MACHARA PRIMARY SCHOOL
Chapter 7
At Machara Primary, sweeping was not just a duty — it was a sacred institution, more consistent than government promises. Every morning began the same way: "Don't forget to bring water!" The rule said a small bottle, but this was the village — rules were only suggestions. Some came with soda bottles, others with Blue Band tins, and a few overachievers arrived carrying 5-litre jerricans like they were irrigating the Sahara.
The water collection point looked like a military depot. Then came the class monitor — our self-declared officer-in-command. His authority came not from academics but from rumors that his family owned a Greatwall TV and that he wore red slippers at home. With his register in hand, he inspected every bottle like a customs officer.
Once approved, the "operation" began. Water was poured on the dusty mud floor, instantly absorbed like porridge on a hot plate. Within seconds, all that remained were damp patches and disappointment. Those lucky enough to mop the headteacher's cemented office were the untouchables — walking around bragging about how the cement "shone like glass."
The rest of us fought dust clouds like miners. After ten minutes, the floor looked clean; two hours later, it looked like it had never met a broom. Still, every day we swept, coughed, and repeated the cycle proudly. Machara Primary didn't just teach us academics — it taught us endurance, teamwork, and how to survive in a world made entirely of dust.
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