The Kid vs Mano Benjamin

Mano Benjamin was timing my movements. He saw when I entered the Fatima RC School at the top of the Laventille Hill overlooking Port-of-Spain and he knew I was the only teacher in the old wooden building. He headed my way. It seemed to me that murder was written on his face and “poor me” was trembling like a leaf and praying to God to survive this confrontation. I was too young to die. After all, I was only 19 at the time. I shut the door and moved quickly to the furthest part of the building. I had planned to keep that distance — leaving enough space between the benches for me to manoeuvre and keeping at all times as far from him as I possibly could.

What had gotten me into this predicament so very early in my teaching career? The day before while I was having my lunch at the same little table I used as my desk in Standard One, a big girl rushed in shouting at the top of her voice, “Sir, come quick. Two girls fighting and they killing each other.” I dashed out into the yard and there was this group of children surrounding the fighters shouting “Heave. Heave.” I broke through the ring and saw one girl sitting on top a fallen girl cuffing her all over the body with clenched fists — dishing out lefts and rights with lightning speed like Muhammed Ali. “Stop it!” I shouted as I separated the fighters. The spectators scattered as quickly as they could because they knew it was against the school rules to encourage fights. I held the two combatants firmly by their wrists one on each side and took them to my class.

They were little girls from my class — just seven and eight years old. After enquiring what was the cause of the fight, I was satisfied that the “winner” was the offender, so I gave her a few strokes and she screamed out, “I go bring my father for you.” Mano Benjamin was her father. At that time, he had just come out of jail. He had served several years after raping a woman who threw acid on him after the incident. A calypso called “The Green Face Man” had been composed about him. The next morning, my mother wanted to know why I was not getting ready to leave for work. I told her I decided not to go and related everything. After a long talk about beating the people children, she told me I should go. Her words were, “If you don’t face up to it now, all your life you will be running away from similar situations.” But as I left the house, she said, “I shall be praying for you.”

Mano Benjamin worked in the quarry nearby and would leave his home with a pick axe in his right hand and a long rope coiled round his left shoulder. As he advanced towards the school, I saw myself lying in a coffin. Suddenly he stopped, rested the pick axe on the rails of the Lady of Fatima grotto, delved into his pocket, removed a packet of cigarettes, took out one, lit it and started to smoke. Mano looked in my direction, stared at the door for a long time. Then he turned away, retraced his steps and headed towards the quarry. I could hardly believe it but it did happen. Talking about the grotto reminds me of another incident that happened there. “Franklyn, why were you urinating in the grotto yesterday afternoon?” I asked this seven year old boy in my class at that time. “Sir, I was not doing that!” he replied looking very confused. “But I saw you urinating. I’m sure it was you.” I insisted. And with a face as innocent as a baby’s, he said, “Sir, I was only peeing.”