cotton strikes again

The village was inhabited by many night runners. They were thought to be harmless; they did not charm anyone or cast curses on any family. All they did was run around naked at night, trying out different scare tactics on those they found along the way. Though they were known to everyone, they were mentioned in hushed tones. It’s no wonder that when the new headmaster moved in to the school compound with his young wife Jeanne, he remained unaware of the menace that roamed the narrow village roads at night.

Mr. Smith was a happy fellow. As pink as only one who had spent his entire life in cold, wet England weather could be, yet he had a warm and ebullient African heart in him. Turns out he had lived in Zimbabwe for five years, teaching at a private school there.

“I went back, but my heart never left,” he explained to the teachers in the staffroom on his first day.

“I missed the sun, I missed the people. I wanted to make a difference. So when the Teachers for Africa offered me the opportunity to come here, I was delighted.”

Teachers for Africa, or TEA as it was often referred to, was a small charity that had been established by some Africans in the Diaspora. They provided volunteers to support schools in poor neighborhoods – schools that were keen to improve their administration and performance. Kimwa Secondary School was among the first beneficiaries of this project.

“You’re welcome Sir.” The Deputy Headmaster said. “We have been waiting for someone like you to take us to the top.”

“Well, thank you. I look forward to working closely with you all.”

By the end of his first month at the school, it was obvious that extraordinary changes were going to take place. For the first time ever, all the parents attended a parents meeting (many of them were there to see the white man). Nevertheless, at least they would hear what was to be discussed. The finance clerk had miraculously put together enough cash for the classrooms to get their first coat of paint in a decade and the grass was neatly trimmed. The number of students attending class was already up.

Jeanne, never one to take a backseat, decided that she would not be a housewife without portfolio. Every Wednesday afternoon, women, both old and young, could be seen trooping to the Headmaster’s home for their weekly meetings. They discussed health and nutrition matters and brainstormed on how they could increase their income.

It was at this very crucial transition time, when the villagers were slowly beginning to pin all their hopes on the Smiths that Cotton decided to strike.

Cotton got his name from the white gumboots he always had on. They seemed to be stuck to his legs like glue. Come rain or shine, Cotton would be seen crossing through Kimwa market, the echo of his gumboots as they went ‘plonk plonk plonk’ following him like the bad smell that they emitted. The crowds at the market watched him from a distance, a mixture of revulsion and fear on their faces. He didn’t mind. He knew that at night, even those who pretended he didn’t exist would wake up and acknowledge him.

It was on such a day that Cotton ran into the Headmaster’s wife. He stared and stared and stared.

“Hello, how are you this morning?” Jeanne asked with a smile as she drew close to him.

He stopped and stared some more.

Jeanne smiled at him, waved and walked on. She thought nothing of Cotton’s silence. Most of the villagers didn’t understand her anyway.

Cotton stared at her retreating back. Then he smiled.

It was pitch black when Jeanne started back home. The road from the market branched off into a narrow pathway, which had to be navigated with care. The overgrown bushes reached out to grab passers-by, sometimes causing a few scratches. Jeanne was a few meters down the path. She dangled her basket on one arm and reached out to push a small bush out of the way with the other. “Where did this come from?” she wondered. To her utmost shock, the bush moved a few steps ahead of her. She stopped in her tracks. Then she heard another sound behind her. She turned to look and lo and behold, an identical bush was coming right at her.

“Stop it whoever you are! This is not funny!” She shouted, a little breathlessly. She was greeted by utter silence.

She started walking again, regretting that she hadn’t thought to carry a flashlight. This time, the bush in front of her stayed put. When she reached it, she tried to push it to the side, but it wouldn’t budge.

Suddenly, she felt something take her arm in a vice-like grip. It was cold and grimy, definitely a human hand. Jeanne felt her heart race. She dropped her basket. She let out a single, helpless yelp, and then she was yanked into the surrounding bush.