ONAWA SECONDARY SCHOOL
"An excellent culture is never compromised!"
Onawa Secondary School Learners participated in an essay competition and a short story competition for African Child's Day. We had over 150 submissions, and some truly remarkable essays. The winners were selected, and their work is featured below.
Short Story Winner
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Ndatila Iihambula Grade 10B
Mr. Pheto's Education
Mr. Pheto was seated on the edge of his tiny bed in their hostel dormitory. It was cramped and filthy, even he himself couldn't believe how he had come to terms living in the space-locked area. The air inside the dorm stung of heavy labour sweat and a fade of urine.
Mr. Pheto works in a mine for a huge, white man with a round face, raised chubby cheek bones, rectangular nose, very small eyes, and on top of that a humungous belly. His name was Mr. Jonker and Mr. Pheto and all the other mine workers took orders from him, no questions asked and no buts.
Occasionally he would think of how he wasn't able to live or bring along his wife and son, so they are always clost to him. Mr. Pheto would always end up thinking of why he was in this situation and what had caused it: the poor Bantu education that was offered to every other dark skinned person in South Africa. Mr. Pheto stood up from his bed and started to walk down the aisle created by the dorm. He reached the door and let himself outside and inhaled lungfull breaths of the cooler air of the night. As he settled on the two stairs in front of the door, he looked into pitch darkness and started to wonder mericulously of his past and education.
Nothing has changed except that now he has grown. Mr. Pheto remembered how he was never taught how to read or write at school, how the teacher had once took a sjambock and hit all the children in class including himself when JoJo requested to be taught how to write his name. By then they were 13 years old.
"Deep thoughts, hey!" said Mike, a roommate who Mr. Pheto did not hear slip on the stairs close to him. "What is your educational history, champ?" Mr. Pheto asked, but still in thoughts. He further continued, "Nonetheless boet, I've got your ears to listen to mine." Mr. Pheto stared up into the sky and started to tell his story.
At the age of 12 was when Mr. Pheto finaly got to convince his parents about him going to school. Though they allowed him, some weeks might pass without Mr. Pheto going to school because of domestic work at home or had to miss school to help his parents help their bosses. As he talked about this, Mr. Pheto was getting all emotional.
Mr. Pheto stopped gazing into the sky and started picking up small pebbles and tossing them sideways absentmindedly. Then he resumed his talking with much calmer emotions. He told his friend the 6 mile route to school and back and also told him how he had to do things he never wanted to do in order to stay in school, things like laying down as a carpet for the white children to walk on top of you.
JoJo was told how he had to struggle and force himself to come to school despite all the cruel and inhumane things that happened at school, like girls being raped in front of teachers, principal and authority, but no one says a thing. Mr. Pheto told the reason why he still went back was because he knew he would need that little knowledge someday.
"You see young man, that little teaching allowed me to be a miner. But most of all was to know the value of education and how I am going to fight for my son to get way better than I got." With that Mr. Pheto left his cheeks get wet and he stood up, opened the door and let himself back inside the stench-filled room.
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Essay Winner
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Ndapandula Hangula Grade 8A
What does being an African child mean?
To me, being an African child is the best name tag ever. Born with dark skin, quenching our thirst on the most precious rivers. Discovering new ways of doing things every day and being told not to question them. Being an African child is the best thing ever. Could we ask for more?
We stuck to our mothers all our lives. Born by the strictest of parents who only wanted us to have a better life than them. We were told cultures, taught ways of respecting our ancestors but mostly praying. Now we are here, about to leave the nest. We are growing into young, matured adults who are ready to face the world with no harm or criticism. We face challenges on our own, but still carrying our religions and cultures on our backs. We were always told to adhere to the rules from our backgrounds.
My mother always told me: "Little brown-skinned girl, your life has just begun. Fly, my little bird, but be smart along the way. Those were the truest words in all my days I've ever heard. The privilege to be called black is everything. Just focus on hard work but do not be a kleptomaniac. Laconically, Africans are powerful and educated in their own way. We often think Africans or poor people do not deserve anything. Who knows if an African is out there finding the cure of HIV/AIDS. Discrimination, torture, and racism are the only things we pay them.
Let us fight for what we deserve. The things we are really afraid of are the ones that could set us free. Go and find your destiny or the door ill be shut forever. Let us work together and love each other. I am an African child.
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There were many other notable essays we received. Take a look at a few of the top essays:
Uunona Monica Grade 9A
Justice Life
The morning was already begining to burn on Magano's sides as she carried an enormous bundle of firewood back home to the family compound. From a distance, she could hear Kauna and Nelao calling from the back of Tate Pohamba's pick up truck being driven to school. At the sight of the scenario, blood began to rush to her head as tears stung her eyes.
Magano knew her daily routine. When she set the bundle of wood down, she knew she had to fetch water before pounding the mahangu for the day's meal. After her mother's passing six years ago, every chore was facing her, forcing her to leave school to take care of her siblings and her hypocrite of a father. Magano knew how important school was from the man from the village square meeting who had made the decision. If only her father knew what he was keeping her away from.
During her journey to and from the oshana, Magano had done a lot of thinking. After she decided what she wanted, she put down the twenty litre bucket that was balanced on her head before running in the Eastern direction. She was headed for school. She knew her father was going to be mad and give her the worst of hidings, but her hunger for education kept driving her to endure the two and a half hour walk to get what she wants.
Despite having been severly beaten that day, Magano did not give up. Instead she woke up earlier the next morning when everyone else was asleep, finished some of her chores and hit the road to school. She studied so hard and never looked back. Weeks after that, Magano's father gave up on giving her everyday hidings because no matter what he did, his daughter was determined to take on that education thing he did not understand.
Today Magano is a human rights lawyer and is the first female to own a law firm working amongst the greats of Silas Namandje and Jessica Nkosi. Although her father is no more, she believes he was a driving force to the person she is today.
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Uunona Monica Grade 9A
Justice Life
The morning was already begining to burn on Magano's sides as she carried an enormous bundle of firewood back home to the family compound. From a distance, she could hear Kauna and Nelao calling from the back of Tate Pohamba's pick up truck being driven to school. At the sight of the scenario, blood began to rush to her head as tears stung her eyes.
Magano knew her daily routine. When she set the bundle of wood down, she knew she had to fetch water before pounding the mahangu for the day's meal. After her mother's passing six years ago, every chore was facing her, forcing her to leave school to take care of her siblings and her hypocrite of a father. Magano knew how important school was from the man from the village square meeting who had made the decision. If only her father knew what he was keeping her away from.
During her journey to and from the oshana, Magano had done a lot of thinking. After she decided what she wanted, she put down the twenty litre bucket that was balanced on her head before running in the Eastern direction. She was headed for school. She knew her father was going to be mad and give her the worst of hidings, but her hunger for education kept driving her to endure the two and a half hour walk to get what she wants.
Despite having been severly beaten that day, Magano did not give up. Instead she woke up earlier the next morning when everyone else was asleep, finished some of her chores and hit the road to school. She studied so hard and never looked back. Weeks after that, Magano's father gave up on giving her everyday hidings because no matter what he did, his daughter was determined to take on that education thing he did not understand.
Today Magano is a human rights lawyer and is the first female to own a law firm working amongst the greats of Silas Namandje and Jessica Nkosi. Although her father is no more, she believes he was a driving force to the person she is today.
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Wilbard E Amunkete Grade 8A
Rubenga's Story
It is a well-known fact that young people struggle to earn an education, especially those people who are in poverty. This is a story of a young boy (back then) who struggled to earn an education and how that education impacted his life.
Simon Rubenga was born in 1970 in the Caribbean. His family originally comes from Africa which makes him and Afro-Caribbean. At that time, he lived in the Caribbean but things did not go so well. His family was very poor and there was a lack of educatio nin the area. His courage in the face of adversity was admirable.
At the age of 5 years he attended a local school. The school had no qualified teachers and the facilities were at a low standard. Rubenga was adroit at a young age unlike the others. His parents had to work very hard in order to pay for his education. Rubenga was determined to make his parents proud as he knew that they were poor.
At the age of 8 years he dropped out of school as he had no financial support. He then spent time on the beach collecting shells and rocks to make crafts. He then sold his crafts and from the money he got, he hoped it would be enough one day to get him back in school. His parents also tried very hard to get money by searching for extra jobs.
At that point Rubenga felt like giving up on his education. One day he went to a local shop to buy goods. The casheer then saw his depressed face and the casheer asked Rubenga what was wrong. Rubenga told the casheer his difficulties and the casheer felt sympathy for him. She then decided to tell the community about Rubenga's crisis. Some felt sympathy for Rubenga and decided to help, but others had hearts of stone and did not want to help.
So the people in the community donated money to Rubenga's problem and they promised to pay for his education once he reached 14 years old. After nearly a year, Rubenga went back to school. After 5 years Rubenga's grades were phenomenal and his achievements in school were unheard of.
At the age of 14 years, the government offered Rubenga to study at the USA. Rubenga knew that this was a great opportunity to succeed in life. He knew it was not going to be easy to settle in a completely different environment. Eventually he decided to go. Rubenga was sent to a school in Washington DC. During that time he was studious and tenacious. Rubenga was intimidated by an affluent suburb of Washington DC.
At school, Rubenga felt aggrieved because he was being treated unfairly by his schoolmates and by the teachers because of his poor and uneducated family. Rubenga pushed on with his studies and eh was tolerant. He then made it to university with valuable grades.
He decided to go to the University of Oxford at the age of 19 years. He knew his studies were vital at that point. Rubenga was an affable guy so people went to him for extra lessons. He spent 14 years studying to become a surgeon. During those 14 years he studied very hard with determination and in an honest way while others were unscrupulous.
Rubenga finally graduated at the age of 33 years with a doctorate degree. He accomplished his goals unlike the others who failed. Most of the people were surprised by his achievements as he was underrated.
His family was proud of him as they knew that all their efforts to get Rubenga a decent education did not go to waste. They also knew that Rubenga brought wealth to their family. Rubenga became a well-known, trusted and experienced surgeon. He became wealthy and successful but he still does not forget where he came from. He is now married and he has 3 kids.
My own view of this is that we should all fight for what we aim for. Everyone should get the courage and motivation to do what is right especially the yout. And keep in mind that a fruit never falls far from its tree.
Jumbo Williams
Sacrificing for Knowledge
Twenty years ago in the village of Epaka, lived a man Locko and his son Packo. Locko was a well respected man in the village because he was hardworking and had all the qualities of a good leader.
Locko worked at a market a few kilometres from the village he travelled to every day. Although Locko had a job, he did most of the jobs in the village such as building, painting and motivating school learners to work hard on their school work. His son Pocko was a smart and intelligent boy and helped his father with all the work. Pocko attended a primary school in Epaka but since the education was very poor and the school couldn't provide enough stationary to the learners, Locko decided to move to a town called Tsumeb so his son could get a proper education.
When they arrived in Tsumeb, life was hard form them because they didn't have shelter. The slept at a nearby service station for a week. Pocko was admitted at Etosha Secondary School and he was the only black child there. He was bullied by the teachers as well as the learners. Since Pocko was smart like his father he decided to work hard and prove to the whites that black people can do whatever a white person can do. He passed his grade and furthered his studies in Zambia.
After 10 years when he came back in Namibia he went back to Etosha to address the whites on the discrimination he got when he was in school. "Colour doesn't define success but hard work and dedication can take you to success."
Shikongo Fatimah Grade 10A
The Syrian Way of Life
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I wake up just before dawn. It is probably four A.M. I say probably because over the years, I have forgotten how to read time. I don't own any of those time bracelets nor can I read the time from the city clocks. I take one of the cans I keep and fill it with water I had collected. I crawl out of the sewer pipe that has been my home for the past few years and place my can on the stove I had made with bricks and cattle dung. Once the water has boiled, I pour it into the yogurt container I use as a cup and dip my two week old teabag into the water. I sit by the entrance of my pipe and sip on my tea, the only blanket I own wrapped around me.
As the sun starts to come up, I see the bevy that passes by almost every day, chatting up a storm. I stand up and wonder how it would feel to have a future; dressed in a white blouse and green skirt. Not having to cover my face. I start clearing my surroundings like I always do when the bevy passes by. I fold my blnket and place it in the hole tha tI keep all my belongings in. I pus the grass over it and make it seem like I was never there. I hear the voices of the boys that usually pass by after the girls. I am startled by their booming laughter but as always, I hide just so they do not notice me.
I stand by the road and look both ways before I cross the road. I have learned from past experiences to always be cautuious when crossing the streets of Syria. I walk over to the local shopping complex. I grab my bucket from behind a trashcan and hang my sign around my neck. Writing had become difficult and reading is something I don't remember how to do anymore, but I am very good at drawing. My sign has a shiny car drawn on it and a bucket filled with water close by. IT was the only way I could think of to communicate my car wash business.
I sit by the parking lot and wait on the cars. Before I know it the stores are closing and it's time for me to leave. I take all my coins and I am happy to find that I have twenty-seven gold coins and ten silver. Something else I have learned is the more gold coings you have, the better off you are. I have never gone as high as twenty-seven before.
I stuff all my coins in the pockets of my trouser and go to what I like to call my personal shopping mall. I unfold the plastic that was in my pocket and start to dig in the dumpster for anything fine. I find three used teabags and I smil. I keep digging and find water bottles that still have a few drops left. I collect the drops and manage to fill one bottle completely. I start opening the food packs and again I find there is plenty of food here. Today must be my lucky day. I fill two packs and put it in my plastic bag along with the teabags and water.
I make my way to the public church not far from my shopping mall and stand in the long queue that has formed. Once every seven days, people receive food from here. I look around me, scrutinizing my environment like I've learnt to do--out of fear. I see a man whose face I will never forget. What is he doing here? Is he looking for me? But I don't wait to find out. As quietly as I possibly can, I run.
On my way back to the pipe, I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand. Many years have gone by, but I will never forget what they did to me. Around the time the Syrian government stopped girls from going to school, my father killed my mother for trying to teach me herself. He snuck into my room every night, taking my clothes off and touching me. He said he would kill me if I told anyone. He later sold me to the man from the church. That man did the same horrible things to me. He had a daughter about my age and every day after she left for school, he would come and touch me again.
I arrive at the pipe tired and worn out. I hear my stomach rumbling and I open one of the food packs. After a brief argument with myself, I close the pack and put my can on the stove; the food will wait for tomorrow. I boil a little water and use my old teabag one last time.
After the days of no movement from the girls, I see them pass by once more. I set off in their direction after dreading that I have made enough money to keep me in school for at least a month. I take a detour and sit down under a tree. Aram Fullazi usually sits under this tree everyday. He used to be a dear friend to my mother, and to me. He is fluent in many languages and is an old man, a wise one of course.
Every day for a month, I walked over to his tree and he taught me all he knew; I offered the money as school fees but he refused, said my education mattered more than the money. I gave it to him anyway. Told him it was a thank-you gift.
For the next nine years, I walked a kilometer over to Aram Fullazi to be taught. One day he told me I was ready. That if I tried hard enough, I would get a scholarship.
I sat at the entrance of my home, the pip, and slowly sipped on my tea. I bet if I had gone to school earlier my dream would have been to become the president or maybe rich and own a car, but that's not exactly what I want. I don't want to be president or to own a car. I don't want to be rich and famous or to live in a big house. No, I want to live without fear. I want to have an actual roof over my head. I want to have food on my table, even if it is not every day, three days a week would be just fine. I want to be loved, but most of all, I want to be happy. And with the lessons from Aram Fullazi, I think I will turn out just fine.
Shikongo Fatimah Grade 10A
The Syrian Way of Life
​
I wake up just before dawn. It is probably four A.M. I say probably because over the years, I have forgotten how to read time. I don't own any of those time bracelets nor can I read the time from the city clocks. I take one of the cans I keep and fill it with water I had collected. I crawl out of the sewer pipe that has been my home for the past few years and place my can on the stove I had made with bricks and cattle dung. Once the water has boiled, I pour it into the yogurt container I use as a cup and dip my two week old teabag into the water. I sit by the entrance of my pipe and sip on my tea, the only blanket I own wrapped around me.
As the sun starts to come up, I see the bevy that passes by almost every day, chatting up a storm. I stand up and wonder how it would feel to have a future; dressed in a white blouse and green skirt. Not having to cover my face. I start clearing my surroundings like I always do when the bevy passes by. I fold my blnket and place it in the hole tha tI keep all my belongings in. I pus the grass over it and make it seem like I was never there. I hear the voices of the boys that usually pass by after the girls. I am startled by their booming laughter but as always, I hide just so they do not notice me.
I stand by the road and look both ways before I cross the road. I have learned from past experiences to always be cautuious when crossing the streets of Syria. I walk over to the local shopping complex. I grab my bucket from behind a trashcan and hang my sign around my neck. Writing had become difficult and reading is something I don't remember how to do anymore, but I am very good at drawing. My sign has a shiny car drawn on it and a bucket filled with water close by. IT was the only way I could think of to communicate my car wash business.
I sit by the parking lot and wait on the cars. Before I know it the stores are closing and it's time for me to leave. I take all my coins and I am happy to find that I have twenty-seven gold coins and ten silver. Something else I have learned is the more gold coings you have, the better off you are. I have never gone as high as twenty-seven before.
I stuff all my coins in the pockets of my trouser and go to what I like to call my personal shopping mall. I unfold the plastic that was in my pocket and start to dig in the dumpster for anything fine. I find three used teabags and I smil. I keep digging and find water bottles that still have a few drops left. I collect the drops and manage to fill one bottle completely. I start opening the food packs and again I find there is plenty of food here. Today must be my lucky day. I fill two packs and put it in my plastic bag along with the teabags and water.
I make my way to the public church not far from my shopping mall and stand in the long queue that has formed. Once every seven days, people receive food from here. I look around me, scrutinizing my environment like I've learnt to do--out of fear. I see a man whose face I will never forget. What is he doing here? Is he looking for me? But I don't wait to find out. As quietly as I possibly can, I run.
On my way back to the pipe, I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand. Many years have gone by, but I will never forget what they did to me. Around the time the Syrian government stopped girls from going to school, my father killed my mother for trying to teach me herself. He snuck into my room every night, taking my clothes off and touching me. He said he would kill me if I told anyone. He later sold me to the man from the church. That man did the same horrible things to me. He had a daughter about my age and every day after she left for school, he would come and touch me again.
I arrive at the pipe tired and worn out. I hear my stomach rumbling and I open one of the food packs. After a brief argument with myself, I close the pack and put my can on the stove; the food will wait for tomorrow. I boil a little water and use my old teabag one last time.
After the days of no movement from the girls, I see them pass by once more. I set off in their direction after dreading that I have made enough money to keep me in school for at least a month. I take a detour and sit down under a tree. Aram Fullazi usually sits under this tree everyday. He used to be a dear friend to my mother, and to me. He is fluent in many languages and is an old man, a wise one of course.
Every day for a month, I walked over to his tree and he taught me all he knew; I offered the money as school fees but he refused, said my education mattered more than the money. I gave it to him anyway. Told him it was a thank-you gift.
For the next nine years, I walked a kilometer over to Aram Fullazi to be taught. One day he told me I was ready. That if I tried hard enough, I would get a scholarship.
I sat at the entrance of my home, the pip, and slowly sipped on my tea. I bet if I had gone to school earlier my dream would have been to become the president or maybe rich and own a car, but that's not exactly what I want. I don't want to be president or to own a car. I don't want to be rich and famous or to live in a big house. No, I want to live without fear. I want to have an actual roof over my head. I want to have food on my table, even if it is not every day, three days a week would be just fine. I want to be loved, but most of all, I want to be happy. And with the lessons from Aram Fullazi, I think I will turn out just fine.