THERE’s a certain period of time every year when just about every third person you run into on the streets exudes the symptoms of this rather innocuous syndrome.
It’s not that you’re
exempt yourself, of course. Sometime in your life, it had inevitably hit you; a couple of times so hard, you chocked and so you know what it is like.
The next visitor you have at your place may be stricken with the syndrome, especially if you had not been visited by him or her over the year.
But if it’s a familiar face, you only have to recall if he or she had visited you this time last year, and the year before that, and the year before that.
Then, you can safely conclude that he or she is definitely stricken with the syndrome.
Sad faces are the obvious symptoms. You only have to look at the face to know that something is wrong.
Kind of lends credibility to that wise guy’s utterance of ‘it’s written all over your face’ phrase, doesn’t it?
And it’s spelt in big capital letters too like
H-E-L-P!
You are probably the last resort; the last hope. And don’t you know it?
It was the same thing last year, and the year before that, and the year before that …
The first time, it was a pleasant surprise, though.
You hadn’t seen her for ‘donkey’s years’ and it kind of brought tears to your eyes to see her again.
It started with all the pleasantries, ‘how have you been’, ‘how’s the family’, ‘what happened to so and so’, and, eventually you were happily exchanging the latest gossips and news about people and places.
By and by, a sudden lull in the conversation jolted you back to reality; the question – what brings you here – begging to be asked.
She certainly had something to say but stuttered in the attempt. Thin films of tears clouded her eyes and she swiped a tear that escapes from the corner of one eye.
Looking intently at her with obvious concern, you see H-E-L-P written in big white letters on her black face.
Mary, your cousin, was stricken and stricken bad.
The secretary puts the call to the boss. “Siuke to see you, Sir.”
The boss is puzzled. One of his most loyal workers coming to see him during business hours was something that happened only once in a blue moon.
Certainly, the blue moon was out this day, the boss thought, as he opened the door.
“Ah, Siuke. What have you been up to?”
The boss needn’t have asked.
Siuke was exuding the symptoms of the syndrome, big time and needed a fix quick time.
The boss looked at him sympathetically and invites Siuke to get it out of his system.
In a secluded corner of the block where the branches of the guava trees and the outhouse blocked the view of prying eyes, Kopex wipes the sweat from his forehead as he feeds the fire.
A metallic container that looked like a beer keg; it was a beer keg improvised for another purpose, on closer examination – stands on an iron platform placed over the fire.
Its contents are gurgling like someone choking and through an attached tube, you could see the result of the gurgling sounds literally pouring out – a steady stream of clear liquid finding its way into plastic containers heaped on the sheltered side of the fire.
You ask Kopex what he was doing and he responds without hesitation: “Trying to earn my school fees, uncle.”
Your response is automatic. “Looks like you’re cooking up home-made brew to me, Kopex,” but you never let it out of your mouth.
You understood.
Kopex is a handsome 17-year-old youth on holidays in the village.
He will be going to do his Grade 11 in the local secondary school this year but dad had found it hard throughout the year to make good returns on the family’s garage business and Kopex’s school fee was a big hurdle to clear.
Hence, dad knowingly but tacitly turned a blind eye to the activities in the backyard.
In fact, his position in the matter had encouraged his son and the ‘professional brewers’, relatives in the village, to ply their trade in a bid to earn what they could towards his son’s school fees.
Definitely, the symptom was rife in Kopex’s household.
Three different cases all with the same syndrome.
Mary’s case was that she had married an unreliable husband, a no-hoper who couldn’t tell the difference between responsibility and consuming homebrew.
She had three children and believed that their future rested with one of the child getting an education.
“The other two do not measure up anyway,” she had explained.
That, of course, was meant as an excuse not to exert unnecessary pressure on you but deep down, she was hoping that you’d admit blood was thicker than water and take the leap to send all her children to school.
She wanted to invest in the family’s future – the same thought that was going through the minds of countless others.
The tears that flowed added a sense of urgency to her request.
It was one of your greatest weaknesses.
You were conditioned to know that ‘tears were expressions of the heart’ and her heart was speaking volumes.
You had reached out for her and when you touched, you could almost see H-E-L-P evaporating into thin air in front of your eyes, only to be replaced by a gracious but grateful smile.
“Listen Siuke, if we help you, we would have to do the same for every other member of our workforce,” the boss was saying.
Siuke let the words sink in without reaction.
He expected that.
The boss wanted him to absorb that for a moment.
“However, in light of your exceptional service to the company, I will help you,” he said, reaching for his wallet “out of my own pocket …”
Siuke gasps. The symptoms of the syndrome suddenly lifts like a great weight and bringing him to the verge of swooning.
Seems the cure for the syndrome is a positive response, among others.
It is recommended though never guaranteed.
The opposite could happen and the problem would be compounded to an extent that more than one would person would suffer – the children.
Kopex and dad found their own cure, but they were resorting to extreme measures – measures which could compound the problems they already faced.
They were not alone in their pursuit to beat the syndrome, though.
The media had carried countless stories of parents resorting to extreme measures like selling drugs and even their own bodies to beat the syndrome.
But what does one expect when all legitimate avenues to find the cure for the school fee syndrome had been exhausted?
Well, you can resort to BSB, and, that’s not suggesting the bank.
You could beg, steal or borrow but you really have to lower yourself, break the law and spent perhaps your entire life paying back your dues.
Be that as it may, Old Karasi at Sabama may have hit on the ultimate solution when he was around.
“Taratara maipaeaita soa voa, oro voa mearafukaia, aite sare ve lareva vea …,” he’d often muttered in Toaripi, a major language of the Gulf province.
Nobody really cared to listen though.
Against the backdrop of the high prevalence of the syndrome today, Karasi’s words makes a lot of sense for it translates to mean: ‘When you collect bits and pieces, hide them or put them somewhere safe so that you can benefit from it later …”
In his wisdom, when the annual syndrome surfaced, he had two words for the stricken relatives – “leva (never) learn!”
For some of us, however, Karasi’s rebuke echoes the Wise Counsellors’ words: “Lengthening your patience is the best way to shorten your troubles …”
In post script, Rootmettas is saddened by the passing of Simbu province’s only surviving knight SIr Joe Nombri.
Sir Joe was destined to serve his country and people with distinction and we are all the better for it.
Sometimes you wonder why it is that a person’s good nature shines brightest only when he is called away.
But we are all thankful of the blessing for one such as Sir Joseph, and take heart at his passing for, in the Wise Counsellor’s words: “The best news the world ever had came from the graveyard …”

 

Previous | Back to Top | Next