MACHARA PRIMARY SCHOOL
Chapter 2
At Machara Primary, holidays didn't mean freedom — they meant free labour. While other kids herded goats or climbed mango trees, we were drafted into what can only be described as "Machara Security Limited." The headteacher would proudly pin a duty roster on the wall long enough to be mistaken for a government census. Every student's name appeared, neatly paired — two by two, like Noah's Ark, but this time carrying sticks instead of hope.
Our "holiday responsibilities" included guarding the headteacher's office (which only had a shaky table and half an atlas), watching over the staffroom (home of three smoky sufurias), and chasing away villagers who dared graze near our sacred mud walls. The grass we were told to protect was so dry that even goats refused to eat it.
We took our roles seriously though, shouting at villagers, "Authorized personnel only! If you don't have chalk, you don't enter!" Parents encouraged it proudly, packing lunch like we were police recruits.
In truth, our holidays were the biggest scam in education history. We weren't students — we were unpaid watchmen guarding rats and broken desks while the real watchman collected his salary peacefully.
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