Elvis, my schoolmate from ’73 to ’76, was a legend in our dusty school days. Not the rock ’n’ roll King, but a soft-spoken, ever-smiling mate who made every day a riot. We were thick as thieves, swapping jokes and dodging trouble. Nobody could resist his charm—not one soul ever badmouthed him.
One time, I forgot my books and faced Mr. Habib’s wrath. Elvis slid his books over, whispering, “Don’t end up scrubbing chalkboards!” His grin saved me, and that was him—always lifting us up with a wink and a laugh.
Elvis and the lab
We hit peak infamy with the Great Lab Fire of ’75. A rogue Bunsen burner turned our “experiment” into a fireworks fiasco. We played it cool, telling mates we were rebel chemists, and Elvis’s poker face had the whole school buying it while the teacher flailed with his gradebook. We never got busted, but our legend soared.
On a school trip to the Salines visiting the sugar storage facility —Mauritius’s pride, churning cane into export gold—we piled off the bus to see the ships loaded up through pipes. I got stuck behind a pushy mate, but when I finally hopped out of the bus, Elvis was waiting, saluting like a general with Marie and Rajiv. I saluted back, dubbing him “Napoleon.” He fired back, “If I was Napoleon, Mauritius would’ve stayed French—my English would’ve fooled the Brits into thinking we were already theirs!” We howled, his wit sharper than the sugar cane.
The best
Another day, my broom-bristle “mustache” impersonation of our principal sent Elvis into a snorting giggle-fest, loud enough to land us both in detention. He never ratted me out, loyal as ever. That was Elvis: all heart, all laughs.
Last I saw him, around ’85 near Plaine Verte’s lively market, he was headed to a masjid, his smile unchanged. He’d embraced Islam with that open spirit, and it fit him perfectly. I wish I could’ve met his family, swapped stories about how he retold my dumb jokes over dinner, cracking them up.
I still hear his laugh, that Napoleon salute flashing in my mind. Bet he’s up there, charming the angels with his British-conning quips. Rest in peace, Elvis—you’re missed, mate.
