chapter 1

They were waiting for Daddy.

We were.

I paused outside their door.

The laughter was cheerful.it was also infectious.it began as a silent chuckle,then slowly it turned into a mirthful but stilted giggle. Now,it had finally transformed into a full fledged chortle.I stoped a while to listen. My plan was not to eavesdrop .God forbid that I should be that kind of mother who surreptitiously listened on her children's private conversation. But there was something about the laughter that was compelling and arresting.

Bint,my five year old daughter,appeared to be the narrative voice. She was telling her two sisters the story of her classroom encounter with their middle some social studies teacher the previous week. The narration was so vivid you could actually visualize what transpired. The teacher believed he knew a little bit about every subject under the sun, especially French which most of the students found strange.Bint herself was new in the school. French was an optional subject even at this level of primary school education. We however encourage her to take the option since we believed that language acquisition at an early age came relatively easy and with minimal effort. And,in any cases,French was second to English in the ranking of international languages,we reckoned.

So it was that the first question the teacher asked was,"who can tell me how to say Good Morning in French?"

"you mean none of you knows how to say Good Morning in French?"

hesitatingly, not without trepidation,Bint raised her hand.

"yes?"he pointed at her.

Slowly,she stood up.

"What is your name ?"the teacher asked.

"My name is Bint."

"so, tell us,Bint, how do you say Good Morning in French?"

"Bonjour,"Bint said."That's very good,"the teacher said, speaking English.

"And how do you say that's very good in French, teacher?"Bint asked innocently.