Apparently, I wasn't the only one getting sick these past two weeks. Nearly half the staff at my school in Omdurman fell ill at some point during the last fortnight. One of them even collapsed and fainted on the stairs. Maybe something's in the air, or at least in the food.
Teachers weren't the only ones with some sort of malady. Recently, around two-thirds of my kids have been absent at least one day. Some days, what should be a class of 24 looks more like a few downtrodden kids I kept for detention. Last Thursday, for example, a quarter of the class was missing due to one kind of illness or another. One parent even sent in a letter explaining that their child was sick with malaria and would probably be out for several days.
Other parents, however, forced their children to go to school regardless of their current well-being. Several of the kids in attendance last week complained of stomach aches, headaches, eye aches, and strangely but commonly, of arm aches.
Some of them clearly weren't kidding either. As I rounded a corner last week on my way back to my classroom, I was greeted by one of my students, Walaa, washing his hands. His usual grimace had been replaced by a sickly look and tears in his eyes. Just went to ask him what was wrong, the janitor pointed to the stairs. Three steps, usually covered with a cheap, thin red carpet, were now coated with a chunky, white upchuck that I could only guess had risen from Walaa's poor stomach mere moments ago. I looked back at Walaa. He looked at the ground in return. Poor guy.
The janitor led him to the front office where his mom would pick him up. I gingerly climbed over the now pungent puke and went back to my classroom. Unfortunately, this would not be the last vomit I would see that day.
Later that day, another student, Khalid Hasim, began complaining of general illness. As Khalid is normally somewhat loud and lively, I took him at his word. He too was sent to the front office to await the arrival of his mother. However, in his state, he forgot his backpack and water jug.
Thirty minutes later, I was in front of the room going over word endings ( things like "ll," "ss," and "ff") when little Khalid came back for his stuff. His lethargic movements were those of a boy making every effort not to push his luck too hard. Slowly, he pulled his backpack on and then looked around for his water jug. I spied it under the desk of another student, Mustafa Talal. Seeing how sick Khalid was, I asked Mustafa to pick it up and hand it to him.
I should have expected what happened next, but after only two months in the classroom, my teacher instincts haven't fully developed. Khalid moved forward to receive the jug as Mustafa bent down to pick it up. In slow motion, I watched as Khalid reared his head back and then thrust it forward. With this jolt, his mouth opened and out spewed a thin, orange liquid, as if he'd been holding juice in his cheeks and was now determined to set it free.
And of course, the only thing between Khalid's mouth and the floor was poor, little Mustafa.
Mustafa craned his head up in horror, just as his head and body were covered in vomit. He raised his arms to cover his face, but it was too late. The puke poured over and he was bathed in an endless wave of orange up-chuck.
Instead of leaping to his rescue, I jumped backwards with a yelp. The rest of the class stood and stared, wide-eyed. The room fell silent and the only noise came from Khalid as his stomach continued its relentless torment.
Finally, it was over. I looked up and scanned the classroom, ready for the Stand By Me type reaction I was sure to come. Luckily, none of the other kids began throwing up at the sight of sickness. Instead, the room stayed silent. Khalid was breathing heavily and Mustafa, with more grace and clarity than any six year-old I have ever seen, stood up straight, looked at me, and walked briskly out of the room.
I led Khalid outside, made sure he was alright for now, and got him to the front office. Along the way, I got asked the janitor to mop up what little bit of barf had made its way to the floor. About ten minutes later, Mustafa returned, dripping with so much water that I assumed he'd poured several buckets of water over himself. Perhaps aware that they could have suffered the same fate, none of the other students said a word. I opened up the windows to let some fresh air in and we continued with the lesson.
The rest of the day went on with incident, as did the rest of the week. Mustafa, however, hasn't been quite the same since.
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