Mary told Sidima to take his hands out of his pockets. Without protest, he silently moved them behind his back and bowed his head. âYou need to learn to behave if you are going to go to high schoolâ, Mary continued. Now squinting his eyes and scrunching his face, Sidima remained silent.
Minutes earlier, Sidima had punched his classmate Odwa without provocation. More accurately, the member of staff who brought him to the principalâs office was sure this had happened. Sidimaâs version of events was quite different: he had politely asked Odwa to reopen the stationary cupboard so that their classmates could complete their work, and Odwa had then sworn at him, prompting their scuffle.
Sidima was frustrated that nobody else had witnessed Odwaâs misbehaviour. In his opinion, blame was unjustly placed on his shoulders.
When Mary, the principal of Ngomso school, situated in Grahamstown , a small city in South Africaâs Eastern Cape Province, encouraged him to accept responsibility for the altercation, Sidima refused her invitation. In response, Mary informed him that he would not be going to the classroom next door to eat lunch with the rest of the learners, but should sit on the floor outside her office to âcalm downâ. For the next 20 minutes, like a frog, Sidima crouched above the threadbare carpet to take pressure off his behind. When Mary returned to ask, âAre you ready to talk?â Sidima didnât answer.
An hour later, Sidima was complaining that his peanut butter sandwich had gone stale, having sat on Maryâs desk while he remained on the floor. He asked Mary why she was siding with Odwa and not listening to his version of events. âYou say I am not doing my job wellâthen go to another schoolâ, countered Mary. With no resolution on the horizon, Sidima tried to sneak back to his classroom before Mary spotted him and dragged him back by the arm. âShe thinks that she can beat me with her mindâ, he told me, privately. Clearly unwilling to be defeated, another member of staff escorted him back to the residential shelter (âthe Shelterâ) where he lived.
After the weekend, Sidima returned to Maryâs office accompanied by Danny, a member of staff from the Shelter. Mary informed him, âI am stressed and unhappy about your behaviour. I am ready to suspend you.â She then offered some guidance and a resolution:
There are times to be serious, [like now], or else you will get into trouble. Some of the cleverest people are in jail. They thought that they were cleverer than the police [and] their teachers. They used their brains for clever crimes because they hadnât learnt discipline . It is stupid for you not to use your cleverness in the right way. You have to decide what you will do with your brain. You might be cleverer than me, but I want you [to stay] out of prison . Do you want me to look after you or must I let you run wild?
Sidima stood in silence, with his back to the wall, as he considered his options. After about 30 seconds, he replied, âLook after me, mamâ.
Why did I choose to open this book with an account of what can happen when a young man is asked to reopen a stationary cupboard? Because I intend to show how anthropological inquiry can uniquely address important questions about the moral dimensions of education. More specifically, I analyse how both historically constituted moral discourses, such as Maryâs claim that one must always speak the truth, and creative, ethical encounters, such as Sidima and Maryâs exchange of words and actions, influence the potential futures that individuals conceptualise and strive to create for themselves and others. I also critically examine the extent to which individuals, most especially young South Africans, are able to fashion the lives they had once imagined.
In 2008, approximately three years before the stationary cupboard incident, I encountered similar themes of inquiry in a very different context: the offices of an advertising agency in London ; surrounded by glass walls and young men wearing limited edition Nike trainers. A team of âsenior strategistsâ was interviewing me in an effort to âbring Heinekenâs creative strategy to lifeâ. My desk was downstairs. They had developed a âkey insightâ: many young men, around the world, were disappointed that the lives they had imagined themselves living had not materialised. As children, they wanted to be astronauts, professional footballers, musicians, or prime ministers. However, their hopes and dreams, their best-laid plans, had been thwarted by the realities of life. They had grown up, only to feel unsure of themselves, devoid of a sense of achievement. The âcreative strategyâ was to ensure they knew, believed even, such hollowness could be countered with a bottle of Heineken. As Epicurus foresaw, the plan was to sell achievement and belonging, not beer. The industry had always made me uncomfortable. It was easy to question its morality . I sat in front of the camera and evaluated my own life. I harboured the aforementioned hollowness. It was time to leave.
My departure and related decision to travel to South Africa to complete the research that features in this book intimately relate to my prior experience of other influential events.1 While studying at school, I had had no academic interaction with anthropology. When the time came, I opted to study marketing and management at Newcastle University. Although much of my undergraduate experience was uninspiring, the final year brought the opportunity to write a dissertation about âtribal marketingâ: a model of how informal social networks are affected by marketing. My tribe was that of DJs and their followers. I had bought my first pair of turntables when I was 13, and by the time of university, I was regularly âDJingâ in clubs and bars. After graduating, I continued to DJ and promoted club nights of my own. I was making money from something that I loved while meeting musical heroes and drinking decent rum for free. However, I felt that I wasnât really âdoing anythingâ. Perhaps I thought I wasnât doing anything âgoodâ. Iâd been to South America and Asia. Afternoons were spent researching new destinations. I downloaded a PDF entitled âHow to become a travel writerâ. I won an all-expenses paid trip to Antarctica and spoke to primary school pupils about the experience. Despite all of this, I thought everything was happening in London . âWhen are you going to get a proper job?â everyone asked. âI should probably get a proper jobâ, I thought.
I was offered a place on the graduate training scheme of the advertising agency in January the following year and agreed to start in September. This was perfect; I had time to travel again. Fortunately, a fellow passenger on the boat to Antarctica operated a company that arranged volunteer projects catering to those on gap years and those old enough to take career breaks. He offered me a paid position in Ghana for six months; I flew out two weeks later. Some volunteers came to work in a hospital or orphanage in Accra; others lived in rural villages, helping to build latrines alongside an NGO funded by Water Aid. As a project manager, I was responsible for their welfare, budgeting, overseeing an âexpeditionâ to Timbuktu, and arranging each project. I met with head teachers in the villages so that we could âhelp outâ in their schools. Some of the young British and American visitors embraced these opportunities, arriving with pens and colouring books; others bemoaned the lack of premiership football and became bored very quickly, especially when there were too many of them and too few latrines to dig. The humidity, music , food, wildlife, beaches, wood fires, and dirt roads drew me in.
Despite my excitement, I had constant niggles, endless questions: âWhat are we all doing here? Who is this âvolunteeringâ benefitting? What happens when we leave?â I thought about the answers and discovered more questions. I had developed an interest in the moral and ethical dimensions of charity , development, voluntourism , and humanitarianism and, more specifically, Britainâs relationship with her former African colonies; themes of inquiry that are central to this book. I engaged in conversations about wants and needs, hopes and dreams. I observed teenagers helping elderly neighbours without question; work stopping for a game of cards; schools closing when it rained. I was no longer convinced by the discourses of improvement, progress and tradition, schooling, mobility, and knowledge that had first led me to Accra. I came home with more to learn.
I returned to the advertising agencyâs 25th anniversary and flew to Miami for a four-day conference, which was, in fact, a pool party with a free bar. Blondie played the final night. Floating in the pool, with a cold beer in hand, while getting paid for my troubles, I realised I was in the wrong place. I wanted, or perhaps needed, to attend to the thoughts and ideas that related to my recent experiences in Africa. I shared my sense of discomfort with a new friend as he sat on a sun lounger. Two and a half years later, he wrote on my leaving card: âsurprised it took you so longâ.
In the...