Retaining Village Customers

I just admire it village kiosks. They are ambitious in their own way. The owner is normally school drop out who is loved by all, not of who he is, but for the goods and services he offers.

The kiosk is in many cases found on a corner of the main road leading to nearest town. The kiosk is strategically built in such a way the seller will see customers as they approach from all sides of the roads. There are no adverts at the sides of the kiosk because everyone knows what is sold at the kiosk. The kiosk has modest things that it offers, but more of that later.

The kiosk is normally made of wood or in some cases timber. The door is at the back and for you to enter you have to bend. The plan is to ensure that the upper part of the door has shelves. Space is of paramount importance.

The kiosk is too small that there is no space for sitting down. When the owner wishes to sit he moves out at the nearby bench outside the kiosk. The bench is semi permanently anchored on the ground.

This bench is used as daytime residence of village idlers. That is where you will get the most sophisticated solutions of all problems bedeviling the village, clan, local and national politics. And any other problems of whatever nature you can imagine.

These guys know everyone in the village and the converse is not true. They know what those they know do for a living and what they earn. They even go to an extent of providing details of who sleeps with who and where! Funny thing these guys do not leave that kiosk bench and therefore you wonder how they know those things.

The kiosk lacks a window. The counter is a small timber usually half a foot in width and not more than two feet long. The kiosk, since it is made of wood, occasionally suffers from termite attacks. Mostly the owner's wife is the seller since the husband happens to be a stone mason. The wife enjoys the free gossip she gets from her company.

Now, the kiosk has those essential commodities that village people would require. Basically it cater is the quintessential kadogo economy since the customers are of modest means. The seller goes at great lengths to maintaining and satisfying customers. Supplies are got in main town once a week but fast moving goods are delivered at midday.

It is no wonder, therefore, for the shopowner to devise all tricks to sustain customers. For example you may go to buy a stick of cigarette and the owner concocts a cock and bull story.

“ati you want a cigarette?” she will ask feigning sudden frustration.

“Oh no, you see that man? Have you seen him?” she poses to you pointing to the opposite direction, yet you see no one.

As you shake your head because appropriate remarks are subdued by thirst for a smoke, she tells you

“ He just bought the last stick. The last stick of your favorite brand. Am so sorry please come later, the supplier was late today,” she says in what appears to be genuine concern for your thirst. On your way home you meet one of the idlers coming to the usual spot for some jaw exercises. You tell him that you are dying of lack of smoke. He advises you to go to town.

“My brother, haven't you heard that the supplier has not come for two days because he has not been paid his dues for a week now,” you cant believe your ears.

In retrospect you remember that you were in town two days ago and had bought enough cigarettes to last for a day and half thats why you didn't know the news earlier. You realize you were duped but the kiosk is intent on retaining its customer base.

It is business.

ends

The Art of Taking Muratina

He had defied the laid down stipulations and he had to be kicked out. The process of kicking him out was not easy. He was drunk and yet he insisted he was not, but he was.

He threw tantrums and diplomatic debate ensured, eventually he defied diplomacy and force was used. He was taken “up up” by a group of men and locked out of the house.The day was a Sunday. The occasion was taking of traditional brew otherwise known as Muratina.It was a meeting of about ten men. The brew had been prepared using highest laid down standards. We had all contributed equally except the host who was exempted.

Contributions were both in cash and goods. Cash was to buy honey from the best honey harvester in the village. Money was also to take care for meat and its preparation. Muratina is a strong drink which can manage a TKO (Technical Knock Out) if it finds an empty stomach. An empty stomach involves a stomach filled with petty foods like rice. Muratina needs to find meat and ugali.

Preparation of Muratina is not a job that can be given to your average upstart. It needs an expert. Experts are those who have learnt the art by staying close to their grandfathers over time and learnt each and every step of preparing this wonderful brew.

We were of the same age and few of us knew how to go about preparing the brew, we agreed on the budget and settled for the day which was to be two weeks away. The host was to plapare.

All efforts were directed to this day. There was no taking chance. Sugarcane was bought and crushed according to the customs.

Sugarcane and honey were in order. We even bought our own container. We didn't intend to have any altercations with the host's parents.It had to be a smooth, concealed process. Concealed because at our age we were not supposed to be taking Muratina. Nonetheless being curious as we were we went on with our plans.

The best Muratina is the one that is prepared for at least seven days. This particular brew is dangerous if badly prepared but awesome when all the rules are followed.

It need lots of heat to help in fermentation. Using a particular formula that I don't intend to let on, Miratina, water, honey and sugar are all put in a container and placed near a fire place.

If there is no wood to sustain a continuous fireplace 24/7 then it is advisable to allow the container to be in sunshine during day time.

The day was finally here and we were ready. We had searched and found traditional drinking cow horns for taking the brew.

We had agreed like men of yore that the the purpose of the horn was to be honored. Horn was used to get rid of jokers.

Unlike the ordinary glass, you cannot put down a horn. You have to hold your beer. Once you inadvertently put it down those around you will know you are drunk.

We agreed on this important rule and stated taking this wonderful brew.

We settled for what we hoped to be an eventful evening. A well prepared Muratina tastes like juice. It is sweet. If well prepared a glass and half is enough to attract uncontrollable chatter as serious inebriation takes effect. By the third glass you ought to be drunk.

Our friend had underestimated the potent nature of this brew and he kept his horn down by the second round, he poured the brew on his partner and all hell broke loose. He refused to leave.

He said it was a mistake but we knew it was not. He was finally forced out. After a few minutes a second person put down his horn and the eviction began....

Counting Mathematics In Lower Primary

In the event mathematics was a living being we would have never been friends. Funny enough we would not be enemies either.

We would just be there. Put more plainly we would be like in-laws, deep respect for each other and no questions asked.

This is not the case in the scenario here. Mathematics is not a being, but a subject. It was and and continues to be a compulsory subject from nursery school to high school.

My first interaction with mathematics was in lower primary school. I cant really remember what happened in nursery school. I remember, though crying most of the time in that first year of education.

Unlike nowadays where children have to contend with baby class, pre-unit and such other trappings I started at nursery school.

It was not until in class 2 that I finally realized I was in school for a long time to come when I realized I had to study all the way to class eight.

Our lower primary school teacher was intent on making us not only pass in maths but embrace the same.

He was perturbed that we barely comprehended sums.

He attempted all tricks to make us understand simple sums of addition and subtraction.

He used to encourage us to use our fingers and toes to do maths.

We duly obliged.

If you recall lower primary school mathematics involved numbers below 100.

You would get sums like forty minus twenty eight, sixty plus thirty two and such like.

It was therefore too hard to calculate these sums.

They looked big and menacing, it is like algebra in high school where they used to tell us to expand funny looking equations. Things we have gone through!

At first it seemed easy, counting with fingers. If for example one had to add eight plus seven it was easy to count seven fingers and eight toes then to count all of them at once, you would have your answer.

This tread continued for a few days. Things changed when the teacher decided top give us sums that exceeded the total number of toes and fingers.

He would give us random numbers like forty six plus thirty two.

Thats when my respect for mathematics reached climax. It was not until in high school algebra classes that the hate and respect for maths grew a notch high.

To count forty six you had to count the tips of the fingers which normally amount to ten, then count the furthest joints which am told are celled distal phalanges. The number would now be forty and then you had to count the second joints otherwise known as intermediate phalanges by people who studied sciences more than us. 

 

You would then count the third joints whose scientific name has deserted me a unto six. Remember after the tips of the fingers had been counted then to point at the joints one had to use his chin to isolate and count the remaining numbers.

This you would put down the number in a paper.

The next step would be isolate thirty two. Since fingers had been used it was only proceed to the toes. We never used to wear shoes so counting the numbers using toes was not a problem.

The most disconcerting thing about this method was disruption.

There was a tendency for someone to disrupt you when you were just about to finish counting and then adding your isolated numbers.

Once you were disrupted you would forget all the numbers and the process had to start again. Life.

ends

Taking Bhang the Unconventional Way

Reports that I once took bhang in High School, though true, have been exaggerated.

Many schools of thought have been advanced trying to explain this occurrence but I will put the record straight to silence my critics. We all know that bhang is a banned substance and anyone caught with those leaves is highly punished by the state.

But that realization did not deter students from engaging in that ritual. Though, our mode of partaking in those leaves was different. Iin fact the whole school was involved in a ritual that shocked the school administration. At first I was also perplexed at the behavior exhibited by my fellow students until the truth dawned on me that I had also consumed the illegal smoking substance. Unknowingly.

It started as a joke one Friday evening after evening preps. Boys started barking, well, like dogs.

It all started in a dormitory called Madaraka at around 10.30 pm. Students from other seven dormitories were not amused and dismissed Madaraka as a bunch of attention seeking boys.

That dormitory was made up of the worst bullies and therefore nobody was surprised by their barking antics. But alas! That irritating barking voice spread to nearby Jamhuri and Uhuru dormitories.

You see, after evening classes we were all free to visit the school boiler near the kitchen and fetch a cupful of water for preparing hot chocolate drink. This was done after 9.45 preps and also after 4 pm classes.

The chocolate drink was not compulsory but almost all students with the exception of bookworms indulged in it. What was for sure was 'mkorogo' as we called drinking chocolate was a must, daily. I I digress.

It so happened that on that Friday after taking mkorogo the three dormitories caught that irritating bug of expressing themselves. By 11 o clock Lenana, Kenyatta( my dormitory), Nelion, Batian and Harambee dormitories had joined the barking bandwagon..

Essentially the whole school compound sounded like one big dog training ground as boys outdid each other in barking.I also barked and it felt so good.That night the barking stopped around 12 am and there was no teacher who came to check on us despite the school being a one big barking zone.

The next day, a Saturday, business went on as usual and nobody cared to inquire the reasons for the incessant barking the previous night. That day we were privileged to have an outing. This was a sacred day for students since we could go wherever we wished from 2pm to 5.30 pm in the evening. It was the time to visit various drinking dens and sample variety of illegal concoctions that passed as alcoholic drinks sold in that area.

Despite some boys being inebriated we they could still go for evening preps but that day was different, it was an entertainment day. On entertainment day when freedom reigned in the air, boiler was always empty by 9pm. It was about that time hell broke loose in the entire school compound.

Boys masquerading as dogs were everywhere. Barking could be heard in all corners of the school compound. It was chaotic. Some teachers, male teachers, came to inquire what was the cause of the sudden turn of natural order but no questions were answered and barking resumed immediately they left. They caught no one since they saw no one bark, but they could hear.

The school slept quietly and on Sunday the school was uneventful. On Monday as the teacher on duty was inspecting the dormitories two students from Madaraka dormitory were found asleep during class hours.

After much interrogation they admitted that they were behind the incessant barking in school.

They said that they had put bhang in the school boiler. On Friday half a stone of bhang had been dropped and on Saturday a whole stone had been put in the boiling water meant for mkorogo. They were expelled. Now we all know how I took bhang.

Teachers and their Nicknames

“Those who are assigned duty around Jamhuri dormitory should collect those papers. There are many papers loitering there”, the entire high school assembly burst out in laughter as the teacher on duty, Cation, uttered those words.

“Papers loitering!?,” we wondered aloud.

But Cation was not to be cowered by the slip of the tongue, being a Chemistry teacher, English was not his forte.

He earned himself the nickname Cation because of his insistence for his students to differentiate between Cations and Anions.

The nickname stuck.

Teachers had nicknames and those who didn't have one probably led a plain lifestyle that never elicited notice from students.

Aristotle was a burly Biology teacher who brooked no nonsense from any student. He was feared.

The origin of his nickname was his insistence that Aristotle the famous Greek, was his friend.

“There is this good friend of mine, Aristotle whom I like very much...,” he would thunder in a Biology class and thus thus his nickname stuck.

No student ever wanted to collide with Aristotle. He would beat you mercilessly.

Therefore no student ever called him Aristotle within his earshot, such a move would earn you straight admission in the nearby mission hospital.

One day a fairly new form one student was sent to staffroom by a fourth form student to go and shout in the staffroom that Aristotle was wanted outside.

The young man was saved by several male teachers after it became apparent Aristotle was bent on killing him. We always doubted his “born again” credentials.

There was also Mtimule a Kiswahili nickname aptly named after a kiswahili teacher. We always suspected that Mtimule smoked banned substances because of the way he carried himself. He would enter the classroom and walk around for about five minutes without uttering a single word.

He would then, without warning grab Musyoki's left ear and pinch him for a whole minute.

“Kasyoki unafanya wengine wapige makele?” he would ask Musyoki.

We never really knew why he always chose Musyoki neither did Musyoki.

This phenomena started in form one and ended when we left high school. Mtimule would sometimes go to to the assembly ground and stand there as if addressing students only that students were in classes observing him with amused looks.

Piriton as her nickname suggests always managed to make the whole class doze off moments after she entered the class.

The English teacher would never bother to wake anyone up. She would go on teaching the less than five awake students as if everything was normal around her. A class had over 50n students.

There was Sucrose or Soko as we called him. This Deputy Headmaster and biology teacher never pronounced Sucrose correctly hence his nickname.

Soko was loved and feared in equal measure by his students.

No one had a grudge against him and he always had his way. Once a student would resist caning (caning was still legal in those days) he would suggest that they fight a bare knuckled fight.

One day a student opted for a man to man fight and he had to jump through a window to escape Soko's jabs.

Soko always wore a suit and a tie. I am yet to meet a student who ever came across him without a suit and a tie,

Mtiki, every time this revered name was mentioned it elicited fear from all students. It belonged to the Principal. This veteran former English teacher (he had stopped teaching when we were admitted) was held in high esteem because for his masterly of the queens' language.

He never shied away from using the language to tell us off.

He once called a student a “foolish buffoon who resembles a devil's incarnate”

Birthday Wishes, High School Style

.

He was shaking uncontrollably. He was on the verge of tears. He was drenched in water, his clothes were soaked. To cap it all words failed him, he couldn't beg for mercy anymore.

The occasion was his birthday and boys had conspired to give him a present he would never forget.

A student came from nowhere and splashed him with a bucketful of liquid cow-dung. That was a game changer.

There are a few cardinal rules in high school. The first and adhered by all regardless of station in life is that Form Ones are not supposed to sit, bathe or conduct their business where Form Fours are.

As a Form One, you have to check out when form fours of your dormitory bathe and adjust accordingly. Likewise you cannot sit anywhere they are. Breaking this rule had dire consequences which I wont repeat here.

The second most important rule is not to tel your classmates your birthday. By telling them you have sold the little freedom you have. They conspire to make your birthdays the most unmemorable events during your sojourn in high school.He broke the rule a few months into our stay in High School. He casually told a talkative classmate when his birthday was due. In the first year we did not”celebrate” his birthday. this was simply because Form Ones, as I have alluded above, are supposed to be seen and not heard.

Any kind of excitement coming from Form Ones was crushed with brute force by senior students. We therefore waited patiently for the second year. He had thought his secret was safe but unbeknown to him the talkative guy had let on the secret.We therefore waited patiently until we reached in form two.

Three days to the big day, secret meetings were held to map out strategies of giving him an unforgettable birthday. All this happened without our colleague being in the picture. Buckets were secured and everything was prepared to detail waiting for the big day. The execution had to be meticulous.

On that day buckets with water were placed in his class room. Two were placed behind the classroom door while two others were placed at the farthest two corners of the class. Several others were in his dormitory.

Evening preps went on as usual. Most students were in the loop. Even colleagues from other two streams were aware. Only those who made it their duty to exclusively socialize with their books were unaware. Preps ended at 9.45 pm. Five minutes to time, two students went near the door. The door was secured.

His instincts must have alerted him because he made to the door, but he was too late. The first bucketful of water caught him unawares, as boys clapped and cheered three others splashed on him in quick succession. He was advised to head to the dormitory. On the way to the dormitory, heavily guarded, he was pleading for mercy.

On arrival at the dormitory, the party was not over as he hoped. More water came from all sides.

Then the unexpected moment of the cow dung being splashed on him. We had gathered around him and teasing him but after this single act, the teasing stopped and he was asked to go take a shower.

The rituals were to be repeated in the next two years but the man was clever, he would be away from school for two days around that time.

Watoto Kaeni Chini; Village Movies

Just what happened to the Kenya Film Commission sponsored big screen village movies?Kenya Film Commission may not be aware but those movies exposed some of us to a hitherto unknown night world.

In my hometown the film would pitch tent on 8th of every month. That day was therefore set aside by all male youths as the day of 'film'. That meant that any other activities that were scheduled for the evening of the 8^th of the month were differed to another time.

Since the movie kicked off at 7pm to 9pm preparations would start early in the day. If it was a school day we would hurry up home and get the rabbits enough weeds in time. One would then check if there was enough firewood and finally take a shower.

Since a complete shower involving the whole body would be undertaken on Saturdays with warm water in a karai much ado was not wasted on that day in washing the face and the legs. By washing the legs I mean from the knees downwards. That was our version of a weekday shower.

After being ready, you had to perform a disappearing act at about 6.30pm.

The reason for vanishing from the homestead without informing the parents was to ward off any attempts by our mothers from sending you on mundane errands like to go and check the price of salt in the village kiosk before coming for money. Such activities wasted time.

Upon arrival at town gardens we would then hang around and wait for the free movie to begin.The movie would start at about 7pm with a national anthem belted out of the loudspeakers. Since it was projector movie, the pictures were visible from afar.

The sitting arrangement would look haphazard for a visitor. It was not.

Youths from Various villages sat apart from each other. Such arrangement gave us a false sense of security.

False or otherwise security was of paramount importance since various villages had bad blood between them. You just never knew who was your enemy.But that did not deter young boys of less than ten years going near the screen and being ordered, frequently, by narrator to sit down, hence 'watoto kaeni chini'

The movie was always about American soldier's ordeals in Vietnam. Funny thing the Americans always won in the movie despite history showing that the Americans were badly defeated in Vietnam.

The most funny thing about those movies was that there was a narrator who made do in kiswahili, what the actors were saying. He could predict a scene and guide the attentive audience through the motions , plot and subplots of the movie. It was refreshing to listen to the man.

You could hear things like “hapa mwenya sinema ama ukitaka starring anatega mitego ambayo itaangamiza wakora wengi sana. Ndugu zanguni usisahau starring angali anangojewa na kidosho chake tulipowawacha!”.

After the free movie the real thrill of entertainment would be vanished by the events that would follow.

The assembled crowd which numbered in hundreds would then move to disperse each group to the road leading to its village.At that moment strange things would happen. There is no explanation why bad blood existed between various villages.

That not notwithstanding stones, rotten eggs would be thrown from one side to the other immediately the narrator announced the movie was over.

Woe unto you if a rotten egg landed you.

Village Hotel That Hosts Political Analysts

It is a hotel frequented by primary school dropouts who value their dignity. They go there to listen to old men regale stories of yore. Therefore it is common place to see young men mingle with old men as they engage in political banter.

They value their dignity for multiple reasons. Chief among them is that these young men dropped out of school not because there was no school fees, but the thought of rebelling against their parents seemed to be good when they dropped out of school.

Now many years on they were secretly feeling that they had made the wrong mistake but had the dignity not to admit their mistakes in public. And so they went to the village hotel.

The hotel is a combination of subtle humor.

It is made up of low level tables. The kind that reach just above your knees when you are standing, never mind that you are less than six feet tall.

The tables are three, two put next to each other while the third is put on the other side of the wall.

The seats are long forms which give the impression that they were made for four year old kids. That means that their height is just above the knee. So it is a discomforting situation when old and the young meet and sit to discuss politics.

There is only one waiter who serves the unschooled customers who patronize the hotel. The prices of dishes offered are pocket friendly considering that a cup of tea goes for two shillings and fifty cents while an andazi costs three shillings.

When I once tasted the tea I was held back by the taste. It tasted more like water that the tea it was supposed to be. Milk and sugar had been sprinkled, so to say.

At the counter is a glass wall that allows you to see where the owner who also dubs as the cashier stores mandazi. The kitchen is behind the cashier. There is a small window that allows the cashier to order food from the kitchen which happens to be behind him.

In the kitchen there is only one man who prepares all the menu that is offered in that hotel.

This hotel itself can only host a maximum of 15 people at a time.

The patrons come in to discuss politics since that is the only unifying agenda.

The hotel owner buys the national Swahili newspaper that serves his customers well. 

 

You see, the old men cannot read English papers because when they were supposed to be in class they were busy fighting for Kenya's independence. The young men can neither read nor understand English what with having told their parents that 'tikio thuruari'. Meaning that Education cannot be equated to clothes and therefore not important.

In the hotel arguments abound. The arguments emanate from the Swahili newspaper stories they read.

Political stories with national appeal are debated, analyzed and the verdict is given, from the village view. 

 

Since the hotel is patronized in the evenings when people are relaxing it is always noisy at this time as the patrons engage each other on verbal wars on various political issues. Recently I visited the hotel and realized that the owner has put up a colour television which comes in handy when parliament is in session. 

 

Unfortunately the audience always hears most of the words in passing because internalizing and interpreting the parliamentary English language is a tall order. Therefore you will find the village hotel audience gazing at the screen as lawyers in parliament engage in interpretations of law and such legalese language.

Sometimes there is someone who will volunteer tell the other patrons what is happening in parliament but the meaning of what is actually happening in parliament is lost in translation. Often by a big margin of error. 

Waiting For President Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi

The assembly bell rang at 3 pm. It was a Wednesday and therefore unusual. Lessons had to be adjourned. All students trooped to the assembly ground.

We knew that there must be major news to warrant the assembly. Teachers trooped out of the staffroom in readiness of the Principal's arrival.

After all had assembled, the Principal emerged from the he administration block and walked straight to the podium.

He did not bother with customary greetings.

“I have received a word from the District Commissioner's office to the effect that the Head of State will be visiting this region on Friday. You are therefore required to be at the main junction of the main road so that you can receive the President. Be there from 9am, and be smart,” intoned the no nonsense principal.

When the big day finally came we were happy because we were not supposed to wake up for the usual 5.30 am preps. A mind numbing ritual.

After breakfast we all trooped towards the main junction which is less than a kilometer away.

Soon other schools both primary and secondary joined us.

The official word from our teachers who had joined us was that the president would be there “soon”. “soon” is an ambiguous word as we found out.

As the schools increased so did the restlessness of some of the boys. What with teenage adolescence at its peak.

Therefore, despite girls having been sequestered by their watchful teachers, some boys managed to sneak where the girls were and hold conversations.

As the time moved on so did the sun become uncomfortable. The normal time for tea break beckoned, but we could not move back to school. Our cooks had joined us in the noble task of waiting to clap for the President.

By noon a few had started becoming unruly, we were over 10 high schools anyway.

Some boys mastered the courage to leave the crowd and invade nearby shambas.

The invasion was was not for sport it was to look for sugar cane. They succeeded largely because most of the teachers had become tired and left.

As hunger pangs worked on the student population and so the Provincial Administration was at pains to explain just how soon was soon. We were aware that the President's motorcade is not interrupted by other motorists but we could see ordinary motorists driving both sides of the road.

Some students unable to wait any longer trooped back y to school for lunch. I was one of them. We came back to find students still waiting.

At about 3 pm a government vehicle came and the occupant announced that the president had landed 70 kilometers away and he would stop at various stages “akipokea salamu za wananchi”.

In those days there were no mobile phones and therefore we had to take the crap the government functionary had fed us.

At about 5pm the first signs that the president was really coming emerged. Police officers arrived and started directing vehicles.

We stood attention and grabbed vantage positions. Police vehicles started buzzing past and finally the President's escort vehicles were on the horizon.

The usual push and shove so common with commoners took centre stage .Soon finally was nigh as people ululated for the old man.

He emerged from his limousine while his security men were busy stepping on us.

He greeted a few girls then took a microphone.

In a deep voice he said” ahsanteni sana watu ya hapa. Nimeshukuru kufika hapa kwenyu (loud applause) .

Kama mnavyojua chama cha Kanu ni chama imara. Wanafuzi wote walio hapa mnafaa mjue shule hizi mnasomea zimechengwa na chama ya Kanu. Sina mengi ya kusema saa hii kwa sababu kesho nitaongea mengi katika mkuano kwa staduim”( applause). Ahsanteni sana na mungu awabariki. Ahsanteni mkae vivyo hivyo.”

And with that speech the old man zoomed off. That is how we managed to use our day wisely.

Mother Tongue Speaking, Caught Unawares

The atmosphere was tense. Some were shivering others were struggling to put a brave face.

She had just entered the classroom. Despite having not spoken a word, her presence had altered the mood in the classroom.

She was about 35. That was, according to my 11 year old eyes.

Her presence in any class meant one thing, she has come to cane pupils. If she meant to cane you there was no way you would escape.

On this particular day she wore a flowery dress with a white blouse. Her plump body never allowed her to wear high hilled shoes, she therefore had flat red shoes. She always preferred to adorn stockings and during her school assembly addresses she always told us she that Jesus was her personal Saviour.

There is an air of confidence in people who say Jesus is their personal savior, they do not entertain nonsense, at least in public.

In all my encounters with this English female teacher she always had a white handkerchief, a trait, I always spot on rural girls. I have never understood why they prefer to hold their handkerchiefs with their left hands even when they have their handbags.

This lady was not an ordinary primary school teacher. She also taught music but thats not was extra ordinarily about her - she only taught the senior classes of standard seven and eight.

Therefore when on this day she entered our standard five classroom we felt respected by her presence though we collectively knew she was up to no good.

This is because the school administration had appointed her as the official campaigner against vernacular speaking.

All of us, by virtual of been brought up in a rural area spoke, mother tongue. The school administration had felt that for us to prosper academically we had to forfeit speaking our mother tongue or Swahili for the time we were in the school compound.

Thus, the official anti mother tongue speaking campaigner used all methods to her disposal to fight the “vice” within the school compound.

On this particular day when the class was tense, she had entered with her trademark white handkerchief constantly wiping what looked to me as non existent sweat. She also held a small paper and and a cane.

The small paper could not hold more than ten names on both sides but it being in her hands sent shivers down the spine of the fifty odd pupils in that standard five classroom.
“If you know you have spoken mother tongue in the last two days can u come forward and kneel down,” she said.

Rumor had it that the lady teacher had put spies across the school who reported to her on who spoke mother tongue. Nobody ever knew who these spies were.

Since nobody really knew whose name was on the paper we all stood and went in front including Pauline, our respected class prefect.

It was a sunny afternoon and the bad odor emanating from some of my classmates was nauseating.

We all knelt at the front of the classroom and we were so many that the teacher's table had to be hang on the wall to accommodate 50 pupils who had committed the worst crime of all-Speaking mother tongue in a rural day primary school.

We were all caned three strokes of cane each and warned never to repeated the mistake. As she left the classroom she “accidentally” dropped the paper that we all feared.

Later after the pain had subsided one of the most disciplined pupils in the class but had been caned nonetheless went to pick the paper in order to take it to the teacher.

She alerted the attention of Pauline who immediately on examining it changed her face in disgust. Nothing had been written on the small paper. Meanwhile the teacher was in the next class...

art of taking a cold shower in high altitute, with an attitude.

Shower shower

The idea and the actual act of taking a cold shower is a ritual I dread. Every morning since way back in high school through college and now, I have always been frustrated by the thought of taking a cold shower.

Mind you, I cant warm the water because that will effectively dash any thoughts on the minds of those who respect me that I am a full blooded African male. A full man, as we say where i come from.

My fear for cold showers was not informed until I went to high school. Up to that time had resigned myself to the comfort of warm water in a basin.

As you may not be aware, when I was growing up tapped water was an illusion in my village. We had boreholes and they still exist, though the government through Constituency Development Fund had ensured we now have tapped water.

Anyway, when I joined high school at the twilight of the 20^th century a rude shock awaited me.

I was admitted at a school at the cold slopes of Mount Kenya.

The high altitude means that the weather was cold all year round. I soon realized that the school provided hot water only for those who had a doctor's letter against cold water. Whether the letters were always valid is an issue I never bothered to delve into.

The rest of us had to carry ourselves across the bridge of perpetual cold showers.

We were required to take showers before form threes and form fours came to the showering area. Therefore the nasty ordeal of showering always took place before 5 am before the “elders” woke up.

Since fear had been instilled in us, we never feared cold water, though the water was always ice cold.

A cardinal rule was that you could not fail to shower since that would put you on a messy collision course with the senior brutes.

Then came 'our time' when we became seniors ourselves at form three.

All of a sudden we regained our freedom and funny characteristics which we always dimmed as juniors emerged among us.

Now cold water became a problem.

We now changed showering time from the ungodly hour of 4.30am to 5.30 pm after evening games.

This, we argued was ideal time since we had just been out sweating in the field and therefore it was natural to take a shower at that moment of time.

The antics that students used to enter a shower were hilarious if not embarrassing.

The first thing was to announce from the top of your voice to all and sundry in the dormitory that you are going to take a cold shower.

One would then proceed to strip and tie the towel over their waist. The journey to the bathroom was overcome through jogging.

We were always more than two boys. We argued that by jogging we retained the sporting spirit from the field.

Upon arrival to the bathroom we would then start performing Push Ups. The aim was to retain the warmth in our bodies.

All this was done without any juniors school student at the vicinity. So after jogging for about five minutes we new that the hard part had just beckoned.

The bathroom area was a large room with three walls and an open entrance. In it there were no shower as we know it. The shower caps had disappeared and therefore all that was left was a pipe ending.

That made the water to pour in one thunderous line as opposed to having numerous sprinkles in normal showers.

Therefore, when one entered the showering area you had to move your body sideways to ensure the water touches on all body surface area, but before that happened boys became almost hysterical.

Since we respected each other no one pushed the other to the pouring water fall. The onus was to the individual to immerse himself to the line of the poring water.

This was gradually achieved by first slowly putting your leg forward and letting the tip of your big toe touch the gushing waters.

The ordeal was done meticulously as it was meant to check the temperatures of the already cold water. Whatever the outcome of the temperatures was, after being checked with the big toe, loud screams could be heard from the bathrooms.

The next step was to put forward the tip of the longest finger this again was followed by equally loud screams and curses. The reason for all these shenanigans escape me up to today..

During this spectacle one was careful to ensure that you do not accidentally sprinkle water on your age mates.

Finally one could then muster courage by bending the elbows as they do in television Wrestlemania and jump to the gushing cold water.

The screams, songs and curses that could be heard at from those often dirty bathrooms would dwarf those produced by Kenya National Theater actresses as they act in high school play books.

That is how we overcame the fear of taking cold shower at high altitude. Nowadays I still remember those moments every timer I strip for a shower. A cold shower.

ENDS

getting rid of.... my potbelly

Soon I will be employing measures to flatten out my nascent potbelly and avoid television cameras.

This drastic measure has been informed by various but connected behaviors by my peers and folks in the village where I was born and schooled.

These connected behaviors emerged and increased as my potbelly emerged and started to increase.

Where I come from potbellies are seen as a sign of wealth, sence of knowhow and above all influence in 'high places'.

Meaning, that an individual with a potbelly, regardless of the cause, is viewed in a different light from the ordinary mortals.

Villagers do not care to verify whether the potbelly is caused by worms, red meat or illegal, chemical rich, cheap brews. They are only interested with the fact that you have a bulging belly.

Every time they see you with a potbelly they say, without bothering with pleasantries, “boss umefika” “sasa utatusaidia”.

From then on they will give you all their problems, since, somehow, they think your potbelly will open doors for you and in the process solve their myriad of problems. The problems are diverse as I will let you on later.

Now my case is different since I also happen to be a journalist and according to them am not an ordinary journalist like Kamau wa ngatheti who plies his trade in the nearby town. (Kamau is a respected newspaper journalist in my home district}.

My not being an ordinary journalist is informed by the fact I work in Nairobi. The big city. The source of wealth and influence.

I have never told them my profession but I recently learnt how they found out.

You see, I used to attend government spokesman's Alfred Mutua's Thursday press briefings.

Now, those briefings are taken seriously by rural folks since they believe the government is talking. It was there that people in my village and other neighboring villages saw and heard me ask a question.

They also have been seeing me in press conferences addressed by by cabinet ministers

They see me in what is called cutaways in journalism parlance.

This is where a clip of those attending a gathering is shown to television audience when the speaker is talking..

Now my cutaway was once broadcast at a presidential function as I recorded furiously on my notebook a presidential joke!

That and other cutaways with ministers and such other wealthy and influential people have graced television screens in my village and villages bordering it.

The few passing seconds am on television and now my emerging potbelly have convinced my village mates that I am a very important person. In fact when I pass people stop to point fingers at me . Parents are now telling their children to study as hard as me! Am a role model.

My diverse problems, therefore, are informed by the fact that all manner of persons are coming to me for help every time I go visiting my loved ones.

Girls want lunch from me - I am wealthy.

Boys want endless supply of beer from me - I am 'the boss'

Form four leavers want me to find them jobs - I am influential.

Teachers want me to give a inspirational talk to students - I am a role model.

Parents want me to counsel their children - I do not know what they see in me.

Parents want me to secure employment for their children - am influential.

In a neighboring village I recently visited I found out I am a celebrity. A village celebrity after all they see me on television.

Now you know the source of my diverse problems and how a am solving them by flattening my tummy coupled with avoiding television cameras.