“300 Strikes and a Great Escape: The Tale of Kathonzweni’s Noise-Making Prodigy”
I said one day I’ll tell a story about this place.
So, back in the day, when I was a grade five pupil at Kathonzweni AIC, there was something about me that set me apart from the rest of the gang — I was a noise-making prodigy! Not the kind of prodigy you’d expect, mind you. My superpower? Unintentional noise creation. You see, noise just had a way of slipping out of me like a sneeze during a quiet exam.
Now, at Kathonzweni, they had this infamous list, the “noise makers” list, and my name? Well, it practically had its own permanent spot on it. The prefects must’ve thought I was secretly training to be a rockstar or something.
But, here’s the kicker — I wasn’t some mischievous troublemaker, far from it. It’s just that noise happened, you know, naturally. It was my involuntary contribution to the school’s daily soundtrack.
So, as the term was winding down, whispers began circulating about the dreaded punishment for noise makers. Word on the street was that for every mark next to your name on that list, you’d get a good ol’ caning. And guess what? My name was etched there around 300 times! That meant over 300 strokes of the cane, and I wasn’t up for that kind of musical experience.
That’s when I decided it was time for the great escape. There was a problem, though — I was flat broke. The school held onto our pocket money, dishing it out only for school-related stuff. No cash yet my home is 50 kilometers away. But I was ready for anything.
Kathonzweni had its security ensemble — two watchmen, a matron, and a sharp-eyed dorm captain. But I had a plan as cunning as a fox in sunglasses. The school had no electricity, so they relied on a generator, and it kicked into gear at exactly 4 a.m. Perfect! I decided that the best time to make my exit would be just moments before the generator’s roaring wake-up call.
Now, from some covert observations, I’d deduced that the watchman on patrol was the guy in charge of waking up the generator. So, on that fateful night, I lay there, pretending to be asleep. When 3:40 a.m. rolled around, I summoned all the acting skills I didn’t know I had and begged the dorm captain for a “bathroom pass.”
Little did he know, I’d stashed a bag with my regular, non-school uniform clothes outside. I mean, showing up on the lam in the school uniform would’ve been like sending a postcard saying, “Hey, parents, I’m coming home early!” So, there I was, tiptoeing towards the gate in the pitch dark.
And, what do you know? Luck was on my side that night. The gate watchman was snoring like a bear with sleep apnea. I opened the gate as quietly as a ninja on tiptoes and vanished into the inky darkness of the football pitch. I was changing quickly, feeling like James Bond in my civilian attire, when suddenly, I had that gut-punch moment — I’d forgotten something important. What it was, I have no clue to this day, but trust me, it was apparently life-or-cane.
So, like any rational escape artist, I decided to dash back and grab it. That’s when it all went south. I got caught by the gate watchman just as I re-entered the gate. He thought I was some midnight intruder, ready to swipe the school’s treasure chest of, well, textbooks, I guess.
I had to spin a tale faster than a DJ at a disco to convince him I was just a student with a sudden bout of nocturnal lunacy. He reluctantly believed me and came along to the football pitch to retrieve my forgotten item.
As luck would have it, as we got back to the gate, there stood the other watchman, the matron, and the dorm captain. It was like a surprise party where I was the guest of honor, though I’d rather have declined this invitation.
This all happened on a Friday, and Fridays meant parades, with yours truly in the spotlight as the opening act. After the parade, I got summoned to the principal’s office, where I had to spill the beans about my escapade. Surprisingly, when the principal heard my story and saw my petite size, he couldn’t help but chuckle.
In a plot twist worthy of a Hollywood movie, he decided that for that term, there would be no punishment for noise makers. And so, my great escape turned into a lesson in second chances. I made up my mind, though — I was never setting foot in Kathonzweni AIC again.
It was a nerve-wracking adventure from noise-making extraordinaire to escape artist, all because I didn’t want to face the music, literally! To date, I still wonder what would have happened if I pulled off this one.
