Starlight in the Ring by H. N. Quinnen Page A

feel uncomfortable.
    “Yes, Mistress Barlow.” I look down at my feet and smile, nodding in agreement.
    “Spend your time searching for information. Sometimes this can’t come to you. You’ve got to look for it.” In her deep persuasive voice, she warns me.
    “Education, Mistress! Do you mean this Bantu Education?” I ask her this question, not trying to be funny, but to show her that I’ve heard something about the standard of our education; I know it’s not good enough.
    “There’s no other for you, Betty. Learn what you’ve got. You can improve on it later, when you’re old enough to understand.”
    Her voice trails off before finishing the sentence, and she turns her back as she walks away from me. She returns and looks at my eyes. I see sadness in her eyes. As she swallows deeply, her lipstighten, stretching. And her left eye blinks – this talk seems to trouble her. What does she know, that makes her feel sad about me and my education?
    Her words stick in my mind, and I keep remembering them every so often. I like her because of her concern about my future; she sees past my current status. Mistress always talks about my adult-life and not my present childhood. But I wish I could say to her, “Mistress, be happy because there’s a great person in me. She is locked inside me. No one hears her talk. She never starts conversations, but responds well to instructions. She only does as told. She never cries loudly, when upset. You can see her sleeves or palms going across her face and her bloodshot eyes when someone provokes her or something has gone terribly wrong. During such moments, she only lifts up her glossy big eyes to hold back tears so that no one sees her cry. She is very strong and always strives for success, no matter the barriers in her way. Failure is her only enemy. Therefore, she always fights to succeed, and rarely complains. She normally grins or bites her inner lip, staring at people around her. She wishes somebody could listen to her own stories. Betty is always ready to make peace and settle for less. She even takes the blame to avoid conflicts, but lacks opportunities to demonstrate her potential. Some people call her names – the names she hates most, ‘kaffir’, coloured, coward, deaf, ‘black’, big-eyes and many more – and this makes her sad. However, there’s one thing all these have in common – they are mean. But why can’t she tolerate what others like? The answer to this question is simple – no one asked Betty what she wants to be called. Betty never agreed to be given other names other than Betty Baker; and this is unfair.”
    I’ve lived for many years, with hurt inside me, because of these names. “While I can’t do much about this name-calling, I must stop moaning and tolerate them. The people calling these names have power and authority over me. I wish I could tell them to stop calling me these names. They sound bad in my ears.Call me African; that’s what I choose to be called. Do not use my skin colour when describing me because you often get this wrong. My skin colour is light brown, but you mistakenly think it’s black. Call me bookworm because I like reading books. I’d be fine with this name and feel proud of it. I live hoping that one day I’ll be free to say my wishes without fear of the government. When that day comes, it will be like a fairy tale.”
Two months later
    I’m at home for Easter holidays, about four o’clock in the afternoon. I lie on my bed resting, and think about the many things happening at Skoonfontein. Life at school is becoming monotonous. Visiting another town might make me feel better, so I pretend to be ill as an excuse to see Dr Berry. I don’t mind getting the sticky green medicine, as long as I actually get to visit the town.
    I wonder – what will I suffer from this time?
I ask myself.
Should it be a toothache, headache or stomach-ache? I’m not sure; but I must find something. It can’t be the stomach-ache