was such an un-used emotion I hardly recognised it. I got up and headed for the judging room to collect the girls for dinner.
The auditorium was filled to capacity for the prize giving ceremony. For once, Deirdre was silent. Chandrika strained her neck, trying to see if her father had arrived yet. She was nervous he wouldn't make it in time. "Do you see my father, Mr. Gordon?" Chandrika tried to see over the crowd.
"No, I can't see him. I'm sure he's on his way. Look, the judges are coming."
Deirdre put her head on the table. "I think I'm going to be sick."
A tall Indian man, who was one of the judges, approached the microphone. "We want to begin the announcement of results. Can we have silence?" People took their seats, and the hall became quiet. "We will start with primary." Chandrika was still searching for her father, and Deirdre was moaning slightly under her arms. I was the only one paying attention.
"In position four we have Westlane Primary School, a project called 'The Fun Side of Fungi' by Adolph Reynolds." The crowd cheered as a small, blonde-haired boy went forward to collect his prize.
"In position three, we have St. Augustine's with a project called 'Acid-Alkali Indicators' by Neo Basimane." From the back, loud cheers were heard and a tall, thin girl with long braids went to the front.
I sat back, sure that we were out. I had decided if we didn't get position three or four we'd get nothing. Just then, my eyes drifted to the door and there was Mr. Somasundaram. He was pushing a beautiful woman in a wheelchair through the auditorium doors. She wore a red sari and had Chandrika's eyes. "Look Chandrika, your mother and father have arrived."
Chandrika waved at them across the auditorium. "My mother is here. Deirdre wake up! Look, my mother is here!" She was so happy at seeing her parents she heard nothing of the judge up front. We missed the name of the second place winner, but a group of people at the back jumped to their feet and a short, chubby boy with glasses much wider than his face went to the front to accept his prize.
"And in position one is Sunnyside Primary School, a project called 'A Solar Heater' by Chandrika Somasundaram."
I turned to Chandrika. "You won!" I shouted, not believing what I was saying. "You won!"
Deirdre pulled Chandrika to her feet. "Go! Go take your prize! You won!" We shouted and hugged each other as we watched Chandrika accept her prize. I looked near the door and Mr. Somasundaram was clapping and smiling at his daughter, while his wife held her hands to her face, tears of joy running from her eyes.
Chandrika joined her parents at the door to show them her prize. Deirdre and I ran down the steps of the auditorium to join them. We were all so happy and proud of her. Mr. Somasundaram said, " See I tell you she clever girl." His wife, who spoke no English at all just smiled up at me.
We walked with the family to their car. Before getting inside, Chandrika turned to me. "Mr. Gordon, thank you so much. Because of you I am no longer afraid. Because of you I have made my parents happy again."
Deirdre and I stood waving as they drove away.
"You're smiling, Mr. Gordon," Deirdre said, looking up at me.
"Am I?"
"Yes, you are. So I was thinking next year I'd do an ear. With a real Botswana diamond as an earring. That will impress those Gaborone judges, don't you think?"
I put my arm around Deirdre. "I think that sounds like a fantastic idea."
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
That winter day, I was in the middle of a reading lesson with my class of eleven children. Since the school was so ill equipped, few parents brought their children there, making for small classes; a good thing for the teacher, but unfortunately it also ensured that the school remained impoverished.
"The charc... character." Refilwe struggled. He was a dark-skinned boy, too small for his age of fourteen. He'd been held back twice and still he found it hard to keep up.
"Characteristic," I corrected.
"The characteristic that they most liked was his nose." The class giggled.
"Class, pay attention to the story," I said. Refilwe continued. Just then there was a knock at the door and the students became quiet. I turned and saw the headmistress, Mrs. Molefi, a long-retired teacher who had never gotten further than head of department in the civil service despite putting in an astounding 32 years. The chip on her shoulder caused by the government's oversight was a heavy one, and all of us, both staff and students, carried the burden of it along with her.
Mrs. Molefi filled most of the doorframe with her ample girth, but peeking behind her I could see a man of Asian descent. "Mr. Gordon, can I see you?" she asked in her way that made it not a question.
My heart stepped up its beat. What would Mrs. Molefi want with me? She always did her best to stay away. She was a devout Christian and found me only one slight step up from Satan thanks to "my incident", no matter what the courts might have decided.
"Class, please read silently until I return," I said.
"Yes, Sir," they responded in practiced unison.
I stepped outside onto the shaded verandah of the classroom block. I saw the man clearly now. He was of slight build with disheveled hair, his shirt only tucked in at the front; a crumpled tie, obviously only used during special occasions, lay quite unwillingly down his chest. He smiled at me with the most extraordinary overbite and kind, watery eyes.
"Hello, I am Somasundaram."
He held out his hand and I shook it. "I'm Mr. Gordon."
Mrs. Molefi explained. "Mr. Somasundaram has a daughter he would like to enroll in your class."
"She no speak English. We come now. She clever. She learn quick." There was a pleading in his voice, as if I were going to say no. There was a fearful edge to his words.
"I'm sure we'll do fine. Where is she?" I asked.
Mr. Somasundaram's face lit up. "I will get her." He rushed toward the car park as Mrs. Molefi and I waited in uncomfortable silence.
"It's cold," I offered.
"It's winter," she responded with a stern face, and we reverted back to silence and waited for Mr. Somasundaram's return.
Soon he was back, and with him was a very thin girl. She had inherited buckteeth and a dark complexion from her father. Her hair, thick and long, hung heavy down her back. She had huge black eyes that took up most of her face, fringed with impossibly long lashes. Her hand held tight to her father's, and her eyes darted back and forth in fear. "This is Chandrika. She a good girl. Clever girl." He then turned to the girl and spoke something in their language. She let go of her father's hand when he stopped speaking, and stepped forward as if the concrete of the verandah were thin ice on a pond.
"Well, Chandrika," Mrs. Molefi boomed, and the girl rushed back and grabbed hold of her father's hand again. He spoke some words to her and she let go, but kept her eyes on Mrs. Molefi. Mrs. Molefi tried again with reduced volume. "Mr. Gordon will take good care of you." Then she turned to Mr. Somasundaram. "Let's you and I sort out the paperwork in the office." And they left us alone.
As Mr. Somasundaram walked away, Chandrika seemed to shrink. She was hardly there at all, completely lost in her fears, when I spoke. "Chandrika," I said, not used to supplying words of comfort. "I will help you find your way." I doubt she understood what I said, though she did seem to, inch by inch, come back to her normal size. I reached my hand out, and she took it.
I came to Botswana a newlywed, 37 but only just married. I'd met Pauline through my mother. She was the daughter of a woman she played cards with. I can't say it was love at first sight. Pauline was 35 and not pleased about it. She'd developed a mean mouth and deep frown lines on her forehead as if to emphasise her unhappiness. I realise now that our marriage was based on two undeniable facts: Pauline was desperate to be married, and I was shocked anyone took notice of me. Not a strong foundation for matrimony, I realise that now.
I had just finished my doctorate in English literature with a less than impressive result. It was the 1980s and boom time in Botswana. Things were growing by leaps and bounds and they desperately needed lecturers at their new university, so I was hired. Gaborone was a lovely place to be. My colleagues were friendly and, thanks to the residue of colonialism, believed me smarter than I was because I was white and British.
Pauline was happy at first. She made friends with the other expatriate wives and we got along all right. But as her friends, whose husbands were snatching up the million-pula government contracts hand over fist, became more and more wealthy, we stayed exactly where we were. This was fine with me, but not for Pauline. She wanted things and she wanted status. Our life began to be a constant struggle.
More and more I stayed away. I loved the university and teaching. My students were so willing and capable and they thought me intelligent. For the first time in my life, I was respected and successful.
One student in particular made an impression. She was called Tebogo. She'd often stay after class to discuss a point with me. Occasionally, she'd arrive early asking questions about assigned passages or homework. She was always captivated by my answers. At first, I thought nothing of it, I was happy for the interest in my subject.
Then things changed. One day we went for tea at the hotel on the mall. We walked, and I could see eyes following us. She was young and beautiful and I gained status by being with her. I'd never felt so worthy before. I had always been the plain boy in the corner. The one no teacher would remember. The one girls didn't even see. In an instant, all of that was gone and it felt wonderful.
After that day we often went places together. Outside of the university, she called me Thomas and I called her Tebby. On one sweltering hot day she suggested we go for a swim at the hotel across town. In the water, we touched by accident, and then on purpose, and in minutes we were in a room and it was exactly like every dream I'd ever had.
To the heights that my happiness soared, within days I plunged that much deeper into desperation. My life came down like a house built of toothpicks. Tebogo threatened that she would tell everyone about what we'd done if I didn't ensure that she got an A in my class. I refused. Not out of a strong sense of morality. I refused because she had deceived me, had given me feelings so strong that they choked off all the rest of my life, and then in a moment she showed me that I was being choked by nothing more than invisible feathers.
To teach me a lesson, she filed a charge of rape against me at the police station. Uniformed officers handcuffed me at the university during a class. I was paraded through the campus for colleagues and students to see. When I finally got out on bail, Pauline had gone back to England to her card playing mother, my own having left a weepy message on the answering machine saying she was so ashamed, that she'd rather I never speak to her again.
A trial took place and I was found not guilty, but I didn't rejoice in the victory. Instead, I retreated to my newly assigned position, with the other broken people at Sunnyside.
As the days passed, Chandrika progressed. She learned a few English words mostly thanks to Deirdre, the self-appointed leader of the class. She'd taken over the care of Chandrika from the first day. Still, in class Chandrika struggled. She worked hard, though the progress was slow. One day at teatime I saw Deirdre playing with the other standard six girls, but Chandrika was not there.
"Where is Chandrika?" I asked her.
Deirdre pointed at a bench at the back of the playground. "She said that she doesn't want to play."
It was a windy July day and the bench in the shade was not very comfortable. Nevertheless, I sat down next to her. She was looking out at the vacant field behind the school. In her lap was a paper. I could see she'd been crying.
"Are you okay, Chandrika?"
She looked up. Her big, black eyes filled with tears, her nose red. "Look how stupid!" She handed me her recent social studies test. I knew the mark, I'd written it myself.
"It will come. You must just keep working."
"My mother and father, they wait for me. I am alone now. But I'm stupid and they will be not happy. I will make them sad. Mr. Gordon, I wish I not stupid." She was crying, overcome with frustration.
"Chandrika, you're not stupid," I tried. I wanted to say something, to show her how infinitely inconsequential a social studies test in standard six really was. I wanted to take her in my arms, but hesitated. Instead, I sat in the cold shade and we shivered together watching the tall brown grass blowing in the wind.
Chandrika's life before coming to Botswana was mostly a mystery. Occasionally she'd reveal bits about her old school or the weather of her country, but then other times she gave us all more than we were ready for.
One day in class I was working alone with Chandrika on an English grammar exercise. I wanted her to get more practice speaking English, as she was often shy in class, afraid of making errors.
"What is the name of your home country?" I asked her.
She smiled, this was easy. "My home country is called Sri Lanka."
"What does your father do?"
"My father is a builder." I nodded, encouraging her.
"What does your mother do?" I asked. Immediately, Chandrika's eyes fell to her lap. Though we knew her father well, he came every day to drop off and collect Chandrika, we never saw her mother.
She waited some minutes, then she said, "My mother is sick."
I felt embarrassed for having asked the question, but my curiosity overcame it. "What is the problem?"
Chandrika struggled to explain. "Her legs cut."
"Her legs cut?"
"The bomb in the ground that kill my sister, it blow and cut her legs off." She fell silent. Nearby students heard what she had said, and they too became silent.
Like most people outside of the area, I knew very little about the conflict between the Tamil Tigers and the Sri Lankan government. I was shocked to hear such a thing. This young girl had lived a life none of us, in that cinder block classroom located in the peaceful stability of Botswana, could even imagine.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know," I said.
Unable to offer anything else, I continued. "And what school do you attend?"
The last day of second term had arrived. As the class gathered up their bags, I reminded them about the third term science fair. "Over the holiday, start thinking about your science projects," I shouted above the din.
"Mr. Gordon, I'm making a security system to keep the thieves out," Palalani, a brilliant boy who always took top in the class, said.
"That's great, I can't wait to see it."
"I'm going to make a better project than him," Deirdre said, forever annoyed that someone had the audacity to take her place as supreme ruler of the world, even if that world was only as big as the class.
"What are you going to do?" I asked her.
"I don't know yet. But it will be great. Maybe I'll win and go to Gaborone."
Chandrika stopped in front of me and smiled. "Have a nice holiday, Mr. Gordon."
I patted her on the back, surprised at the improvement in her English. "You too, Chandrika."
Holidays were unbearable. I had no interest in traveling, so remained in the dusty village confined to days that failed to finish and nights spent at the sports club, drinking myself into a stupor, and, if I were lucky, going home with a willing local girl who for the price of a few beers or air time for her cellphone would put up with my inept nighttime fumblings. It gave me only temporary relief until the bright, African sunlight of morning revealed, without mercy, how lonely and sad I was.
That holiday I was haunted by Chandrika. I wondered what other horrors lived in her past. I wanted to know about this sister that died, about her mysterious mother with no legs. I had made a promise to help her find her way, but knew now that I would be an ineffectual guide for this brave girl carrying so many burdens on her shoulders. How could a broken-up, useless man like myself help this little girl, full of so much sorrow, find her way? I would fail in my promise and it tortured me to admit it.
I was happy when school finally opened. It was September and hints of the scorching summer already hung in the air. My class was happy to be back together, rushing to tell each other everything they'd been up to during the holiday. Chandrika came up to me. "Mr. Gordon, I have chosen a science project."
"That's wonderful, Chandrika. What is it?"
"I am going to build a solar water heater. I have read about it at the library and I am going to build a solar water heater for the science fair." I could tell that she had practiced these words, but I was happy nevertheless.
While other students lost interest along the way once the novelty of their science project idea wore off, Chandrika's enthusiasm increased each day. I'd set aside time in our schedule after lessons each day for the students to get out their projects and work on them before the end-of-school bell. Most days, Mr. Somasundaram had to come to the class in search of Chandrika because he'd sat in the parking lot watching until all of the children had left.
"You are here still, Chandrika?" he'd say, relieved.
"I'm coming just now, Papa," she would say, finishing one last thing she could not leave for tomorrow.
Her project was taking shape. A big black box cut diagonally on the sides. The inside was lined with aluminum foil. Inside the box was a stand made from wire with a loop at the top, which held a cup, painted black. In that cup Chandrika would put 100ml of water measured carefully with the plastic measuring cylinder we kept in the class, and a thermometer to measure the temperature of the water to see if her heater worked.
As the regional science fair grew closer, Chandrika was forever out in the sun testing her heater. She compiled charts and tweaked her heater to make it more and more efficient.
The solar heater was performing magic. Not to the water poured carefully into the black painted cup, it was creating miracles in Chandrika. With each degree that it raised the temperature of the water, Chandrika gained confidence. She smiled more. She ran free with her friends, no longer sitting in the cool shade alone. The magical solar heater healed wounds that no one could see.
The day of the regional science fair had arrived. All of the other primary schools in our region attended the fair each year. We rarely received any prizes because they were all better equipped than us. I had some hope for Palalani's burglar alarm and Deirdre's inspired eye model, complete with mascara and eye shadow. In my heart, I was rooting for Chandrika's solar heater, but a large part of the points came from the child's explanation of their project and I accepted that she would struggle with that.
We set up our projects and waited for the judges to arrive. There was a wide array of topics. Plants in Styrofoam cups, helicopters with rotating blades, distillation projects that boiled away fogging up the windows, and collections of traditional medicines. Unfortunately for Palalani, there was another burglar alarm. Where Palalani's alarm only rang a bell taken from an old buzzer, the other alarm also flashed on all of the lights in the model house in which it was installed. Palalani lost hope before the judges even arrived.
"I told you that stupid alarm was too easy," Deirdre said. "No one has an eye model." I frowned at her, but to no effect. "It's true, look around Mr. Gordon."
Chandrika sat quietly. She was nervous and fiddled with her charts. Her solar water heater was outside in the sun waiting for the judges. Just then the panel of three judges arrived. There was a young energetic man who taught at the local senior secondary school, an oldish woman who was the education officer for the area, and a middle-aged man with a scowling face who was in senior management at the nearby power station. They all carried clipboards and pens. They started with Deirdre.
"Please explain your project," the young teacher said. And Deirdre was off. She talked non-stop about every single aspect of the eye including the shade of eye shadow, sky blue.
Exhausted, the power station man finally stopped her. "That's fine, young lady. I think after that explanation we don't have a single question to ask you." The others laughed and they moved on to Chandrika.
"Please explain your project," the teacher started again.
"I want... I mean... we must go outside." Chandrika lost courage. She looked at me and I smiled, hoping to calm her.
"My project, it is a solar heater, we must see it outside." The judges and Deirdre, who wouldn't be left out, followed Chandrika out the door. I remained behind in the class. I was too nervous to listen, too afraid for her failure.
After some minutes, they returned. The judges' faces look sombre and my heart fell.
Chandrika said, "I tried my best, Mr. Gordon."
"She's being modest, Teacher," Deirdre said. "Chandrika and I are going to Gaborone!"
And it seemed that those were prophetic words, because later that afternoon, just as Mr. Somasundaram pulled into the parking lot to collect Chandrika, the judges went before the anxious group of students. The education officer judge cleared her voice. "And in the primary section we have in position three from Sunnyside Primary School, Deirdre Molele with her project called 'The Eye'." Shrieks rang through the crowd as Deirdre jumped up and down shouting. We could barely hear as the judge said, "Second place, from Sunnyside Primary School, Chandrika Somasundaram with her project called 'A Solar Heater'. And at position one..."
We heard nothing else except for Deirdre's voice echoing through the crowd. "We're going to Gaborone, we're going to Gaborone!" she sang, while she danced in circles arm-in-arm with Chandrika, whose smile could have easily been seen from the moon.
We had a month to prepare for the national science fair. Though I knew the competition was tough, the enthusiasm of the two girls was infectious. I started to believe that our school of losers might just come out on top.
We set off on that Friday morning, as the projects needed to be up by Friday afternoon for judging. Saturday morning the public was invited to tour, and Saturday afternoon there would be the prize giving ceremony.
In the excitement, I'd forgotten how going back to Gaborone might make me feel, especially going back to the university where the science fair was being held. As we pulled up, I felt a crushing weight and I wondered for a moment if I was going to manage. Memories and feelings covered me. I felt weak, unable to see clearly.
"Mr. Gordon, come on! Let's set up first then we'll find our rooms," Deirdre shouted through the closed driver's window. Her taking over the controls seemed to snap me out of it. I took out the projects and we walked towards the university.
Deirdre began to quicken the pace. "There's the sign." She grabbed Chandrika's hand and they ran towards the door with a manila paper sign tacked to it saying 'Primary Science'.
I looked around, wondering what I would say if I saw one of my former colleagues. Would I tell them that I now worked at a decrepit primary school in a tiny village full of other misfits like myself?
There were some university students milling around. Did any of them knew about me? They looked so young and fresh, and the image of Tebogo became vivid in my mind. All of the feelings, first the joy of being chosen by such a beautiful woman, then the sadness of the betrayal, the lie. I stopped and held the wall. I could feel tears forming in my eyes. I felt sickness overtake me. I looked around for a place I could vomit.
Just then Chandrika came out the door. "Did you bring the Bostek, Mr. Gordon?"
I shook my head, pushing the images and their emotions away. I needed to be here today, nowhere else. These girls depended on me.
"Mr. Gordon?" She was next to me now. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine. Let's go. The Bostek is in my bag."
When I entered the Primary Science room, reality set in. Somehow I had thought we really had a chance to win, but then I looked around at the projects. Posters made on computers, projects with high tech equipment rich Gaborone parents could afford; I had to accept that we didn't have a chance.
Teachers were not allowed in the room during the judging so I left the girls and went in search of our accommodation. After dropping off our bags, I decided sitting outside in the warm afternoon sun was what I needed. With a book and a tin of juice, I made my way down the stairs to the bench at the back of the hostel block.
The hours passed as I got lost in my book trying to keep my mind off of the judging.
"Gordon, is that you?"
I looked up and there was one of the English professors from my former department, Thato Moagi. "Thato, hello how have you been keeping?" What I feared would happen, had.
He took my hand in genuine friendliness. "I'm well. Gosh it's good to see you. What are you doing here?"
"I'm here for the science fair. I teach primary school in Mahalapye." There, I'd said it, and the world didn't end. I didn't shrivel up and die. In fact, I felt proud. "I have two students here."
"That's great. It's really nice to see that you're okay. I often think about you, wonder how you are. I think they gave you a terribly raw deal."
"Well, it's worked out in the end." I was surprised to hear myself say that.
"Yes, I see it has. I've got to run. But really, great to see you."
I sat a bit longer trying to sort through the mixed-up emotions in my mind. After some minutes, I realised I felt happy. It was such an un-used emotion I hardly recognised it. I got up and headed for the judging room to collect the girls for dinner.
The auditorium was filled to capacity for the prize giving ceremony. For once, Deirdre was silent. Chandrika strained her neck, trying to see if her father had arrived yet. She was nervous he wouldn't make it in time. "Do you see my father, Mr. Gordon?" Chandrika tried to see over the crowd.
"No, I can't see him. I'm sure he's on his way. Look, the judges are coming."
Deirdre put her head on the table. "I think I'm going to be sick."
A tall Indian man, who was one of the judges, approached the microphone. "We want to begin the announcement of results. Can we have silence?" People took their seats, and the hall became quiet. "We will start with primary." Chandrika was still searching for her father, and Deirdre was moaning slightly under her arms. I was the only one paying attention.
"In position four we have Westlane Primary School, a project called 'The Fun Side of Fungi' by Adolph Reynolds." The crowd cheered as a small, blonde-haired boy went forward to collect his prize.
"In position three, we have St. Augustine's with a project called 'Acid-Alkali Indicators' by Neo Basimane." From the back, loud cheers were heard and a tall, thin girl with long braids went to the front.
I sat back, sure that we were out. I had decided if we didn't get position three or four we'd get nothing. Just then, my eyes drifted to the door and there was Mr. Somasundaram. He was pushing a beautiful woman in a wheelchair through the auditorium doors. She wore a red sari and had Chandrika's eyes. "Look Chandrika, your mother and father have arrived."
Chandrika waved at them across the auditorium. "My mother is here. Deirdre wake up! Look, my mother is here!" She was so happy at seeing her parents she heard nothing of the judge up front. We missed the name of the second place winner, but a group of people at the back jumped to their feet and a short, chubby boy with glasses much wider than his face went to the front to accept his prize.
"And in position one is Sunnyside Primary School, a project called 'A Solar Heater' by Chandrika Somasundaram."
I turned to Chandrika. "You won!" I shouted, not believing what I was saying. "You won!"
Deirdre pulled Chandrika to her feet. "Go! Go take your prize! You won!" We shouted and hugged each other as we watched Chandrika accept her prize. I looked near the door and Mr. Somasundaram was clapping and smiling at his daughter, while his wife held her hands to her face, tears of joy running from her eyes.
Chandrika joined her parents at the door to show them her prize. Deirdre and I ran down the steps of the auditorium to join them. We were all so happy and proud of her. Mr. Somasundaram said, " See I tell you she clever girl." His wife, who spoke no English at all just smiled up at me.
We walked with the family to their car. Before getting inside, Chandrika turned to me. "Mr. Gordon, thank you so much. Because of you I am no longer afraid. Because of you I have made my parents happy again."
Deirdre and I stood waving as they drove away.
"You're smiling, Mr. Gordon," Deirdre said, looking up at me.
"Am I?"
"Yes, you are. So I was thinking next year I'd do an ear. With a real Botswana diamond as an earring. That will impress those Gaborone judges, don't you think?"
I put my arm around Deirdre. "I think that sounds like a fantastic idea."
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