Corn Flakes
January at Gweru Teacher's College is exciting for the kitchen staff, the sekurus. As the students line up for their breakfast, they plant themselves where they can watch the students occupy the long dining tables. New students are easy to pick, especially those who have just come from Zaka, Gwanda, Gutu, Dande and Kezi , homes of students with the strongest rural backgrounds (SRBs). It’s the SRBs who give the sekurus a good laugh for the first two weeks of the school year.
As the students sit to eat, the sekurus walk closer to the tables, pretending to be doing their work. They can tell precisely who the most rural of these SRBs is by how they handle their trays. Once they put the trays on the table, locate the cutlery, it is always time to watch a script unfolding….
A sekuru shuffles to a table in the back corner, pretending not to be looking, but his left hand beginning to signal the others to get ready to advance. He watches an SRB who is about to start eating. Doing fine so far, the sekuru thinks, but what about the tray? That food does not remove itself from there, and the tray rack will not wave at you and say, "Hey, I'm here."
The SRB fumbles with the forks and knives, spoons. He does not know what to use first. He looks at the food, a wide selection. He is confused: How can all these foods be just for breakfast? Is this lunch too? Now he notices the cereal bowl; it's full with things that look like little scraps of something, too thin to be handled with fingers the way you would eat boiled corn grains or mangai.
Two sekurus are advancing toward this table, where the first one stands watching the SRB gentleman who now stares at the bowl like it bites. Doesn’t he see that the juice is waiting? The eggs, the bacon, the one slice of French toast, these too might be wondering why the man is still staring at the cereal.
The three sekurus have edged closer. It's a miracle that the rest of the eaters at the table have not noticed the sekurus or the sweating and fumbling fellow student, this man from Mazvihwa who’s just beginning his town life. A future teacher, who will go back to Mazvihwa after four years to become the headmaster of his high school. A head master educated here, where even breakfast items fill up your tray like they include lunch.
The SRB’s stomach growls, a sign that he must eat something right away before anyone at this table, all these town-raised people he joined, hears his stomach. He grips a spoon, examines it like he thinks it is not a spoon, and then he takes a scoop of the dry thin things. He shovels them into his mouth and begins to crunch. They crunch well, but they are tasteless. He will sweeten things up with tea later. He takes another scoop, shovels it in with more confidence. That's when thunderous laughter catches him by surprise.
He is startled, inadvertently hitting the tray with his elbow and spilling milk from a glass that has sat patiently. The sekurus are collapsing with laughter, their bodies doubled over. One of them makes a rapid dance, points at the SRB with a shaking-with-laughter finger, and shouts, “Come and see this one, the worst of them all! Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha!"
One more sekuru arrives on the scene and now the other students have realized what's going on. One of them, a man from Harare, glances around with concern, then leans forward to the SRB and says, "Oh, feel free to use the milk for your cereal. Pour." Then he raises his head and faces the guffawing sekurus and, shaking his head with disapproval says, "Guys! Guys! I’m sure you report to someone here.”
The sekuru’s laughter ceases. The whole table looks first at the sekurus, then at the target of the mirth, and there is a general shuffle of discomfort. The SRB has now finished chewing the second scoop, swallows and nods satisfactorily. He looks around like he is about to say something.
They all wait, the student and the sekurus.
The SRB winks at his fellow students, then turns around to face the sekurus. His eyes rest on one in particular, a really fat one with a sagging stomach.
He coughs out what might be counted as a brief laugh, and introduction to a long laughter that might launch at any time. They look and wait. The SRB points at the sekuru’s stomach, then before they know what's about to happen, he springs up to his feet, pushes his chair back. They all hold their breaths. The sekuru moves backwards a little.
Suddenly, the SRB laughs so hard that his own laughter makes his body bend sideways, cramps his stomach, but he doesn't stop. His face is deformed by the laughter, which now comes in booms, one boom laughing at the one before it.
The whole table joins in the laughter, a few of the eaters standing up and pointing at the sekuru's stomach. Even the other sekurus are laughing at him now, shaking their heads and pointing with quivering fingers.
Then the sekuru points at his stomach, and then makes a sign as if to say, "If you think you have seen anything, wait till you see this!" He lifts his apron and shirt, and the folds of a massive belly spill onto the table, causing a few eaters to jump and raising the students’ laughter to a deafening din.
The sekuru curses, covers his stomach, and dashes away from the table.
The SRB reclaims his seat, pours milk into the cereal and smiles.
The laughter at the table burns itself out, dies down.
Eating resumes.
And the sekurus rush to get to another table before breakfast is over.
As the students sit to eat, the sekurus walk closer to the tables, pretending to be doing their work. They can tell precisely who the most rural of these SRBs is by how they handle their trays. Once they put the trays on the table, locate the cutlery, it is always time to watch a script unfolding….
A sekuru shuffles to a table in the back corner, pretending not to be looking, but his left hand beginning to signal the others to get ready to advance. He watches an SRB who is about to start eating. Doing fine so far, the sekuru thinks, but what about the tray? That food does not remove itself from there, and the tray rack will not wave at you and say, "Hey, I'm here."
The SRB fumbles with the forks and knives, spoons. He does not know what to use first. He looks at the food, a wide selection. He is confused: How can all these foods be just for breakfast? Is this lunch too? Now he notices the cereal bowl; it's full with things that look like little scraps of something, too thin to be handled with fingers the way you would eat boiled corn grains or mangai.
Two sekurus are advancing toward this table, where the first one stands watching the SRB gentleman who now stares at the bowl like it bites. Doesn’t he see that the juice is waiting? The eggs, the bacon, the one slice of French toast, these too might be wondering why the man is still staring at the cereal.
The three sekurus have edged closer. It's a miracle that the rest of the eaters at the table have not noticed the sekurus or the sweating and fumbling fellow student, this man from Mazvihwa who’s just beginning his town life. A future teacher, who will go back to Mazvihwa after four years to become the headmaster of his high school. A head master educated here, where even breakfast items fill up your tray like they include lunch.
The SRB’s stomach growls, a sign that he must eat something right away before anyone at this table, all these town-raised people he joined, hears his stomach. He grips a spoon, examines it like he thinks it is not a spoon, and then he takes a scoop of the dry thin things. He shovels them into his mouth and begins to crunch. They crunch well, but they are tasteless. He will sweeten things up with tea later. He takes another scoop, shovels it in with more confidence. That's when thunderous laughter catches him by surprise.
He is startled, inadvertently hitting the tray with his elbow and spilling milk from a glass that has sat patiently. The sekurus are collapsing with laughter, their bodies doubled over. One of them makes a rapid dance, points at the SRB with a shaking-with-laughter finger, and shouts, “Come and see this one, the worst of them all! Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha!"
One more sekuru arrives on the scene and now the other students have realized what's going on. One of them, a man from Harare, glances around with concern, then leans forward to the SRB and says, "Oh, feel free to use the milk for your cereal. Pour." Then he raises his head and faces the guffawing sekurus and, shaking his head with disapproval says, "Guys! Guys! I’m sure you report to someone here.”
The sekuru’s laughter ceases. The whole table looks first at the sekurus, then at the target of the mirth, and there is a general shuffle of discomfort. The SRB has now finished chewing the second scoop, swallows and nods satisfactorily. He looks around like he is about to say something.
They all wait, the student and the sekurus.
The SRB winks at his fellow students, then turns around to face the sekurus. His eyes rest on one in particular, a really fat one with a sagging stomach.
He coughs out what might be counted as a brief laugh, and introduction to a long laughter that might launch at any time. They look and wait. The SRB points at the sekuru’s stomach, then before they know what's about to happen, he springs up to his feet, pushes his chair back. They all hold their breaths. The sekuru moves backwards a little.
Suddenly, the SRB laughs so hard that his own laughter makes his body bend sideways, cramps his stomach, but he doesn't stop. His face is deformed by the laughter, which now comes in booms, one boom laughing at the one before it.
The whole table joins in the laughter, a few of the eaters standing up and pointing at the sekuru's stomach. Even the other sekurus are laughing at him now, shaking their heads and pointing with quivering fingers.
Then the sekuru points at his stomach, and then makes a sign as if to say, "If you think you have seen anything, wait till you see this!" He lifts his apron and shirt, and the folds of a massive belly spill onto the table, causing a few eaters to jump and raising the students’ laughter to a deafening din.
The sekuru curses, covers his stomach, and dashes away from the table.
The SRB reclaims his seat, pours milk into the cereal and smiles.
The laughter at the table burns itself out, dies down.
Eating resumes.
And the sekurus rush to get to another table before breakfast is over.
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