The Sunday News
“WHO is the most beautiful girl at our school?” Albert asked us.
In the pitch-dark night of our dormitory, I smiled to myself. Here comes another lively debate to entertain us for the next two or three hours. Last night’s debate on who between Mohammed Ali and Joe Frazier was the better boxer blazed right into the early hours.
“Okay guys,” Tapson had summed up the debate, “I declare that Mohammed Ali is better and whoever disagrees, stand up and we settle this with a fistfight.” Tapson was reputed to have had incisions on his chest and some strength giving muthi called amangoromera rubbed into his blood. He was the fastest sprinter, could throw both the discus and javelin further than anyone. He towered above everyone and was the strongest lad in the school.
“No need for violence,” I said. “We will ask our teachers tomorrow.”
First to be asked was Mr Dube, the history teacher. “Mohammed Ali is intelligent and stands for progress,” Mr Dube replied. “He therefore is the better boxer.”
“Whenever you are to choose between two people,” Mr Moyo the Bible Knowledge teacher later told us, “choose the one you share the same religion with. Frazier is a Christian and Ali is a Moslem. Frazier is therefore better.”
“But Mr Dube said Mohammed Ali was better,” Tapson said.
Mr Moyo took a deep breath and fury distorted his face. “How dare you ask me a question you have already asked another teacher? Do it again and each one of the asked teacher will give everyone of you four strokes each.”
“So much for the importance of education,” Albert chuckled at break time. “Ask 20 teachers a simple question and you will get 20 different answers.”
“Guys, I asked you a question,” Albert reminded us at the dormitory. “Who is . . .?”
“The answer is as clear as the playground under the Magwegwe tower light,” Cornelius said. “Sheila is by far the most beautiful girl.”
“Typical answer from a cultureless, born location ignoramus,” Phineas spat out. “That skeleton is in the bottom 10 on my list.”
“Bottom 10 is too harsh,” Andrew said. “Her skin is smooth and that must count for something. But I agree with Phineas, she is too thin for the top spot.”
“Sheila is not thin but slim,” Cornelius said. I could tell from his clear and loud voice that he was now sitting on his bed. “She is blessed with an English figure.”
The 12-sleeper dormitory erupted into laughter. “English figure!” several boys exclaimed. “What is that?”
Phineas jumped up and danced on his bed. “See what I mean when I say these city boys are cultureless! What African man would want to burden himself with an English figure, whatever that is?”
Cornelius sighed in a manner that suggested: “Forgive him Lord; he knows not what he is talking about.” In a measured voice akin to that of a reverend baptising a convert, he said, “My dear jungle man, nowadays, a beautiful girl is someone who is slim, tall, elegant, with high cheek bones, straight nose and thin lips. In short, someone like Sheila.”
Phineas laughed and slapped his thigh. “When I marry, it will be someone my family will be proud of. Someone who, when I introduce to my mother at our rural home in Gutu, the old lady will pinch herself wondering if the lady before her will indeed be her daughter-in-law.”
“You don’t marry for your mother,” someone shouted.
“I agree,” Phineas conceded, sitting down on his bed. “But the ultimate test of a beautiful girl is what she can do in the fields. Take that girl Nokuthula, for me she is the main contender for the position of most beautiful girl in the school.”
“She is too big and too fat,” Cornelius shouted. “In this modern world, beauty queen contestants have to do catwalks on wooden stages. Your Nokuthula is just too heavy. She will break the planks and fall through.”
“What modern world?” Phineas sneered. “Nokuthula is a real beauty. She can strap a baby on the back, fill her mouth with seeds, with those two powerful arms, firmly hold the handles of an ox plough and then proceed to plough and plant a field on her own. That’s my proud African beauty. Not some mosquito that will be blown away by the first July wind. Neither is she a half-naked exhibitionist that struts on stage and allows all and sundry to feast their eyes.”
“Okay guys,” Tapson who up to then had not uttered a word weighed in with authority. “Our sisters have borne enough insults from all of you.” He mimicked his dormitory mates with an Oscar winning performance: “so and so is too thin, so and so is too fat, as for so and so, her lips are too thick,” he paused. For some seconds, silence reigned. An owl hooted in the distance.
“Idiots all of you,” Tapson shouted, “these girls are not cattle at some auction. They are our sisters. Respect them.”
“Come on Tapson,” Albert said, “we are just joking.” We mumbled our agreements.
Tapson stood up and switched on the lights. “I will count to 10. Whoever wants to continue the joke at our sisters’ expense, stand up, follow me out and we settle this like men. If more than one of you is willing to fight me, that’s okay. You can join forces. Here I go, one . . . two . . .”
We all pulled our blankets over our heads and suddenly were as dead as a door nail.
