Legal Alien

I can’t believe the receptionist is not going to take my consultation fee just because I’m from her tribe! I thought corruption was only for the politicians and big businessmen. But here, in a small town clinic, I am going to be the beneficiary of a corrupt doctor’s receptionist. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Well, I don’t care right now. I have spent the day running around offices getting papers stamped. Now, I have to get a doctor to give me a check-up, approve this medical form, and stamp it. I was about to walk out of this clinic because the consultation fee alone, without the medical check-up fee, was way too high. But then, the receptionist glimpsed my name on the form and said, “Eh, you mean you are from my village! Why didn’t you tell me your surname, I would have done you a favour.” Then she started chatting away in our language. “If you had told me where you were from, I wouldn’t have told you to pay that high consultation fee. In fact, I’ve got enough for today, so don’t bother paying for consultation. Just wait for the patient who is in now to come out and you can go in for your check-up.” Thank goodness she sneaked those last sentences in English. She started rattling on in our language again. I dared not inform her that I didn’t understand a single word she was saying. Today, was not going to be the day I revealed my excuse for not knowing my mother tongue. I will not reveal to her that I became aware of my vernacular deprivation in ‘93, when I was a child. Daddy had taken me to the classroom and left me there. I stopped sobbing when the teacher led me in. The room was so big! There were over a hundred children in there; at least seven pupils on each of the fifteen or so benches. The walls were dirty, and you could see where the blue paint had been chipped at by enthusiastic kids. There were no cupboards, no teacher’s desk, no carpet, no sleeping corner, no tiles. The room held only children, benches, a cemented floor and a huge, old blackboard positioned at the front. Everything was so dated. It was as if the décor had been inspired by an Adams Family episode. At the back of the classroom, bags were sprawled all over the floor, since there were not enough hooks on the wall to carry them all. I looked up at the man who I assumed was the class teacher, as I’d heard my daddy address him as Mr. Muhangazima, and asked, “Where is the fridge?” There were loud gasps and the class started laughing. I began to cry again. Mr. Muhangazima bent down and quietly said, “This is a classroom. We don’t keep fridges in classrooms. We don’t have a fridge in the school, except the one in the canteen. Mpozi there’s a new one in the kitchen ”
“But where will I keep my break time snacks? ”
“Just leave them in your bag and then put it at the back of the classroom.” He led me to the back and pulled one bag off a strong hook, hastily threw it to the ground, and put mine in its place.