Everything, But a Kind Heart

My neck hairs were up as we made our way past Mama Bola’s old derelict house. I could hear Sonia Madumelu talking and laughing in front of the straight double line as the student made their way back to school from the outdoor environmental sanitation organized by the school every Thursday, as a way of giving back to the community (our own Corporate Service Responsibility – CSR) and whimsically instilling societal values into pre-teenage kids.

“That old witch comes to the grinding mill near my mum’s supermarket,” Sonia was saying, “to collect maize chaffs. She can’t even feed corn to her chickens.”

I shouted an order that the pace be quickened, but she was so busy being the centre of attraction that she didn’t even hear me.

“I bet she has all sort of charms in that filthy house…..”

Emmanuella Ayodele nudged her from behind, alerting her on my approach and she turned to see my eyes brimming with anger. She quickly put a hand over her mouth and laughed mirthlessly, not a bit remorseful. Sonia was not and had never being my ideal kind of student.

Thick black hair, fair and beautiful, tall and athletic….and privileged. She had everything going for her, except a kind heart. She belonged to that crowd where anything that’s not within her ‘class’ is beneath her……and didn’t hesitate to show the arrogance of her parents wealth. With such attitude I found it surprising that she had a tidy sum of friends….or teens who really worshipped her, or seek her approval and acceptance.

Mrs Madumelu supermarket was the largest in town and Sonia’s dad owned a very lucrative trucking business made up of several large haulage trucks. At sixteen she wore very expensive clothes, knew how to drive and anyone who wasn’t up to her ‘standard’ she looked down upon. It beats every reasoning nerve in me why many girls fawned over her, as I found it very difficult to acknowledge her good mornings.

However, her derision that late morning gave me a brilliant idea. So when we got settled in class I picked up a chalk and walked to the community service column on the far right side of the blackboard and wrote down next week venue of the class CSR as was the norm.

The next morning the kids were still talking about it. Not really talking….complaining is an apt word to describe their discussion. “Can’t believe our form master would make us do such degrading job, and at Mama Bola’s house of all places,” one the girls grouched. Many other girls were moaning and whining, while the boys were in their prank-activated-mode usual self as I walked into the class to perform the roll call.

I could sense the fury in Sonia’s voice as her knotted tongue spluttered out “Present” when her name was called. Another day I would have repeated her name to make her answer more aptly, but on this day I displayed a smirk from a well of happiness in my stomach.

In no time the summer days sailed past, as another Thursday was ushered in. It was supposed to be a day of outdoor cleaning, and I watched as kids set about picking up trash and debris in the compound. Sonia stood with arms folded across her chest as some sort of prison warder supervising her contingent of convicts. I was having none of that, and with growing frustration I went over to her and addressed her formally with every nerve stressed to control an outburst.

“Madumelu, what seems to be the problem?,” I mustered. “Why aren’t you helping your friends out?”

Her face reddened. “I can’t do that kind of things,” she said gesticulating to the other students. “I don’t have my work gloves and these dirty pools of water will ruin my socks and scandals.”

Although, the look in my eyes would have strangled her I managed to force a smile. “Well, I have an idea.” I muttered. “Go inside the house and see what simple tasks Mama Bola needs done, while the rest of us slug it out here.”

Sonia hesitated, but I had trapped her with the word “simple.” I could see the maths in her eyes, as she evaluated and deduced her options. As I hoped for, she swaggered around and kicked the sturdy dirt as she trudged into the house. I see Mama Bola’s face lit up with a smile, her wrinkled face forming ridges of flesh. She diffidently opened the rusting screen door and stared joyfully as the tall girl walked past.

Happily I rubbed my forehead in triumph of getting rid of a throbbing headache diplomatically without a whiff of Panadol. “Teenagers,” I thought.

We spent the morning picking up clutter, and after just about noon the whole compound was looking more humane and decent.

“Good job!” I told the kids, who were now forming parallel lines, as we prepare to march back to school. “Next Thursday,” I continued, “we would get tools to weed this path way.” As usual there were whimpers and groans, but many were good natured. A handful of them were glad to be outside inside of being hutched up all day in a classroom.

I looked around all the kids faces and in my eyes they were all friendly, appeasing happy faces, but something still remained amiss. “Where’s that annoying, appalling face?” I asked myself. “Where’s Madumelu?” I finally shouted out.

A slamming screen door answered, as Sonia ran across the compound, her face pale and placid, and without a word she joined the line.

Against her usual self she remained quiet all through the marched back school. One of the girls tried chatting her up when we got into the classroom, but all she received was a faint faked smile. It was a very strange look and against my better judgement, I walked over to her desk and asked, “Well, how did it go?”

She stared blankly at me for a moment, and couldn’t believe what I saw. Tears were springing up Sonia’s eyes. Then in a soft voice which fitted her appearance that which I have never heard before, Sonia whispered, “She eats maize chaffs.”

The class became very silent. “What?!” I reflexively spluttered out.

“The maize chaffs she collects at the grinding mill, isn’t for her chickens, she re-sieves it and cooks that. That’s what she eats.” She took a deep breath and looked up, no impudence in her face now, “I will ask my mummy to give some provisions. Can we take it to her tomorrow?” she said with begging eyes.

I was stunned. “Yes, of course. We can, it will be wonderful,” I replied more kindly.

As I reached the front of the class to perform a second roll call, I glance and marvelled as the expression on Sonia’s face. Confusion, wonder, hurt……..I prayed she’d someday get it all sorted in her heart. I thought there’s yet a hope for her, and for everyone else. 

In His likeness He created us, sent His beloved son to die on the cross for all, thus no matter how we feign meanness we have a piece of His heart impressed on ours, which reveals at the appointed degree.