A JANUARY AFTERNOON

2025-01-19 12:51:00, Blog Agim Xhafka

A JANUARY AFTERNOON

I remember, my father was often called to school for my antics. I was indeed a distinguished student, but I stood out more for being messy and breaking the rules. I got an A in math, but a failing grade for absenteeism and petty quarrels. Everyday, mother, not once a month.

So one winter afternoon my father was put in the dock by me. The high school's head teacher one afternoon invited all the parents. They were going to judge why my father had not raised me well, as he should have, and why not with the discipline of the time. I remember that it was January, it was getting dark quickly and the weak lamp in the classroom made everyone look pale. You know, my father would self-criticize and criticize me. That's what really happened. In the end he vowed that it was the last time the parents of the class would gather for me. It would never happen that my son, I mean, would do vagrancy or make unseemly appearances. I saw with a smile that the word "never" did not come to me. Maybe tomorrow I would start the conversation, I would expose my lying father. But let's throw it away today, tomorrow is God's day, my grandmother often said.

When the discussions started, my nerves got the better of me, I became a wild wire. Like someone who bends it, bends it, and when you let it go, it goes back to where it was, to its original shape. Cale's father started it, he called me a rascal when his son, Cale, was the only one who failed all those subjects. And besides that, he smoked cigarettes. Really secretly, he would lock himself in the bathroom during recess, but he would smoke. My father looked at me angrily and almost bit me. I was silent. Then Bela's father started babbling. He worked as a coachman for the municipal authorities.

He walked behind the horses all day and didn't exchange words with anyone. Would he exchange thoughts with the animals? So he didn't stop for an hour.

He mentioned everything from the pyramids of Egypt to Marx. He was even going to read us some parts of an educational novel that would serve Agim, according to him, but luckily for everyone who had forgotten it at home. When he sat down, all the parents applauded with joy. He took it as praise for his oratory and almost stood up again, but Lirika put him down. Who was Lirika? The mother of my dearest friend, the mother of Cosette.

"That you, Alajdin," she began and turned to her father, "did not help the National Liberation War wholeheartedly. Let's tell you some truths."

Her accusation fell like a bomb. That's all she said and sat down. For a few minutes no one spoke. Father turned pale. We ate some kind of exile from there by Gjonomadhi, I thought. And I felt like a criminal for embarrassing the family. But teacher Gavrili corrected her instantly:
- In general, Lirika says that you are a martyr's tribe from Agimit's mother. Or not? Everyone nodded and that was it. The meeting closed.

On the way home I asked my father:
-How old were you when the country was invaded, Dad?
-Not even 7 years old!
-Why didn't you tell me, how could I fight when I was half the size of a rifle?!
He didn't speak for a few steps and then he said to me:
-Do you know that your uncle Emini is a math teacher?
-Yes, I know. He helps me with difficult problems.

-You know, when Albania was liberated, some partisans went to his house and told him that he had to enroll in a course against illiteracy. Yes, I can read and write, I'm a teacher, he told him. But they continued theirs, they didn't care at all. We didn't ask you if you can write, they said. We asked you, did you take a course against illiteracy or not? No, I didn't, but I've been to school for so many years, he said. We don't want to know about your school, we asked you about the course against illiteracy and you yourself said that you didn't. So you take it there. And for 6 months, every afternoon, teacher Emini went to the course to "teach" reading and writing!

He gave me the answer. In those years, it was better to be silent than to have no people in front of you. There were beings who were delusional, obsessed, crazy, dogmatic and without feelings. Like cold walls, full of damp and mold.
-But how is it possible that Kozeta is Lirika's daughter? -I asked my father in surprise
-Maybe she's not hers, mom, -he said.
-She's definitely not, -I sealed it.
But I believed her. Because Kozeta was my star, she was chastity itself.