Recently, on the Cape Flats, a Grade 3 learner wrote the following: “One day I am going to be a gangster and hold a gun in my hand. I am going to be a gangster and smuggle guns in my house.” Upon reading about this Grade 3 learner, I reflected on my stint as a substitute English teacher at a high school five years ago and penned this article about my interactions with learners. I have changed the learners’ names and the school’s name.

On my first day at Cape Flats High School, I introduced the novel idea of teaching learners the Namaste greeting: folding hands in prayer and bowing to each other whilst saying Namaste. I explained that Namaste means, “I bow to the greatness in you,” and that all of us as human beings had the potential for greatness. And so it was that I became known as ‘the Namaste teacher.’

From the very beginning there were a handful of learners who offered their assistance; they were kind and sweet. Siyanda was the class monitor and assisted me with the class register and often offered unsolicited advice in the days to come. Faith was a pretty girl with huge eyes. She was from the Democratic Republic of the Congo and did not fit in with the rowdiness around her. Faith was demure. She would voluntarily wipe off my table with a damp cloth. Eleanor was a petite girl who lived with her foster mother. She was quiet, almost invisible, but always ready with a smile should you look in her direction. Eleanor would help me carry books and files to my car.

The constant difficulty was getting learners to settle down to work. There was a restlessness in every single class. A fellow teacher, Mr Soudien, explained the learners’ restlessness as follows, “our children live with so much violence and trauma on the Cape Flats that they cannot concentrate in class.”

I did a roll call at the beginning of each class so that I could put a face to the name of each learner. During my first interaction with a Grade 10 class I called out the name Marchedez, and pronounced the name, “Mar-che-dez”. My pronunciation received howls of laughter from two boys at the back of the classroom. Baffled, I repeated the name, “Mar-che-dez”.

The laughter continued. “Miss, don’t you know how to pronounce her name?” one incredulous boy piped up. Confused, I answered, “Is that not how her name is pronounced?” The young lady in question just smirked. Her male friend answered with even more scorn, “Miss, have you never heard of Mercedes Benz? Her name is Mercedes!” I walked to the blackboard and wrote down “Mercedes Benz” in huge letters. Astounded the boy replied: “Is that how you spell Mercedes?” I nodded at him.

Next, I called out the name Nazeema and looked around the classroom. A tall girl with headphones on eventually put up her hand. But only after the learner behind her had nudged her. I asked Nazeema to remove her headphones. Nazeema was always well-dressed and neat; she appeared to come from a stable home. Throughout lessons Nazeema made it noticeably clear that she was not interested in schoolwork, yet when she spoke, she did so very passionately, and usually to defend a fellow learner’s rights.

One day I requested Nazeema to step out into the corridor with me for a chat. I hoped to find out why she had such a lackadaisical attitude towards her schoolwork. I said, “Nazeema, why do you not want to work in my class? You are a very clever girl. You could be a lawyer.” Nazeema replied with a mortified look on her face, “My mother doesn’t love me!” I hid my astonishment at this unexpected response and quickly mustered a positive demeanour. “Of course, your mother loves you, Nazeema! She may not say it, but she does. She only wants the absolute best for you. Please go back into the classroom and try to buckle down with your books.” The talk had not helped one iota. Nazeema never did any work in class; she was as defiant in her attitude as before.

The smoking of dagga (marijuana) during intervals became a major problem at the school. At the morning staff meeting the principal requested all educators to advise learners that if any learner smoked dagga on the school premises s/he would face suspension.

After doing roll call, I explained to the Grade 10s that any learner smoking dagga on school premises would face suspension. Loud disapproving grunts and laughter followed. David was most incensed at this news and piped up loudly, “But, Miss, you also tog smoke dagga!” “No, I don’t smoke dagga,” I responded. There were howls of laughter and then a momentary silence. Learners looked at me with incredulity. “I have never smoked dagga in my life, not once!” I reiterated. My news animated David even more. He jumped up from his desk and walked to my table. He placed his index fingers on either side of his temples, saying emphatically, “Your mind has been imprisoned Miss! You live in a prison! Your whole life you have lived in a prison!” To which there were more peals of laughter.

A knock at the door interrupted any further discussion on the dagga issue. Mandla, a gentle young man entered the room and quietly walked to my table. “Miss, I have a medical certificate because I was sick and did not write the Life Orientation examination yesterday.” I said: “Please take your certificate to the deputy principal and we will schedule a special examination sitting for you Mandla.”

“Miss, my brother was shot in the head and killed two days ago, that is why I could not write my examination yesterday.” I could only muster a generic but heartfelt response, “Oh no! I am deeply sorry to hear this. My sincere condolences to you and your family, Mandla. We can schedule the examination for after the funeral. How old was your brother?” I queried. “He was 27, Miss, but he was involved with the wrong crowd.”

One afternoon, after the school bell rang, Myroenisa, a Grade 9 learner approached my table saying: “Miss, can you please take me to the day hospital, as I don’t feel well.” Myroenisa and I walked to the deputy principal’s office, and I addressed him. “Myroenisa, is not feeling well, and she has asked me to take her to the day hospital.” The deputy principal answered abruptly, “The court has made her a ward of her aunty. You need to call her aunty and ask her permission before you can take Myroenisa to the day hospital.”

I called the aunty and promised to drop Myroenisa at home in Belgravia Estate after the medical check-up. Whilst driving to the Dr Abdurahman Day Hospital Myroenisa turned to me and said, “My father sexually abused me that is why I got sick at school today. I was having a panic attack.” I tried to hide my sadness, “I am so sorry that this has happened to you.”

“It happened from the time I was three years old until last year when I was fourteen. My aunty noticed that something was wrong, and she spoke to me. I eventually told her everything. My aunty took me to the police station and my dad has appeared in court. The trial is ongoing.” An hour later, after seeing the doctor, I dropped Myroenisa at home, but not before encouraging her to study diligently and become a medical doctor. That is what she aspired to.

Thabang could not sit still in class. He was far too restless. He walked from one corner of the classroom to the other. I called out to him, “Thabang do you need a pen?” “Yes, Miss,” he answered. I stretched out my hand and passed a new Bic pen to him. Not even five minutes later, Thabang was once again out of his seat and talking to another learner at the back of the classroom. “Thabang, please join me in the corridor,” I requested. Thabang let out an exaggerated sigh and followed me. We stood outside of the classroom door. “Thabang who do you live with?” I asked.

“With my grandfather.”

“Where is your mother?”

“My mother is in jail Miss.”

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” I responded. “And your dad?” Thabang just shrugged his shoulders.

That afternoon, I located Thabang’s file in the secretary’s office and called his grandfather. “I am concerned about your grandson, Sir, as he is not doing any work in my class.” A booming voice responded, “Teacher, I have tried to talk to him, but he will not listen. He has gotten in with the wrong crowd and I have no control over him.”

I tried to pacify the stressed grandfather saying I would try my best to get Thabang to focus on his schoolwork. I never succeeded. Things only got worse. Thabang was often absent from class for days at a time. When he did appear, he fidgeted whilst I tried to get through the lesson. “Thabang, you need to sit down and write down what is on the board!” I said raising my voice.

Thabang continued to stand with his back towards me. Thoroughly annoyed, I piped up, “Do I have to call your grandfather again? Please take a seat and start writing.” Thabang turned around and stared with horror at me. “No Miss, no! You have no right to call my grandfather and complain about me. This is not fair!” Thabang had failed his June examination, and I reminded him of his dismal performance. As a final show of protest, Thabang stormed out of the classroom, and I continued with the lesson. My ploy to embarrass Thabang into doing schoolwork had clearly misfired. But there would be more to come after the weekend.

On Monday, just before interval, Mrs Davids sent a note to me. It read: “Would you please call a social worker named Miss Michelle Eksteen?” When the bell rang for interval, I proceeded to the office to call Miss Eksteen who promptly responded, “I am calling on behalf of Thabang’s mother. Thabang visited his mother on Saturday at the prison in Worcester. He told her that he “was deeply wounded” by what his English teacher had done to him. His mother is concerned and asked me to call you to find out what happened.”

I explained that Thabang was bunking classes and when he was at school he refused to take notes or participate in lessons. I continued, “Miss Eksteen, would you please ask Thabang’s mother to ask Thabang to bring his English writing book to the prison? Then his mum can see that he has not done a stitch of work in my class.” When I mentioned the phone call with Miss Eksteen in the staff room Mrs Myburgh responded, “Thabang is also on trial for something or other. He brought a letter from the court on the day he had to write an examination. The court letter confirmed that he was at court that day.”

Thabang’s behaviour did not improve. I went to speak to the school psychologist, who visited the school once a week; he told me his schedule was full and he did not know when he would get around to seeing Thabang. I never heard from Miss Eksteen again.

Ayanda was a shy young lady in my Grade 11 class. I had heard from other learners that she had an 18-month-old baby and that was the reason for her bouts of absence from school. However, when she was there Ayanda focused on her work. I praised her efforts and spoke to her one-on-one. “You have the potential to go to university, Ayanda.” The young learner did not respond, she just stared at me.

It was after lunch on a Wednesday that Ayanda came to the front of the class to do her oral examination. The usually quiet girl was boisterous and full of energy. “Keep quiet, I am going to do my oral now,” she instructed the class.

I was amazed, as I saw a different side to Ayanda. Her delivery of her oral was full of confidence, and she scored 8 out of 10.

The next morning, Mrs Myburgh called me out of the classroom. In the corridor Mrs Myburgh said, “I am sorry that I have sad news for you. I thought it best to tell you before you heard it from anyone else. Do you know Ayanda in your homeroom class?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“I am sorry to tell you that Ayanda was shot and killed by her ex-boyfriend in front of her family’s home last night in Khayelitsha, at about 21.30.”

My knees buckled under me. I had to sit down. In a daze I went back into the classroom and sat at my table. Tears started to roll out of my eyes. I tried turning my head to the blackboard so that learners would not see my anguish.

I knew the statistics around intimate femicide. I had written a PhD proposal on the subject. South Africa had one of the highest, if not the highest, rate of intimate femicide in the world. My mind kept recalling information from my PhD proposal: Between 6 and 7 women are murdered on average, per day, in South Africa and more than 50% of those women are murdered by an intimate partner; and that Cape Town may be the South African city with one of the highest, if not the highest, rate of intimate femicide. But Ayanda was not a statistic, I knew her! She was so young with so much potential. What about Ayanda’s baby? Life without a mother! In the coming few days, I assisted in collecting money from staff and students as a contribution towards Ayanda’s funeral. Ayanda’s extended family attended a memorial service arranged in the school hall.

Angelo was a quiet learner who sat at the back of the classroom. During the oral examination there was a big commotion with Angelo flailing his arms in all directions.

A classmate, Craig, had played a prank on Angelo which had caused the latter immense distress. Craig had stolen Faith’s oral examination script off her desk and hidden it in Angelo’s haversack. Craig then quietly told an agitated Faith that her much-needed script was in Angelo’s haversack.

Furious at this deceit Angelo exited the classroom in a huff. I thought Angelo needed time-out. Ten minutes later, the classroom door opened, and Angelo stood in the door frame with a huge stone in either hand. The girls started screaming as Angelo advanced into the classroom getting ready to aim the stones at Craig, who sat at the back of the classroom.

Everyone scattered as Angelo threw the stones and by a miracle, the stones hit no one. One of the female learners had in the meantime had the good sense to run and fetch the deputy principal who escorted Angelo out of the classroom. Angelo returned to the classroom the next day and astounded everyone with his delivery of a fantastic oral speech. I awarded him 9 out of 10. But the peace did not last long.

Soon it was time for the September examination. On one day, most learners quietly exited the exam classroom, whilst I allowed an extra 10 minutes to the remaining learners as they had begun the examination later. It was now first interval and there were boisterous noises in the corridor. The classroom door unexpectedly flung open, and a learner not known to me stormed through the door and headed straight to Angelo. He started shouting, “Give me back my phone that you stole!” The aggrieved learner hit Angelo in the face and the next second Angelo reached into his pants and drew out a long, thin knife.

The aggrieved learner fled out of the classroom with Angelo in hot pursuit and me in pursuit of Angelo. Luckily, I reached Angelo just before he could exit the classroom into the busy corridor, with a knife in his hand. I put a bit of space between myself and Angelo, simultaneously placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. In a pleading voice I said, “Angelo please do not go out of the classroom with the knife! Please! Just sit down! We can talk about this. Remember how well you did in your oral examination? I awarded you 9 out of 10. Please, please, just listen to me.”

Angelo turned and looked at my pleading face. He walked back to his desk, and I quietly asked Natalie, sitting close to me, to fetch the principal and the security guard. The principal and the security guard soon appeared and spoke to Angelo who denied that he had a knife in his possession. The security guard checked through the haversack – no knife. I insisted, “There is a knife, School Principal. Where did you put the knife, Angelo?” This time the security guard inspected the haversack more thoroughly. The knife was located between papers in a file. The principal asked Angelo, “Why are you carrying a knife?” to which he responded, “Everyone carries a knife for protection.”

At this point, the aggrieved learner had been located and brought to my classroom. He explained that before school that day, he had seen Angelo enter and leave his outside room in Khayelitsha. He knew that Angelo was the only person who could have stolen his phone. The security guard escorted Angelo to the principal’s office, the latter summoned Angelo’s parents.

Soon, all the learners had left for the September holiday, and I was busy marking the Grade 10’s English examination papers. I had set an essay question with zombies at the school gate and learners had to write what happened next.

Michael, a quiet learner, authored an essay about zombies attacking the school and lo and behold the first person the zombies bit was me, the English teacher! The zombies had smelt my French perfume Michael wrote and quickly located my whereabouts. I smiled to myself. Michael had authored an enjoyable essay. His imagination was on fire.

As time has passed, I think less about the three months I spent at Cape Flats High School. I do hope though, that I made a small difference in the learners’ lives. Do they ever remember ‘the Namaste teacher’ who tried to point out their human potential and greatness, despite their trying circumstances?