Birthday Wishes, High School Style

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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.