Zimbabwe, November 1985
Tarisai Mukombachoto had only one kilometer left to walk. It was still morning; that hot African sun hadn’t started the sweat percolating through her skin. She walked alone today. Her twin brother, Garikai, was sick with some kind of stomach flu. She thought he was faking. He didn’t want to go to school because the results from the grade seven exams had arrived from the Ministry of Education in the provincial capital of Mutare. That’s why the walk felt so long for Tarisai, even though the sun wasn’t yet burning bright. If she’d failed those exams, all chances of going to high school were gone.
Her bare feet slapped along the dirt path just as they had for seven years. She was confident she’d done well. After all, she’d been number one in her class since grade two. No one could top her, not even the teacher’s nephew, who had the benefit of extra help from an educated uncle.
Tarisai’s parents had only gone as far as grade three. Since they rarely used English, they’d forgotten most of what they’d learned. Occasionally when someone came from town with a newspaper she would see her father reading some of the articles. Sometimes he asked her the meaning of a word. He would always say what a clever daughter he had when she would tell him that “rapid” was the same as “fast” or that a “general anesthetic” was something the doctor used to knock you out when they removed parts from your body. Like almost everyone else at Kudzai School, Tarisai’s parents were farmers. They worked the land day in, day out, just as their family had done for generations. When money ran short, they contracted to work for Mr. McGuinn, a white farmer who lived nearby. McGuinn was stingy but at least he paid in cash. Some farmers still paid workers with bags of mielie meal and packets of rotten meat.
The hope of Tarisai’s parents, though, was that their two children would excel in school and eventually end up with good-paying jobs in town, jobs that would provide their parents with enough money so they wouldn’t be plowing and weeding until the day they died.
As Tarisai came down the grass-covered hill toward the school, she wasn’t thinking of her family’s future. The only thing on her mind was that group of her classmates she could see gathered around the notice board outside the headmaster’s office. They were waiting for the results to be pinned up.
As she walked past one of the goalposts on the grassless soccer field, she saw the headmaster come out of his office with a piece of paper in his hand. The students crowded around him, as excited as if he were handing out free ice cream cones.
“Boys and girls,” she heard the headmaster say in his refined English, “please allow me space to pass so I can pin up your results.” He repeated the words in the local Shona language, to make sure everyone understood.
The eager students moved back a step or two. They all wanted to be the first to see.
Tarisai started to run. She hated the thought that someone else would see her marks before she did. The headmaster stepped away from the board and caught sight of Tarisai striding full speed past the grade four classroom, her feet leaving a faint trail of dusty prints on the bright red cement walkway.
“Slow down, Tarisai,” said the headmaster. “You know running is not allowed.”
It took all the will power Tarisai possessed to reduce herself to a walk.
“And well done, Tarisai,” he said. “You are the only pupil to score a 1 in both English and maths.”
The buzz of the students went silent as they turned to look at Tarisai. Gladys, her best friend, galloped toward her and gave her a joyous hug. The headmaster smiled. The two girls skipped toward the board.
Tarisai’s eyes ran down the list. First she saw Garikai Mukombachoto. Her brother had gotten a 3 in maths and a 4 in English. Better than he expected. Tarisai had told him he must study harder.
Her results were there under her Christian name, Prudence Mukombachoto: 1 in English, 1 in maths, just like the headmaster said. She jumped up and down, clapping her hands. She never expected perfection.
Suddenly the headmaster was at her side.
“Congratulations, Tarisai,” he said, adding a “makorokoto” the Shona word for such occasions. “With a mind like yours, you will go far in life. You may end up in the UK or America at one of their famous universities.”
Tarisai had never traveled farther than Mutare, a little more than an hour’s bus journey away. And she’d only gone there twice, to help her mother do some shopping.
The UK, America, these were places she’d never dreamt of going. She’d seen some photos of London once in a very tattered magazine. The buildings were old. Someone once told her it was also very cold there.
Tarisai stayed and chatted with her friends for a while. Everyone was excited for her.
“We always knew you would succeed,” Gladys told her. “You got what you deserved.”
After an hour Tarisai set off for home to give her parents the news. They would be so proud. No one from their village had ever gotten a 1 before.