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Nervous Conditions
Tsitsi Dangarembga
(First published 1988)
What actually happened on Sunday was that at a quarter to nine Nyasha and I set off, wearing our blue gym-slips, to our Bible lessons. Sunday School for me was conducted in the classroom in the Central Primary School, each grade of the central school being taught by a prefect from the secondary school. These prefects wore black skirts and white blouses on Sundays if they were female, long black trousers with white shirts if they were not. They were very smart and beautiful people; we dreamt of becoming one of them. When a male prefect was dashing enough to wear a tie, our blood pressures soared although we were healthy little adolescent girls, and I suppose the female prefects who dared to wear stockings instead of socks, perhaps even seamed ones, had the same effect on the boys in our class.
In sunday School we learnt about Charity and Love and Sin, which the prefects said were all different things, but then, if they were different, I wondered, how did you explain the Prodigal Son, or Mary Magdalene? The hymns were less confusing. They were about respecting our parents to increase our days and rolling our burdens away. That pragmatic and uninspired approach to life was something I understood well. Then, at a quarter to ten, the siren sounded from the secondary school, signifying the end of our Bible period. We lined up in front of our classrooms in two lines, a khaki line of boys against the wall, the girls' blue beside them. We filed quickly but quietly across the green through corridors of stern prefects who kept order and took their duties seriously. The senior classes followed on behind the junior classes so that by ten o'clock the whole school was assembled outside the church. Sometimes we were inspected as we stood outside the church for missing buttons, dirty collars and socks, indecently long and coloured fingernails or lipstick, and sometimes we were not; but we always began to file into church at a quarter past. The service began at half past. From the minute the siren sounded at a quarter to ten until the service ended between half past twelve and one o'clock we kept silence. After the service we filed out again and the boarding pupils hurried to their boarding houses to be in time for lunch.
When the boarders had gone I would meet up with Nyasha. We would stand outside the church greetings friends, exchanging gossip and, if it was during the school holidays so we did not have to wear school uniform, eyeing and coveting each other's dresses.
Nyasha liked to avoid her parents and their friends at these times because they were bound to say something offensive, like complaining that her gym-slip was too short or grumbling that in three years she had still not learnt the correct way of greeting her elders. Their comments made her self conscious, quite in contrast to the desired improving effect. So Nyasha avoided them, or when this was impossible, grunted a greeting with a sad lack of technique and escaped as quickly as possible. Her behaviour embarrassed Babamukuru, so he too preferred that she should keep her distance.
I, on the other hand, wanted to stand outside the church with my aunt and uncle. I wanted to be known to be of their kind because I thought the atmosphere of the homestead clung to me and made me look different. But after a few weeks of waiting with them while they discussed with the pastor the state of subscriptions and the decline in collection takings, I grew bored and preferred to be with Nyasha and my friends. The test came on the days when Babamukuru, feeling particularly benevolent, drove Maiguru to church in the old Rover, and, if we presented ourselves at the right time, drove us all home again afterwards. Nyasha thought we should be consistent and avoid them even when they were driving. But I still loved my car-rides and argued pragmatically that we avoided them when it suited us but, since a car-ride suited us, we should not avoid them on such occasions. Nyasha conceded the logic but not the premise of this argument, pointing out that she for one preferred to walk, but she indulged me all the same and we had our car-rides.
On one such occasion Nyasha and I stood waiting for Baba and Maiguru while they talked to my headmaster. The headmaster, seeing us standing there, naturally began to talk about us. This made Nyasha indignant, because she did not like being referred to in the third person in her presence: she said it made her feel like an object. I did not mind, because he was being very complimentary.
'Sure, Mr Sigauke,' he beamed at Babamukuru, 'you must be very happy with your daughters. Nyasha was always coming first in the Central Primary School and I hear she is keeping it up there in the secondary. She wants to bring us a Master's Degree, just like her mother. And Tambudzai, that one takes after her uncle. She works so hard, all the time.'
All three of them were pleasantly impressed by this speech and with themselves. The headmaster was pleased because Babamukuru assured him that our prowess was the result of his diligence as headmaster of the primary school; Baba and Maiguru were pleased because our ability reflected their own and indicated that they had strong genes. They smiled and laughingly disclaimed, and insisted and congratulated each other on these achievements over and over again.
The process was mellowing. 'Nyasha,' called Babamukuru, 'aren't you going to greet your old headmaster who used to teach you? He did a good job, he did a good job,' he repeated smiling. Nyasha approached warily; I followed. The smile faded from Babamukuru's face. 'What's the matter, you? Don't you hear the nice things Mr Satombo is saying?'
We did not have a comfortable ride home that afternoon because Babamukuru made it very clear to Nyasha, at angry length, that she should not expect to ride in his car if she could not be polite to his colleagues. 'What will people say of me when my daughter behaves like that?' he demanded. Nyasha remained silent. The bad feeling sat down with us at the dinner table. Nyasha had forgotten it, or was ignoring it. She had been impressed by the fervour of the sermon but questioned Maiguru on a technical point: it was all very well to render unto Caesar what was his, but who was to say what was Caesar's? Caesar. Then everything would be his! As always, I was impressed by her mental agility, but Babamukuru was irritated by it.
'Er, Nyasha,' he said, 'there are some matters I want to discuss with your mother. Don't you know it's not good for a child to be talking all the time?' I was disappointed, because I had been wanting to ask Maiguru whether she really had obtained a Master's Degree, but after that I did not dare. Nyasha did not say another word, nor did she eat much, excusing herself soon afterwards. I was afraid that my uncle would insist that she finish her food, but besides pointed glances at her half-full plate, neither Baba nor Maiguru commented.
