STAFFROOM CHRONICLES

The bell for the afternoon lesson rang. I had been in the field for hours, losing track of time while enjoying myself. It's funny how time flies when you're having fun or doing something you love.I hate doing punishment, especially when it involves collecting rubbish left by others. But today, I had to swallow my dislike and think of a way to bring a bag full of cash—and a gun—into a classroom full of pupils.I hurried to the toilet sink and washed up, careful not to dirty my clothes. If I did, I'd have to answer to my mother and her infamous red slipper. I tucked in my shirt, adjusted my collar, and made my way to the staffroom.Our staffroom was on the ground floor, which we called the lower floor. My class was on the top floor, so we had it the worst. If we made noise, the teacher on duty heard it. If there was a scuffle in the classroom, they heard that too. The staffroom was a place filled with books, cabinets, and the lingering threat of being caned in front of all the teachers if you were caught misbehaving.Inside, three large tables were pushed together to form a round table where the teachers sat to discuss lesson plans and students. After a hot cup of tea from the corner kitchen, the male teachers would often gather to talk politics and football. To the right, the sporting equipment was stored, after a thief broke into three classrooms last week. The teachers now kept them inside the staffroom, fortified with two steel doors. On the left, they kept the canes used to discipline us pupils.I stood at the entrance, hesitating as I saw them eating lunch and discussing adult matters I didn't understand. I cleared my throat and knocked on the table since the door was wide open."Excuse me, Madam, I've finished my assignment. May I go to class now?""What! You're calling collecting rubbish in the fields and picking up plastics an assignment?""Yes, Madam. I've finished doing so. May I return to class with your permission?""Young man, what's your name?" asked a male teacher."Charles Oduor, Sir.""What class are you from?""Class Five East.""What brings you to the staffroom during the afternoon? Shouldn't you be in class like your other mates?""Yes, Sir. I should be, but I came in late today and…""And what? Tell him why you're doing extra punishment instead of being in class, injecting knowledge," another teacher chimed in."I talked back to the teacher on duty, which is why I'm here, Sir.""You have manners; that's commendable. I'll expect a written composition from you this week," said the deputy head teacher. I'd never been so close to him before; I usually only saw him when he addressed the school assembly. He's a heavily built man in his forties, I think. We always assume every grown-up is either forty, and if they have grey hair, we say they're sixty. He wore a grey suit with a blue tie, and his face was always smooth and clean-shaven. Maybe that's because he's going bald.But that's a story for another day. Now, I was in the council of teachers' round table, scared stiff. I didn't know what they would decide next."You're the artist who drew the head teacher's portrait last term," said another voice behind me. I turned to see who it was—Mrs. Yusuf, my classroom teacher. If I thought I was in trouble before, now I was in deeper. I had missed the entire morning and mid-morning lessons. What could I do to convince this barricade of teachers who were all staring at me?"Yes, Teacher, I did. I have another portrait of yours. I'll bring it tomorrow for you to see," I said, trying to steer the conversation away from my lateness. If I could survive this ordeal, it would be a miracle. Here I was, facing a staffroom full of teachers, dreaming about tomorrow."Why are you here, then?" Mrs. Yusuf interjected."I came in late today, Mrs. Yusuf.""And why was that? You've been slacking off lately. Is there a problem at home? Should we call your parent?""Not at all. It's my fault. I didn't replace the wall clock that wakes me up.""Make sure you don't repeat this tomorrow, or I'll be forced to call your parent for a direct approach to your misbehaving character.""Yes, Mrs. Yusuf.""It's Madam!"She hated it when we called her by her surname. I didn't know why, but everyone in the class was afraid of her since we transferred to her class from Mrs. Ochieng's in Class Four."Mrs. Mohamed, is that all?" she asked another teacher."Yes. I think he's learned his lesson for now. You're dismissed, Artist.""Thank you, Mrs. Mohamed."I rushed out of the staffroom, silently thanking my guardian angel for saving me from the council of teachers. I ran as fast as I could to the secret hideout I'd only told Kris about. We used it when emergencies arose, and now was definitely an emergency. I had a bag full of cash and a gun inside. If it fell into the wrong hands, the teachers would be the least of my problems.Just as I was finishing my sprint across the field, I saw Webbie, the school bully, with the other big boys. In his hands, he was holding a bag—my bag! I had to get that bag from Webbie by any means necessary."Give me my bag!" I shouted."Your bag, you say?""Yes, my bag, you bully! Give it back!" I commanded, my voice as loud as I could make it."If it's yours, come take it from my hands," Webbie taunted.