With a Little Help from Friends -2
Khalil
If Ahmad coming sixth for the whole island at the primary school examination, the so-called petite bourse, was anointed genius of the neighbourhood, imagine what difficulty that same neighbourhood would experience in finding a suitable name for his younger (but my older) brother Khalil when his name topped the list of scholars as printed in every single daily, of the same exam just a few years later. Having been born after no less than two brothers succumbed to a a meningitis epidemic which had struck the country, he was showered with everything necessary to keep him alive. Maman called him his Consolation child.
On top of his scholastic achievement, he was reckoned, at least by our mother, to be as handsome as a prince, fair-skinned, also inheriting our father’s aquiline nose. Verily that boy is going to end up an F.R.C.S. one day., was the common belief. He was not only handsome as an actor, but he was an incredible footballer, a sprinter, a cyclist, with his own Raleigh bicycle bought from his scholarship stipend. What an impressive figure he cut as a patrol leader of our Scout troop, in his immaculate uniform, navy blue shorts, khaki shirt, with a green scarf, a lanyard with a whistle attached, a Baden Powell hat, and a six-foot staff. At the age of fourteen he had a detective story published in the Scouts’ magazine, ending with with the unforgettable lines as the young scout who had solved the murder received his medal, “Oh I was only doing my duty, sir”. Admittedly the editor was none other than his older brother.
He too started attending the famous Eton of Mauritius, the Royal College School of Port-Louis, and unsurprisingly he always came first at the end of year exams, and scored a Grade One Cambridge Senior School Certificate with the “Very Good” grade in most subjects, including Additional Maths. When he was only fifteen he fashioned a steelyard balance from his scouting staff, to weigh the poultry that we sold by weight. It’s the principle of moments, he explained to me, but it was Greek to me. I was never in the same league as my brothers, of which truth I’d be reminded all my school life.
The Port-Louis institution still did not offer those hallowed English Scholarship classes at which, whoever came first was dubbed laureate, with his name written in gold letters on the roll of honour in the main hall of the Curepipe institution, which did. All Khalil’s student life, he was urged by everybody to aim for the top position at those exams. The whole neighbourhood willed him to deliver the goods. But like his big brother he would need to relocate to Curepipe in order to save three hours travelling everyday. This time, the philanthropist Dr Joomye, was finally realising an ambition, of creating a boarding school for boys of the Muslim Community. He had begun by buying a massive property in Curepipe before sorting out the one thousand and one problems of getting the institution going. It would stay vacant for two or more years before it became operational. The doctor was contacted and agreed to let Khalil have use of a room in his mansion.
Every morning sister Ansou Bou lovingly prepared sandwiches which I delivered to the lovely Du Beurre (Fatso), in rue Desforges, who travelled daily by train from Port-Louis to Curepipe. Sadly if I knew his true name, I have forgotten it, but without Du Beurre, poor Khalil would have starved. I do not remember what happened when Du Beurre missed school. Perhaps he never did.
At this time, the family had never been more economically sound, with big brother Ahmad helping to run the country ass a government servant, and moonlighting as a much-in-demand private tutor, his earnings delivered untouched to Maman. Khalil was thus able to have private tutors, a Monsieur Latulipe, for Maths, and Monsieur Richard for English. Unsurprisingly, Khalil was favourite to win that bursary for the now renamed Cambridge Higher School Certificate exam. At that time, he had graduated to the first team of our local football team, the Scouts, and they were going on a tour of Reunion island, to play, among others, the famous Patriotes. It happened to be the first such international football tour organised on the island. The match was broadcast on MBS, and we could not believe it when our young prince scored the winning goal for Scouts in the eighty-ninth minute. Our joy overflowed when that same night the results of the English Scholarship was announced on the MBS. Not known for my lack of exuberance, on hearing my brother’s name, I instinctively grabbed a beautifully turned wooden ashtray and threw it on the floor, breaking it in two. We’ve had two ashtrays in the house for a number of years, the family hanging on to both halves as a memento of the most significant event to have befallen our family. My father’s not so secret dream had been achieved. He would die a happy man shortly after, in the knowledge that his own son was now unstoppable.
Yes, he did go to England, and studied medicine at Leeds university, and yes, he did earn himself an F.R.C.S. degree in due course, the top diploma of surgery.
