XXXVIII. ‘Holy Smoke’ by Robin Scher

This is a story you’re not supposed to know about inspired by actual events that took place at an elite all boys school in Johannesburg.

09.15, second period, Meneer Bekker’s class.

Something strange was happening today. The class was silent. Meneer didn’t notice why at first, carrying on in his usual monotone drawl as he read from Skilpoppe. For once, the ageing Afrikaans teacher thought, the boys were reading along. That was until the balding man carrying the stench of pipe tobacco finally paused and looked up from his book. What he discovered then startled him more than he’d be willing to admit. The boys were all looking his way. Normally such a sight would be welcome, but in this case their faces all contained a faraway look like they were peering beyond the confines of the classroom.

“Um, Lewis, lees asseblief van waar ons opgehou het?"

Lewis, still entranced, didn’t budge.

“Lewis. Hoor jy my?”

Lewis had not. Neither had his peers. For at that moment, while physically present, mentally the teens had travelled a great distance from Meneer Bekker’s musty classroom. It would take the seasoned ondewyser a moment or two to realise this, but once he did his action was swift. Taking his trusty wooden ruler, he approached Lewis’ desk, drawing his arm up and bringing the implement down with a great thrust. The desired effect was achieved, as the sound penetrated the blank fog that had briefly enveloped his classroom, returning the boys of Afrikaans B1 to their corporeal form. Like a rug pulled from their collective heels, the dazed group took a moment to re-gather themselves. Lewis, who didn’t quite have the same freedom as those around him, was forced to take in the full sight of Meneer who stared down at him with what felt like the light of several suns.

“Uh, yes, sorry Klapper er, Sir.”

Slowly, pausing between each word, the glowering teacher replied: “What did you just call me?”

Near the back of the room another pupil, Thompson, let out a single giggle, quickly silencing himself with a hand. Lewis, bright red by now, was left swallowed by the quiet. Stumbling over his words, the boy tried to explain himself, which in hindsight he’d come to realise was a mistake.

“It’s just a nickname, sir. We all use it,” Lewis says thinking somehow this might excuse his slip-up. The problem is Meneer Bekker is aware of this well-trodden slight, which he’s come to believe is a reference to his balding pate. He never quite got the reference, assuming it had something to do with the sound his head might make against a hard surface, which ironically, is the precise action he feels inclined to do every time the infernal moniker crops up. He decides he’ll settle for the next best thing, sending Lewis to the Headmaster’s office.

The tired teacher looks at his clock. With half the period still to go, there’s still enough time to salvage this lesson. Meneer continues the reading from where he left off. The rhythm of the prose settles him and for a time it seems he’ll get through the rest of the class unscathed. After this, he’ll reward himself with a pipe to soothe his frayed nerves. But B1 set has other plans.

Laughter breaks the camel’s back. It begins as a small chuckle from the back corner and soon spreads. Meneer is no stranger to this sort of horseplay, but something feels off about it today. For one, there’s a certain randomness to the frivolity that’s hard to account for. Usually, the experienced herder of energetic teens can tell when he’s in for a time. Today was different. One moment, completely still, the next erupting hysterically. No, something was definitely off and watching as the group lost themselves to manic fits of laughter, Meneer decided he was going to get to the bottom of it.

09.40, second period (still), Mr Van Rensburg’s office

It just so happened the school had recently elected a ‘Head of Discipline’. And fortunately for Meneer, that individual occupied his neighbouring classroom. Mr Van Rensburg did not have a nickname among the boys. There was a reason for this, which was why he’d been chosen for this new role. He straddled the fine line between respect and fear. Armed with a sense of humour that appealed to juvenile tastes, Van Rensburg enjoyed favour among his pupils. They felt like he understood them better than the other teachers, and he did. The flipside being he was less easily fooled. So, when a student did cross him, he’d let them know.

The rasp from Bekker’s knock caught Van Rensburg by surprise. With the period still underway he hadn’t expected any visitors. He knew then it must have been a matter of some urgency. At that moment, he’d been lost in a reverie daydreaming about his upcoming fishing trip to Dullstroom. It was tiring to maintain his exacting gaze — on pupils that is. Fish were a pleasure. They lacked the ability to manipulate and tricking them was as simple as tying some brightly coloured string to a hook. Students on the other hand required psychology and tricks he’d learnt from his days in the SANDF. A part of him loved it though, and he felt it in the small dose of adrenaline he got when he announced: enter.

Bekker appeared flustered. This was not uncommon for him, but Van Rensburg got the sense this was not due to the usual disorder from one of his classes. Peering at the elderly master over his thinly framed spectacles, Van Rensburg offered him a seat. Bekker remained standing, appearing eager to return to his unattended class for fear of what they might do in his absence. Right, thought Van Rensburg, brass tacks it is.

“How can I help you, Alan?”

“It’s the whole class, Martin. They all seem bedwelem.”

Interesting, thought Van Rensburg. A very particular choice of word by the old man. Not strictly a term one might use to describe bad behaviour. Trying to get at the nuance of what his colleague was sharing, Van Rensburg wracked his brain for a reference. Growing up in a bilingual home, mother English father Afrikaans, he lived between the two worlds never quite occupying either. The benefit was that he could easily inhabit both spaces, but it meant in cases like this, subtlety could be lost. He could recall men of Bekker’s generation using this word in a similar context, it was just not immediately coming to him. He decided he needed more information.

Adopting his standard method of approach, Van Rensburg began by trying to isolate the initial source of the disturbance. From here he could usually identify the sort of issue they were dealing with, drawing on his mental database of problem children and their particular pathologies, according to his own armchair diagnosis. Kruger — domestic issues sparking aggressive antagonism towards authority figures. Levick — insecure attachment resulting in the need for attention realised through class clownery. Saunders — untreated ADHD.

“You’re not following me. It’s not an individual, it’s everyone. Bladdie befok.”

Bekker stood before Van Rensburg, trembling slightly from the strain of communicating his troubles. With each passing second, his class could be inflicting chaos in the wake of his absence. The disciplinarian could see the panic in his colleague. This was in itself a clue, he thought. What could get a man immune to the abuse of his unruly pupils so rattled? Suddenly, the pieces fell into place. Bedwelem, it was the same word — accompanied by the same panic-stricken face — employed by his old sergeant when they’d return to barracks, stinking from the local crop.

These boys were high.

10.05, First Break, Cheales’ field

Tshepo Tembe didn’t make friends easily. Stocky with a bit of a ‘pushed-in’ face, he intimidated the wimps and weirdos with his bully-like features. Being largely uncoordinated also left him on the outs with the jocks. So Tshepo turned to the one group who really didn’t turn down anyone who wanted to join their club. The Christians.

It turned out it was easy too. All he had to do was attend a weekly ‘cell group’ and talk about what was on his mind. This got him the acceptance and validation he required, and in return he told their pastor, Father Mark, what he wanted to hear, which was that he “loved their one and only true saviour.”

That wasn’t all Tshepo got in return for a small white lie. Earlier in the year, he’d been befriended by Michael, the Deputy Head Boy who was part of his cell group. Michael had clout and to be associated with him meant Tshepo was on the up. This status was cemented when he was invited to become an altar boy. The job had its ups and downs. He had to wear a dress and swing incense around the chapel every Wednesday — didn’t love that. But he also got access to the communion wine and as many wafers as he could eat. Tshepo in turn grew closer with Michael and some of the others, and after a year and a half of high school, felt like he finally fitted in. Then came the favour.

“It’s just delivering small packages and sometimes cookies,” Michael had said. Tshepo knew it wasn’t just that. Before he’d moved to the Northern Suburbs with his mom to live with the O’Sullivan family, he’d grown up by Pimville. So, unlike Michael’s other errand boys, he was familiar with the smell from those packages. Social climbing, Tshepo would learn, comes at a cost.

Today, Tshepo was busy running a few orders. By now most of the regulars recognised him, eliminating the need for awkward introductions. Some even knew him by name.

“Haazit Che-poh, how things, my man?”

Jonty always insisted on banter. Not wanting to seem rude, Tshepo replied with an “easy easy, bru” as he slid the little square of wrapped paper into the smiling boy’s open palm. No money traded hands in these exchanges, which took away some of the pressure. The deal done, Tshepo turned to get his last order out the way so he could enjoy the little bit of break he still had left, but Jonty wasn’t finished.

“Shit brother, did you hear about Klapper’s class? Okes got busted. They’re all in the matron’s room right now pissing in cups lol.”

Time slowed for Tshepo as he took in these words. He knew the box of cookies he’d delivered the day before was a bad idea. A “smallanyana baked good” here and there, that was manageable. But a whole baker’s dozen? “Okes were getting careless — and greedy,” he thought. And less than 24 hours later, his fear had been confirmed. Guys had taken their foot off the clutch.

From across the field he could see his house prefect Spitz heading his way. His presence at the school was already tenuous, funded by a bursary and the generosity of the O’Sullivans. He could not afford a disciplinary hearing. Thinking on his feet, Tshepo passed Jonty his last package, to the older boy’s delight, and turned to face a nearby soccer match.

As suspected, Spitz had a message for Tshepo. Feigning interest in the game, Tshepo turned to face his senior with a look of surprise when his name was called. He hoped this little act would make him appear less guilty of something. Spitz appeared indifferent. If anything, slightly annoyed that his break had been interrupted by this errand.

“Tembe, Mr Van Rensburg wants to see you in his office. Now.”

Tshepo didn’t even have a chance to question why, as Spitz made an about turn and headed back toward the tuck shop to get in a snack before the bell. He’d have to go in blind. Although he knew what was coming and felt powerless to do anything about it. He did a final scan of the field to see if he could spot any of his fellow co-conspirators before making his walk to the gallows. As his gaze passed over the stands Tshepo briefly locked eyes with Michael. The ringleader’s head quickly turned, resuming his conversation with the group around him. Fucker, thought Tshepo. He knows something is going down and is just going to let it play out.  “Well, if I’m going down, I’ll do it fighting.”

11.30, 3rd period, Headmaster’s Office

There was a running joke that the sponsor school the student body donated to, Sikelela, was in fact the name of Headmaster Rogers’ boat. Paul chuckled whenever he overheard this remark, not because he found the implication funny but rather that there was a perception he needed to rely on embezzlement to afford a boat when his salary was more than sufficient to cover the monthly downpayment.

What most didn’t realise about his job was that Paul was effectively a CEO. Those unfamiliar with the workings of a private school — such as the one under his stewardship — easily mistook his role for that of your typical teacher turned school administrator, and to an extent that was the case. Paul had spent part of his earlier career teaching, before enrolling in business school. It was key to the position that Paul had a solid foundation in education, if for nothing other than optics. More important though was his grasp of numbers and the bottom line. After all this was a business first and foremost, no matter what it said on the sign outside the gates. And this morning Paul was earning his pay.

Word reached the headmaster by way of his secretary, Florence. “Call for you, Paul,” she called from her desk in her typically chipper manner. It was important to Paul that his office maintain an air of levity, which is why he’d hired Flo. She helped maintain the quaint atmosphere he associated with the English prep school of his youth, a time before profit margins were a key agenda item. A lot had changed since then, including the types of problems Paul was now having to deal with.

“Hi Paul, I think you may need to get in touch with the agency, it seems we have a situation on our hands,” came Alan’s monotone voice from the receiver. Paul didn’t need more to know he’d be working late today. The idea for a Head of Discipline was his, and it was for this very reason he’d created it and chosen Alan. He’d discovered the hard way that when problems arose in the school they had a way of quickly escalating beyond its walls, and if not dealt with promptly, into the newspaper columns and radio airwaves consumed by concerned parents.

They’d only recently thought of hiring people for crisis management. The call came in the wake of an incident involving a wayward water polo coach. There were too many of these sorts of stories beginning to emerge and, with the pool of families capable of affording their fees rapidly shrinking with the great semi-gration to Cape Town, the Board thought it best to retain the services of professionals who could assist with comms. Waitlists were a thing of the past these days meaning all the school could rely on now was public perception.

Jo picked up after the third ring. “Paul, great to hear from you.” Paul knew the only thing ‘great’ about his call was the hours they’d be billed for the work to follow. He explained briefly where things stood from the little info he’d received from Alan: a class of boys under the influence, potentially drug-related, and a student being held for questioning. Basically, a bit of a shitstorm brewing.

“Well, we’ll need all the facts before we proceed with a plan but the one thing I always tell my clients is that a statement is not going to take the worm out of the burger.” In the silence that followed, Paul considered this cryptic piece of advice and how to avoid the worm from eating its way through next year’s budget.

“So you’re saying no statement, then?”

“What I’m saying Paul is that you cannot speak your way into a reputation, only behaviour can do that.”

Now this was the sort of wisdom Paul could work with. The school was founded over a century ago by the Anglican Church, forming a key part of its identity. That meant it presented itself to the world through a set of values and an ethos synonymous with faith and morality. With its motto “Gratia, Servitium, Veritas” — Grace, Service, Truth — and the quartzite stone buildings that lent the grounds a ‘Hogwarts air’, the school had one solid thing going for it: gravitas. And Paul was not about to fuck that up.

“Great, thank you Jo. This has been helpful. We’ll be in touch when we know more.”

Before he could be charged more Paul hung up. In hindsight the answer was obvious. He’d take the God angle and make this all His problem. An issue to be solved by relying on at least two-thirds of the motto. Grace under fire, service for sins committed. The truth, well he could bend that a bit.

12.10, 4th period, Founders’ Chapel

Tuesdays were a lighter load for Father Mark. With mass the next day, all he had to worry about was an afternoon Divinity class and preparing his sermon. He was onto Revelations at the moment, one of his favourites, and he wanted to use it as an opportunity to speak to the urgency of accepting the gospel before it was too late. This was solid ground for Father Mark, playing on the guilty conscience of young men. He found there was always something gnawing away at the back of their minds, from the usual sorts of impure thoughts that bedevil hormone-stricken youngsters to more sinister rule breaking that accompany puberty. And for those to whom the recognition of these vices triggered self-doubt, the loving hand of the Lord was always there to steer them true. On average, Father Mark could expect between three to five visits from one of these speeches.

Today though he received a knock on his door of an altogether different kind.

“Alan, what a pleasant surprise.” He was lying of course. Alan was one of the teachers who didn’t receive communion and always seemed to give him a look that said, ‘I see through this act of yours’. Father Mark resented him for that. It was true he hadn’t always been a paragon of virtue, but he was very open about his former life of sin as a Hell’s Angel. Alan’s view of him seemed to suggest those days were not as far behind him as he’d like to think.

“Tshepo Tembe, a young altar boy of yours?” Father Mark was proud of Tshepo, who’d come a long way in a short span. He told Alan as much and asked if everything was alright? “Oh, yes, no everything is fine. But he did tell me something curious today. Did you know some of your boys were running a sort of delivery service out the chapel?”

Father Mark chuckled at this but cut it short when he saw Alan was not amused. “If there was, I’m sure I know nothing about it. Perhaps it's just the kids being a bit enterprising, no? I know pupils like Tshepo don’t come from a lot of wealth, maybe this is a way to earn a little extra tuck shop money.”

Alan’s expression softened slightly, suggesting to Father Mark his explanation may have sufficed. He was wrong. “Where would you say Tshepo and the others hang out when they’re doing their shift with you?” Father Mark was losing his patience a bit and resented the implication that he had staff. These were volunteers who gave of their time willingly, and in return received His light. Remembering himself, Father Mark regained composure and with a smile directed Alan towards the vestry.

The vestibule was empty with the fourth period currently underway. It didn’t take long for Father Mark to show Alan around, the room not much bigger than his office. Eager to get the inquisitor off his back, Father Mark asked if there was anything else he’d like to see? “This cupboard seems locked, could you open it for me?” That struck Father Mark as rather odd, as the only thing kept on those shelves was frankincense and myrrh, not something that typically needed to be kept secure.

“No problem, let me just find the key.” Panicking slightly, Father Mark worked through the bunch he had attached on a line hooked to his belt. Alan noticed a light perspiration on the back of the Father’s thick neck as he bent trying to find the right fit for the hole. Muttering to himself, Father Mark shook his head, having reached the end of his set. “How strange, none of these work.” Alan suspected that might be the case and without asking, pulled from his pocket a piece of bent wire and small screwdriver.

“One of the first things you learn as a boarding master,” Alan said by way of explanation as he made short work of the flimsy lock keeping them from the contents of the cupboard. At first glance it was as Father Mark had expected: neat, stacked boxes of resin granules. He breathed a small sigh of relief. Expecting this to be the end of it, he lifted himself back to a standing position with a small grunt and prepared to guide his unwelcome visitor to the door. But Alan didn’t budge. “Strong smell, even when it's not burning.”

Father Mark took this as a rhetorical statement, meeting it with a nod. This teacher had watched one too many true crime docs, Father Mark thought as he watched him reach for one of the packages near the back and shake it. What the hell was he after? Whatever it was, he began a silent prayer. Alan smiled for the first time on the third box he picked up. Father Mark noticed the same thing: it didn’t rattle the same as the other two. As Alan tipped the contents upside down, time seemed to slow as Father Mark watched the pink granules scatter to the floor followed by something tightly wrapped in plastic.

“Looks like incense isn’t the only thing your kids are burning in church, Father.”

13.20, Second Break, Dining Room

Henderson was Michael’s third mate to get his provisional acceptance letter from UCT this week. If he didn’t hear back by next week everything would be riding on his prelim results. He could not afford a fuck up, not this close to the exams. He told himself things would work out; they always did for him. He would get into Business Science and this time next year, be “drowning in booze and bettys”. But first, he had to handle this situation.

The lunchtime rush had slowed and only a few pupils were left chatting over their empty plates. Michael pretended to be on his phone, keeping an eye out for KK. He wouldn’t have much of a window and knew his plug would not be so keen to talk outside their preferred locale — behind the kitchen bins — after school hours. Time was against him though. If he didn’t speak to KK now, he might not have another chance. The noose was tightening, and Michael had to get his connection on side. He’d spent enough time watching true crime shows to know every good pusher had to have a fall guy. Today he’d see if life really did imitate art.

This whole scheme had actually been Michael’s attempt to answer that question. Up until two months ago, his had been a painfully predictable path. Mayor of Junior City Council, youngest member of the school’s debating team, head altar boy, and to his parents’ mild disappointment, Deputy Head Boy. In all his efforts to be a model student and son Michael felt he’d missed out on one critical aspect of the high school experience: rebellion. So, ever the diligent pupil, he set himself the task of observing those who’d excelled in this respect. In particular, the stoners. Which in turn led him to KK.

Still wearing his grease-stained white apron, KK finally appeared from the back, sluggishly moving toward the steel serving platters. Michael made his approach.

“Hey brother, you good?”

Keketso returned Michael’s outstretched fist with his own, giving a small nod of the head. Despite being a couple years older, Keketso always felt like the younger of the two in these interactions. He brushed it off, so long as the cash kept coming. And ever since they’d met, the money had indeed flowed. Because unlike the others, this “white boy bought in bulk”. Keketso chose not to question what Mike did with all the bundu he was supplying. Better to be ignorant, he mistakenly thought.

“Listen, bru, they’re onto us, I need to ask a favour.” He didn’t give KK a chance to reply, before adding: “One of the teachers might come speak to you later. I need you to tell them I only bought from you once, OK? I’ll give you double what I usually do.”

Michael knew this was a gamble but what other option did he have? He’d tried at first to do like the others and smoke the stuff but it just made him paranoid. That’s when the idea to sell it came to him. He’d take his cue from The Wire’s Stringer Bell, keeping things tidy by using the Chapel as his front and putting the profits towards next year’s party fund. Chicks dug Idris Elba, so, he figured, do this long enough and they’d be into him too. The plan had been working so well. Until it didn’t.

It was already too late if Mike was panicking like this, Keketso thought. At best he’d just lose his job. His main concern was ending up behind bars. “Sure Mike, but eish mara how much do they know?” All the kid could offer was a shrug and bundle of notes rolled up in elastics. At least with the money he could afford bail. The other choice was to say no and tell the truth, maybe they would go light on him. Another thought occurred to him. “What will happen to you?”

This had been on Michael’s mind since he got the gut-punching heads up earlier in the day. At first, he’d planned to flush the stash, hoping to get away with a warning. But Father Mark was lurking during First Break. His next idea was to wait until the old guy ditched the chapel for his Divinity class. That was until Tshepo got called in. He knew then he’d run out of time. So here was his last-ditch effort. The best he could hope for was to shift some blame onto KK for getting an entire Afrikaans class high. It was flimsy but at least introduced some doubt regarding his role as ringleader.

“Who knows, brother. But it’s been a pleasure working together. I hope they don’t cuff you too bad.” And with that, and a pat on the shoulder, Michael was out, leaving behind a bemused KK, clutching a tray of leftovers.

2 May 2009

Dear [Redacted] Community

Autumn is once again upon us, bringing with it a tide of endings. Indeed, I write to you today with news of just that, hoping you will receive it in the spirit of the season.

Due to personal reasons, our Deputy Head Boy Michael Anderson has had to step down from his position with immediate effect. We are sorry to lose Michael as part of our school’s leadership team but feel reassured that this move is in both his and the school’s best interests. Given it being so close to exam season, the position will remain unoccupied for the time being.

Unfortunately, a small group of our boys were recently found in possession of illegal substances. We have dealt with the offending pupils. Thanks to the efforts of an internal investigation, we were able to determine the source of the contraband, a wayward member of our kitchen staff, who was promptly handed over to authorities. We shall continue to monitor the school through our randomised drug testing and zero tolerance policy.

As the community of [Redacted], we stand on the shoulders of giants who built this fine school from its humble beginnings. Founded on Faith, we have grown to become a place of excellence, which has not been without its choppy waters. This is not our first storm, but like those before it, we shall weather the tides and emerge stronger on the other side.

This transformative journey continues in a meaningful and thoughtful way, and we must be humble enough to accept the accolades with the strife in equal measure. I am confident in our ability to do so with grace, unity and resilience.

My very best wishes to all our students, academic, administrative, and service staff, as well as all the parents, donors, and community at large.

Yours in faith,
Paul Rogers
Executive Headmaster