Reliving my father's past

Reliving my father's past

By Kondwani Nyondo

Mr. Phiri is our lecturer in Digital Media—or something close to that.

 His course mostly covers internet usage in this digital era. 

I’m not entirely sure, as I’m still new to this prestigious media training institution.

I don’t know if he teaches at other colleges, but students here seem to enjoy his classes. They say he is friendly and engaging.

For me, today is my first time meeting him in person. 

We spoke on the phone a few days ago, and he sounded exactly as students described—amiable.

I am in class C/1, which stands for Class 1 in the first semester. 

Our class is combined with C/2. Phiri also teaches diploma students in D/1 and D/2.

It’s Tuesday, 8:00 AM. 

Most students are already seated in our sparsely filled classroom.

As I walk in, heads turn. My late arrival has caught everyone's attention.

 I quickly find an empty, worn-out desk and sit down.

Next to me is a young girl, her small frame suggesting she might still be in her teens. 

She looks at me curiously, eager to ask questions. One of them comes quickly.

"Who are you?" she asks.

As I adjust my spectacles to respond, Mr. Phiri walks in, his laptop tucked under his arm.

“Good morning, class,” he greets us.

Before anyone responds, he adds, “I’m fine, thank you.”

He tells us he missed the last class as he fumbles with his laptop, trying to turn it on.

A young man, only known as Blessings, arrives late. To make up for it, he helps the lecturer connect the projector.

Mr. Phiri, as students said before today, exudes entertainment wisdom.

He is a playwright and has acted in several productions, including the first part of 16 Days.

 Those familiar with him say he has a unique way of introducing new topics.

“Today, we look at interactive media,” he announces, loosely defining it as a marketplace of ideas.

“Do you know Facebook or X?”

“Yes,” we respond in unison.

“Do you know how to create?”

“I want to show you how to develop a fan base,” he continues.

He opens his Facebook page, 16 Bars the Movie, where, just twelve minutes ago, he posted an update for the class’s sake.

“Look here,” he says, pointing to the page, now buzzing with comments from his followers.

As if suddenly remembering something, he takes us to his blog.

“This is my blog. It’s mostly fictional,” he says, before showing us one of his works.

He tells us he created it after breaking up with his ex-girlfriend to ease his anger. 

Of course, this kind of storytelling is common among university professors, who like to test how well students pay attention.

 Intelligent students don’t get distracted by such side stories.

But as Mr. Phiri speaks, many students giggle at his mention of the blog and the breakup.

 Only a chubby student and I remain focused, undisturbed.

Early days of the semester usually mean assignments.

“I’m thinking of an assignment based on this topic. Should it be group work or individual?” he asks.

“Group work, sir,” someone responds.

Mr. Phiri smiles in a knowing way. “I know most of you prefer group work, but no—this one is individual.”

He then gives us the assignment.

“Create a page or any account on social media—X, Facebook, or Instagram. Post something, either informational or journalistic, and send me the link via email or WhatsApp.”

He beams his contact details on the projector before suspending the class for his next module.

“Is that all?” a classmate asks.

“Yes,” he replies and leaves for a ten-minute break.

The girl sitting at the front desk turns to me.

“He’ll be back for Literature. He also teaches it since our lecturer went on maternity leave,” she says.

Then, she turns to me again. “So, what’s your name?”

“Patrick Banda,” I reply. “And you?”

“Ethel,” she says.

She studies me for a moment before adding, “Where were you? You look like you’re in your late thirties. Have you been to another college before?”

I don’t respond.

But her intrusive questions stir dark memories of what my father told me back in 2005 when I was in Form 3.

To encourage his children to work hard, he used to say, “Learning with students much younger than you is painful.”

He had repeated Standard 5 eight times. Back in 1979, students wrote exams in Standard 5. 

At one point, his classmates were fifteen years younger than him. 

That’s why he eventually dropped out in 1984, before marrying my mother in 1987.

Now, in 2024, I realize that I am reliving his words.

Even my lecturer looks younger than me.

Before I can dwell on this thought, Ethel’s friend comes over and asks her to step outside.

She warmly greets me before they both head to the ladies.

I sigh, feeling sorry for myself.

Is this real? Or a nightmare?

But then, I think—if Ethel doesn’t work hard now, she too will face these questions later in life.