Last weekend I laid to rest one of my favourite teachers of all time, Auntie Busi Cora Ngcobo. I don't refer to her as "auntie" as a generic term of endearment. She was actually my maternal aunt. But trust me, our familial connectedness had nothing to do with my feelings towards her as an educator.
Wednesday the 11th of January 1984 was my first day of high school. I remember this so vividly because the previous day was my 12th birthday and I had a bump the size of the president's second head on my forehead from a BMX accident. Anyway, Sister Mary-George, a Bavarian nun, walks into our classroom and says: "Do you folks have some kind of aversion to ze rays of ze sun?" Silence. Followed by panic.
Only three pupils in the entire Grade 8 class of 1984 at Inkamana High understood the sarcastic comment, got up and opened the curtains. Two of them were products of Auntie Busi: my oldest friend in the world, Baragwanath CEO Sifiso Maseko, and this knuckleheaded columnist.
This is because Miss Ngcobo had imparted to us a profound appreciation for the nuances and intricacies of the spoken and written word. Even though the only language she taught us was English, she had such an overpowering and everlasting influence that the logophilia spilt over to isiZulu and Afrikaans.
In fact, when I delivered my eulogy at her funeral last weekend, I did the whole thing in my native language. Eloquently, even if I do say so myself. One of my former schoolmates at Wozanazo Higher Primary in Hammarsdale, Peaceman Cele, who is a director in the KwaZulu-Natal education department, remarked afterwards, "I naturally assumed that your isiZulu had been corroded by the mine acids of Joburg."
When I delivered this tribute to Auntie Busi, behind me sat one of my other favourite teachers of all time, Mr Mtshali, the teacher who destroyed all the nerve endings in my buttocks with a well-aimed cane. I love him to bits.About two years ago, my then seven-year-old lastborn unexpectedly deviated from his well-established sullen disposition. He clasped his mother's hand in his, looked lovingly into her eyes and whispered, "You're so beautiful and your breath smells like peaches."
Of course it was a clumsy attempt at extorting a second helping of blueberry cheesecake ice-cream. Duh! But when the Ice-Cream Man spoke of breath that smells like peaches, I was catapulted back to Grade 7 English class. One of Auntie Busi's few vices was peach-and-apricot-flavoured Beechies chewing gum. It's an aroma I will always associate with that period in my life. I remember it almost as vividly as I remember how anal she was about the pronunciation of words. And that includes the word "pronunciation".
As anyone who has ever listened to government spokespeople on the radio knows, the word is more often than not pronounced "pronouncination".
In the same way she insisted that "poor" is not pronounced "poo-wah" but closer to "pour"'. In her words: "While you're forced to speak this language, you might as well speak it well or give up and go wash taxis at the rank." The English she spoke is what is referred to as "royal English" in the township.Afterwards, she would say, "You're my nephew. This afternoon I will come to your Sisi Rosemary's [my mom's] house and she will send you to the spaza shop to buy Eet-Sum-Mor biscuits and Fanta. And then you will serve them to me as I tell her why I bliksemed you." And it would be so.
I hope that when my children reach maturity they will have fond memories of teachers with at least half the class of Auntie Busi. She used to bring a cassette player into class and play Ella Fitzgerald's Brighten the Corner, Christian spirituals that included her favourite, The Church in the Wildwood.
Our last interaction was when I sent her a copy of the Ella album a few years ago, in a moment of nostalgia. I hope that after I take my last breath at least one person remembers me as fondly as I remember Auntie Busi.
• Follow the author of this article, Ndumiso Ngcobo, on Twitter: @NdumisoNgcobo..