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.