I still don’t know where or from whom my dad heard about Morgan High School when we arrived in Salisbury in 1978. If my memory serves me right it was from The Benjamin family who lived at 123 Hatfield Road in Arcadia.They moved to Rhodesia from Cape Town way before we did so it was nice to have fellow Cape Townians already settled there. Although their dad was late by the time we arrived, Sammy, Connie, Peter, Susan and Lisa were all doing and it was awesome to meet them. I’m still not sure if my dad knew them back in Cape Town but nevertheless we made friends and it helped us feel right at home. Two doors away Aunty Francis Grandy lived with her kids Moose, Ernest aka Oty, their lone sister Wilma, Charlie and Lottie. The elder kids in both the Grandy and Benjamin families were all in Morgan, so when Dianne and I were enrolled there that Monday morning, we had these new friends of ours to show us around. Off course it helped that Peter Benjamin was the star boxer at Arcadia Boxing Club and his brother Sammy was also a very good boxer. Hopefully no one would mess with us because we “knew people.” Lol…
But before we could go to school my dad had to buy us uniform and that’s how we ended up at Enbee stores in Cameron Street. The short stocky Indian man behind the counter was super friendly and in no time I was clad in khaki which Jerome found hilarious. He was tickled and giggling whilst making fun of me. Back where we came from in apartheid South Africa, khaki was the uniform of the hated Boers. I was prayed silently that the school uniform did NOT include veldskoens. That would have been the limit! Luckily it didn’t. Another issue that troubled me greatly was the fact that we had to wear shorts because from standard three at Zeekoeivlei Primary in Grassy Park, Cape Town, I was already wearing long pants. When we moved to Woodlands Primary in the then new Mitchells Plain, I plain down refused to go back to shorts. My mom was livid yelling, “This child thinks he is big now!”
The greatest laugh at Enbee stores was when Dianne tried on her Morgan girls’ uniform. It was blue and white but was exactly like the dress we had seen domestic servants wearing back in SA. It was my turn to kill myself with laughter. Now those who know me will tell you that although I tear up easily when I am angry, it is nothing compared to the flood that comes when I’m laughing deliriously. Jerome went from foe to ally as we both burst out laughing. My dad was NOT impressed at all. There are many things you could do to Raynes Gambo and get away with, but you dared not touch his only daughter. She was the centre-point of his heart. So we got a cold stare from this pitch black man with light brown eyes whom we called dad. We knew the comedy show was over. I, for one, had to “cut it out” but that little devil of a baby brother whom we also fondly called Tana, he always got away with murder where the old man was concerned. For some reason I was lower on the likeability charts with my dad at that time, but since I was close to my mom it was all good. Tana walked outside and persisted with his laughing while the old man was staring at me to see if I was instigating the whole thing. The Indian guy behind the counter was beside himself with how quickly Jerome went from my foe to chief ally. A few minutes earlier when I was trying on the AWB khaki uniform, Dianne was leading the chorus of laughter for the two of them so it was sweet revenge when we saw her in that “nanny’s” uniform. Now my younger brother was very gifted in never letting go. This nanny uniform taunt lived on for quite a while at no 3 Kopje House behind Queens Hotel, whenever he felt aggrieved for whatever reason.
Morgan High School was then the biggest and only high school for Coloured children in Salisbury. It is situated in the area called Arcadia, the oldest coloured township in the country.
When we arrived there on that Monday morning with me resembling a pre AWB khaki clad member and my sister looking like the nanny of some family, we were pleasantly surprised at the size of the school compared to the schools we attended in Cape Town.
Morgan High School looked like the University of Cape Town, one of the leading universities in the world, with its basketball courts, bicycle sheds, science laboratories and soccer fields. We had never seen anything like it. Situated at the back of Arcadia it also had hostels for students from out of town which made it a sprawling campus type structure in comparison to what we knew as a school. The multi story classroom blocks were imposing. Our eyes were rolling in all directions as other pupils came in and out of the headmaster’s office. Mr Benet, a spectacled prim and proper English subject emerged from the school assembly and led us into his office where my dad spoke to him. A few minutes later we were led to our new classes, teachers and classmates. My sister who was older than me was taken into the third form and I was delivered safely into the hands of the stern looking Ms Wheeler at class number 33 in the D Block. At this stage of my life I was a shy and very self conscious teenage boy whose best friend was his mother. So here I stood in front of a class of American Negro looking kids who spoke perfect English and Ms Wheeler said, “Class, we have a new member. Kenneth, will you introduce yourself to your new class mates.”
Eysh I wished the ground would open and swallow me up. Conscious of my South African accent, I spoke softly when I said, “I come from Cape Town and my name is Kenneth Gambo.” I was so nervous that I think I stormed back to my desk which I shared with probably the most mischievous looking person I have ever met, Koshal Fazilahmed. He was a short talkative and jovial soul who had a laugh and cackle just like Jerome. Kushy, as everyone called him, was quick off the mark saying, “You see now, we gonna have to teach you how to rap like a goffal you check, coz eeeeh, the honey’s were checking you out lekka lekka.” I had no idea what he was saying. It was Frances Glass, who was an albino who translated this into English for me. I burst out laughing and felt right at home. We were seated against the left wall of the class which was adjacent to the door and the corridor. Seated behind us were Floyd Homan and Neill Willow who was originally from Mutare where I believe he still lives. Floyd resided in Braeside at 3 Arnhem Drive.
These two had Denzel Washington kind of cool long before the now legendary American actor popped up in Harare as a young actor to star in the Steve Biko movie, Cry Freedom. At that time no one knew who he was and many Zimbabweans who acted as extras in the movie reported that Washington was a phenomenal talent and professional. It did not surprise anyone therefore when he eventually became a screen giant. But Floyd Homan and Neill Willow already had the charm and smooth Denzel developed only later in his career. At least the pretty girls in form 2 thought so and if you took one look at Sharlene Denerona, Riana Omar, the Laurence twins Doreen and Maureen, Rosaline Jutha, the beautifully black Marie Macheke, Cheryl Cumming and Gabrielle Hendricks, you too would have wanted to be Floyd Homan and Neill Willow.
On the opposite side of the class against the other wall by the windows sat Stanley Davis and Patrick Arab whose daddy owned the butchery in Ardbennie. Their house at 25 Chummy Pitch Drive in St Martin’s was one of the areas' most beautiful homes. Situated adjacent to the main road leading to Hatfield and the airport, it was visible from Sunningdale across the roads where us lesser fortunate ones lived. Kushy quickly informed me that Stanley was not a guy to be messed with because he was a “dry own”, which I gathered meant he was very tough. I didn’t care too much about that little detail coz I was a trained amateur boxer of some skill and knew how to handle myself but I liked Davis. He was lanky and dark but could tease the daylights out of anyone and he had a dazzling smile. TBC.....
Note: Picture = http://www.hararenews.co.zw/2015/10/meet-the-head-students-at-morgan-high/
