The Eyes Saw it

Mr Opale walked into the staffroom, heavily loaded with dozens of exercise books. The senior four captain, Alemo, was close at his heel with more. He was just from teaching, or rather revising, the history of the East African Coast with the senior four C stream. His face was radiant. He beamed a smile at the first teacher before his eyes met. It happened to be Mr Eregu, the physics and mathematics teacher.

“It seems you have had a super lesson,” Mr Eregu said.
“Absolutely the best of its kind!” Mr Opale replied.

The two got engrossed in an animated conversation about good lessons and bad ones. They named classes that had the best lessons and sarcastically laughed at the worst classes. The NTV @ One news was going on.

“Mwalimu!” Madam Mariam shouted, tapping Mr Opale on the back.

“It is time for news and for us, we are following. Minimize noise.”

On the screen, a reporter was at the scene of the highly contested and viciously battled Arua Municipality Parliamentary by-elections. A few weeks or months before, some sadists had brutally murdered Arua Municipality's Member of Parliament in a waterfall of bullets. The people of Arua were agitated and angry and wanted to carry out vengeance by voting against the ruling government, for they believed government officials were responsible for the death of their MP.

Politicians of diverse colours and valour graced the West Nile city. Colonel Dr Kizza Besigye and Bobi Wine, famous opposition politicians, swerved in to back up Kasiano Wadri. The ruling party swiftly swung into action. High-profile cadres from their yellow camp in Kyankwanzi counter-stormed the city with embellished fever and pomp. Election Day dawned.

Some of these things have often happened in Uganda to the extent that if behavioural psychology were entirely flawless, they should, by now, be commonplace and usual. However, whenever they occur, the masses—antigovernment masses, welcome them with relish condemnation.

Bobi Wine and Kasiano Wadri brutally arrested and detained under torture.

Images and videos showed the two in the Gulu High Court. They looked like chicks about to succumb to chicken flu.

“This government is bullshit.” Someone swore.

“That is what a coward knows best to do.” The teacher of religion said.

Mr Opale scratched his slowly receding hair and mentally teleported into the lesson: Felicious was sitting with her shimmering thighs glittering for him to see, charming him to bite and chew. His very soul watered on fire.

“Before the Portuguese, the Arabs of the Ottoman Empire were on the East African Coast.” He introduced his lesson. Felicious nodded upon realizing that Mr. Opale's eyes had met hers, smiled gently and winked. Mr. Opale proceeded.

“The Portuguese sent Vasco da Gama and Bartholomew Diaz.” History poured from the middle-aged man like relief rainfall in the equatorial rain forests of the Congo.

"They defeated the Arabs and conquered Pemba, Kilwa, Mombasa, and other port towns. He narrated the entire course of the Portuguese conquest of the East African Coast for about fifteen minutes."

“UNEB usually brings this question.”

He walked towards Felicious and tapped her on the head.

“Keep looking at me like a witch.” The class burst into rapturous laughter. Nobody, including teachers, usually spoke against Felicious. They respected her mainly for her sophistication, gentility, and prestigious family background. Her father was an Arch Bishop of one of the enormous churches. Whether she thought Mr Opale`s remarks were a sign of attention from him, we cannot tell. She just smiled at those seated around her. A few minutes later, Felicious got permission to go out and relieve herself. On returning, she sat at the edge of the bench, her round skirt drawn an arms-length away from her knees.

Mr Opale asked why Portugal conquered the East African Coast.

Felicious put up her hand. Mr Opale picked her out.

“They wanted a sea route to India.”

“Correct.” Mr Opale congratulated her rather shyly.

“Give all the reasons for the Portuguese conquest of the East African Coast.” Mr Opale gave the unplanned assignment and sat down on a bench at the back.

He wondered why a teacher had to face all the beauty, freshness, and ripeness of the students he taught and yet prohibited, even from only touching. Could it be like the fruit in the middle of the Garden of Eden that God forbade Adam and Eve from eating? They ate it despite that and…. He remembered, vaguely, that his Good News Translation says something like Eve saw that the fruit was good for her eyes and looked delicious to eat. She was seduced, and she ate. He did not want to concentrate on what transpired in the aftermath. Eating is what matters.

Many of his colleagues often confided in him about their romantic affairs with students. It was a public secret in the school that the Headteacher and the bursar were having sexual relations with several girls. A few years ago, one girl in her A level fought with a female teacher because of a senior five boy. Mr Opale could not believe it when he first heard of it. Mr Okina, the head teacher talked emphatically about purity and morality in General Assemblies that one would think he was an angel, vehemently cautioning teachers against sexual involvement with students, even threatening to take punitive action against culprits, which he only did in his speeches during meetings.

He served and ate his lunch absent-mindedly.

The NTV @ One news ended. The teachers immersed themselves in a discussion about it. Mr Opale continued in his dream world.

The two O'clock bell for after-lunch lessons rang. He had no lessons this afternoon, so he stayed behind to mark the books.

Where do some students get their English from? Senior four and you write like P.7 pupils in a village school? Some schools, it seems, are outside the national education system.

The Portuguese is come to the east africa cost for wanting to find markets for their good like beans, rice, and sorghum. Peoples in east cost eat those good.

They was come for wanting row materials for industries/factory in the home. Which lack.

Terrible! The teachers of the English language must hang themselves. Here he was, condemned to teaching some children who should just go back home and commit suicide had they known that they were wasting precious time in school. Some girls were even too big to be students. They were fit for wives and their brains were no better. No wonder they served for the satisfaction of the lustful desires of the male teachers. Some boys are men who, instead of concentrating on academics, had to battle to fulfil the ego of libido, and sometimes on female teachers.

The world is mad. We are all mad.

Why was the English language even the National and Official Language of an East African state? Does not Africa have thousands of languages? Cannot one of them be made a National and Official language?

Had it not been for the prostitution of his mind, he would have finished marking the books much earlier. But by the time the end of the lesson bell rang, he was still perusing through the answers.

At six p.m., he finished the last book. He was the only one in the staffroom at the time. Most students were now for games and sports or any other leisure activity. He carried the books and went to the senior three classroom block, near the senior four girls’ dormitory where he left them with Alemo.

“Make sure everyone gets their book.” Was the message he left with her.   

It was 7:30 p.m., and the dining hall haggled and bustled with activity. Commotion steadily rose as students breached the line to get served.

“Man, the match is just thirty minutes away from now.” One boy told his friend as they pressed through the bulging line.

In the Main Hall was already a considerable crowd of sharpshooters who had beaten the offside trap to access food before the line thickened and faithful ones who could not sacrifice the buildup to the game for food and risk missing the whole game.

“This is a do or die.” Someone shouted.

By the time the match began, the hall was full. There was only as much space as that for standing and sitting. One could not even move a foot. As for the hand, one could only take it upwards. Heat doubled up and piled down from the concrete ceiling and the stone walls onto the bombastic crowd. No matter how much sweat oozed out on the revellers, it could not beat the electric excitement and no one bothered about the sweat.

If you want to know that Ugandans adore the English Premier League, let the Manchester United vs. Arsenal fixture come.

“Man U today will know us.”

“Gone are the days when you used to beat us with Wenger.” Arsenal diehards teased their United rivals.

“Arsenal is like a wife to Man U.”

“Whether Man U plays while running backwards, or with hands tied, Arsenal cannot beat them.” The Man United devotees retorted.

Mr Opale sat alone in a corner of the staffroom, facing the curtain-screened windows opposite him. The Arsenal-Man United game was on the screen in front of him. He stared ahead of him as if paying attention to the game, but whenever the crowd in the main hall raised its voice; they startled him out of his filthy reverie.

He heard footsteps at the door. They got louder as they drew nearer the corner he was in and turned into an unsure, hesitant plod. Furniture screeched on the floor. He peeped through the mountain of books he was hiding behind. It was Felicious. Mr Opale stood up to make himself visible. Felicious brightened up with a smile. The latter pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and walked past the welcome intruder with a wink. He got out of the staffroom, walked down the stairs and out of the block through the reception. There were a few bodies littered around. The noise from the Main Hall dictated the state of the atmosphere.

“This is the time.” He muttered to himself as he rushed back through the reception. The image of 'Sadolin colour your world' passed through his mind. He stopped on the first landing of the stairs.

“What if someone saw her coming in and now here I am?” He felt in his pockets. They were empty. He had left his phone behind when he came out.

Felicious kept her eyes riveted on the screen of the Techno Phantom. Perspiration seeped out of her forehead. She rubbed her fingers on her chest. Her breasts stood erect and hard-pointed. Mr Opale's hands were still in his pockets when he approached her.

“Did anyone see you come in here?” Felicious had not noticed his presence. She was startled.

“Sorry, Sir…” she stammered. “No one saw. I am careful.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very. Why are you scared today?”

“I have little time.”

Mr Opale went and locked the door. When he came back, Felicious` shirt was off. Her boiling nipples pointed at his chest like arrows. He held her to himself, kissed her, pushed aside a pile of books, and lifted her onto the table, then drew her skirt up to the waist and pulled off her knickers. This was the fourth time Mr Opale was doing this in the space of two weeks.