“Sorry, from today this classroom is mine.”
The man who said it placed a brown envelope on the lectern as if he were marking the desk as his property. The Form Four students still had their mathematics notebooks open, and Daniel Kato had written the first calculus problem on the board. The chalk was still between his fingers.
He studied the stranger’s face. The man was several years younger, dressed in black trousers, a white shirt, and a grey jacket creased at the sleeves. There was no smile from someone who had come to introduce himself. There was only the caution of a person trained not to remain in a place that had not yet become his.
“Yours in what sense?” Daniel asked.
“I’m Peter Lwanga. I’ve been sent to take over as the mathematics teacher.” Peter touched the envelope with one finger. “The transfer letter is here.”
In the front row, Aisha closed her pen. The others began to whisper. Daniel heard his name spoken twice, then the word transfer passed from mouth to mouth like a sudden wind.
Daniel put down the chalk.
“You’ve arrived during a lesson,” he said. “Sit to the side until I finish these two minutes.”
Peter did not sit. “I was told to begin immediately. There’s a reporting deadline.”
“And I have students whose final examination is six weeks away.”
“Mr Kato, I haven’t come against you. I’ve brought an official document.”
“Then an official document can wait two minutes without losing its official status.”
Peter stared at him, then pulled out the envelope and removed a paper stamped with blue ink. He held it up, not only for Daniel but for all the students. The window light struck the stamp and made the edge of the paper shine.
The class monitor, Brian, stood. “Teacher, should we read it?”
Daniel did not answer. He went to the lectern and took the paper from Peter’s hand. At the top was the district education office’s logo, yesterday’s date, and words stating that Daniel Kato had requested a transfer from Mwangaza Secondary to another school on the eastern side of the city. He was required to report that same week.
His name was in the applicant’s section.
Beneath it was a signature.
Daniel did not look at it immediately. He knew his signature the way he knew the bend in the road to the staff quarters when he was tired at night. He saw the first stroke, the K cut through the middle, and the small dot that often appeared like a flaw in his signature.
“You say this is from yesterday?” he asked.
Peter nodded. “Yes. It was given to me along with my appointment letter.”
“And who were you told had handed this classroom over to you?”
“The office said the teacher was transferring.”
Daniel looked at the students. They were all silent now. He knew they were waiting for him to say there had been a printing error. He wanted to say exactly that—to fold the paper, go to Madam Nansubuga, and return before the break bell.
But something about the date stopped him.
“Peter,” he said slowly, “were you told that I had requested a transfer?”
“Yes.”
“Were you told where I was yesterday?”
Peter’s brow tightened. “No. That wasn’t something I asked.”
Daniel placed the paper on his teacher’s book. Yesterday he had been lying in the ward at Kisenyi Hospital. High blood pressure had forced him to spend the night under observation. He had the hospital receipt in his jacket pocket, and his sister Sarah had taken him home after the doctor released him that morning.
“This letter says I made the request yesterday,” he said.
Peter said nothing.
“So?”
“Perhaps you applied before going to the hospital.”
“I did not apply.”
“Perhaps someone applied for you.”
“I did not ask anyone.”
Daniel felt anger rising, but he did not direct it at Peter. The young man stood there like someone who had arrived carrying stamped answers and had suddenly been told that the stamp could not protect him.
Daniel turned to the students. “Open page one hundred and twelve. We’ll continue with the derivative problem.”
Aisha raised her hand. “Teacher, is he going to teach us now?”
“No,” Daniel said. “For now, I am still teaching.”
Peter drew a breath. “Mr Kato, I don’t want an argument in front of the students. But I signed to accept this job. If I leave without starting, I’ll look as though I refused an order.”
“And if I hand you the class without verifying the document, I will look as though I accepted being removed from a job I never asked to leave.”
The words settled between them like something heavy. There was no longer any room to act as if they had simply entered the wrong classroom.
Peter took out his phone and showed Daniel the office message instructing him to report to Mwangaza at three o’clock, collect the timetable, and begin immediately. Daniel did not touch the phone. He asked Peter to send it through an official channel.
“I can’t send everything to the number of a man I don’t know,” Peter said.
“Then we’ll go to the head teacher.”
Before they left, Daniel picked up the attendance register from the desk. Peter reached out as though he meant to take it.
“I have to take it,” he said. “If I’m the new teacher, I need the records.”
“You have not yet been confirmed as the teacher of this class.”
“The letter is clear.”
“And so is the signature.”
The students began shifting in their seats. Daniel saw a small fear on their faces. It was not fear of mathematics; it was the fear of watching an adult lose his position in front of them. He closed the register and held it against his chest.
“We’ll protect the records until the office confirms this,” he said.
Peter looked at the register, then at Daniel. “Do you see me as a thief?”
“For now I see you as a man holding a document that claims I removed myself.”
“And if the document is valid?”
“Then I will leave through the proper process. Not by being snatched away in front of the students.”
At the doorway, Rose, the records clerk, appeared with two files in her hands. She may have heard the argument from the corridor. Her eyes moved from Peter to the paper, then to Daniel.
“Madam Nansubuga is calling both of you,” she said.
Daniel took the letter, placed it in his folder, and assigned Brian to supervise the students until he returned. Peter stood beside him. As they left, Daniel turned back once more toward the board. The derivative problem was still cut off halfway through.
In the corridor, Peter whispered, “I didn’t forge that signature.”
Daniel did not answer immediately. He opened the letter again and looked at the last line. The signature was his—but the date was the day he had been admitted to hospital.
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