Grade 7 English reading comprehension: The roll call

On Monday morning, Mr Fourie straightened his tie outside the Grade 7 classroom. He was a relief teacher, filling in for teachers who were away. Today he was at Sunnyside Primary in Pietermaritzburg, and he had a plan: he would learn every learner’s name before the first break.

“Good morning, Grade 7,” he said, opening the register. “Let us start with a roll call.” Thirty faces watched him as he ran his finger down the list. “Kan-ee-sile?” he said carefully.

A girl in the second row put up her hand. “It is Khanyisile, sir,” she said kindly. “Khan-yi-si-le. Four beats.”

Mr Fourie repeated it, then looked at the next name. “Zo-lani?”

A tall boy at the back let out a breath so quietly that only the teacher noticed. “Xolani,” he said. The first sound was a sharp, bright click, like the sound that people make to urge a horse along. Somebody giggled. Mr Fourie’s ears grew hot, but he tried the click himself and made a noise like a mouse stepping on a bubble. The whole class burst out laughing.

Mr Fourie laughed too, but then he saw that Xolani was staring at his desk, and his jaw was tight, as if he were holding something back. “Don’t worry, sir,” said Khanyisile. “Everybody gets it wrong. We have stopped correcting people.”

“Since Grade 1,” Xolani said, still looking down, “I have been Zolly, or Zo, or just Z. It was easier than explaining every time.”

The room went as quiet as a held breath. Mr Fourie closed the register. “I owe you an apology,” he said. “At my last school, a boy called me Mr Fury all term because he could not say Fourie. I never corrected him, because I thought it would be rude. I hated it, and I should have spoken up. Will you teach me?”

For a moment nobody moved. Then Siphokazi’s hand shot up. “Say it with me, sir,” she said, and she spoke her name slowly, one beat at a time: “Si-pho-ka-zi.” Reshma went next, and then a quiet boy named Kgomotso, who sat beside the window. One by one, the learners gave Mr Fourie their names, and he repeated each one until it sounded right.

At last Xolani stood up. “Press your tongue against the roof of your mouth,” he said, “and pull the side of it away, like you are calling a horse.” Mr Fourie tried eleven times, and the class counted every attempt aloud. On the twelfth try the click popped out, clean and loud, and the cheer was so noisy that the teacher next door knocked on the wall.

On Friday afternoon, Mr Fourie stood at the door and said goodbye to every learner by name. Xolani was the last to leave. “I practised in the car,” Mr Fourie told him. “My wife says the neighbours think I am training a pony.” Xolani grinned. “Goodbye, Mr Fourie,” he said, and he did not say Fury.