The Crush

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It’s a chilly Saturday morning in Nairobi. I am literally shivering as I put this down. A mug of coffee besides my keyboard to keep me warm and enable me recollect events that took place a decade and half ago. Coffee tickles my nerves and performs miracles on my memory. It makes me remember the smallest bits of events that took place years ago.

Its days like these that make me miss my childhood back in the village. In such weather I would be in our mud-plastered kitchen by the fire place, my bamboo-like legs on two of the three stones fireplace (Ûkinya maari). Probably my hands busy turning a corn roasting by the fireplace. Talking of maize, there was nothing as hard as plucking the first line in a maize cob to give way to comfortably eating it. My sister always took advantage of me on this. She usually offered to pluck the first line for me (Ûntûlira mûûrû) only to end up removing five lines. Too harsh for me she was on this. Before I forget now that this has become a maize paragraph, I want someone here to include my mums’ name in the Head of State Commendation list during this year’s Mashujaa day celebrations for having discovered something no one else knew about maize. Mum discovered there is no maize cob that has 13 lines ever. Anyone here knew this fact before? You must have heard it from me or someone in our lineage. I am patenting this first thing on Monday before some guys here pull a Ludwig Krapf on her.

Amid all these maize roasting ordeals on Saturday mornings, the radio as usual would be the best company. Playing on our grey Panasonic transistor radio would be KBC General Service. The program I would be listening to a time like now back then would be Storm Time. This programme was hosted by the illest radio hosts of our time; Charity Karimi and John Karani. These two guys made this programme the best of our time, their chemistry was unmatched. I thought they would have made a wonderful couple, just the way I think Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers would have been a heavenly twosome.

John Karani in more ways than one inspired me. His eloquence and professionalism was unsullied. This guy is the reason I later pursued a course in Mass Communication. Although I did not specialize in Radio Production during my final year and instead opted for TV Production, this guy played a pivotal role in helping me land in a destination I wouldn’t be prouder of.

My liking for radio deepened while I was in class 7. Many are the days I didn’t finish my maths assignment because I was busy at night listening to radio.  I had a way though of evading Mr. Mukiiras’ wrath for not finishing my assignment thanks to Faith (Nchulubi). My desk mate and partner in crime Mwiti was no better. We would sweet talk Faith who always had her assignment done to lend us her book to copy during morning preps.

It is while in class 7 that I first experienced something I would most definitely liken to falling in love.  I didn’t know there existed something that would change one into a completely different being.

His Royal Highness got a crush. This ‘crushing’ made me improve on virtually everything that I did henceforth. Assignments? Check! Cleanliness? Tick! And over and above I became an early riser. There was an outbreak of pupils from class 6 to 8 coming to school as early as 5.30 with torches to aid them read, I joined this clique of dawn-comers. Not because I wanted to but because my crush was in the club, she lived in my hood so we would walk together to school most of the mornings.

At this age, I never quite understood what love was, I however felt strongly attracted to this girl. You see, she was beautiful, smart, gentle and kind. Probably the prettiest I had laid my eyes on then – Of course before the beautiful ones were born. Everything about her seemed so unreal. But there she was, true and real.

She made me join the 4K Club (I vividly remember the 4K Club song (anthem), oh bwoy! It was mellifluous and we sung it so passionately). She literally became my pace-setter, I wanted to be virtually everywhere she was. I remember my sukuma wiki garden next to hers with Calliandra calothyrsus (Kaliandera karolithana) plants marking our boundary. Class seven felt heavenly, my love for school deepened, I improved on my grades and personal hygiene significantly. I became so religious that I even became an altar-server. I felt so proud of myself and everybody was happy for me, probably even my crush was.

My life in class 7 to date remains one of the most memorable year of my primary education, majorly because of the crush. However it brought me a regret I have lived with to the present day. The regret of never having gathered courage and telling her what I felt. I loved her but I couldn’t tell her. I was shy, and I don’t know why. This lady had joined Muthara Primary School in January that year and left in January the following year as we joined class 8. Such a short period.

She never told me about her leaving. Maybe because she never felt what I did or because she never cared about feelings anyway. I heard from her girlfriends that she had differed with her aunt who she stayed with. This forced her to go back to her former school which was in the neighbouring county (There were no counties then).

I remember reporting to school that morning as usual. Happy that I had made it to class 8. Conspicuously missing was my crush. I however consoled myself that probably she would report the following day since many pupils had a tendency of not reporting on the first day. Hell broke loose the following day when she came to school and spent the better part of that morning outside the head teachers’ office. Unbeknownst to me she was seeking a transfer letter to go back to her former school.

She finally got the letter mid-morning, came to class, stood beside the door, waved at us and left without uttering a single word. I can’t explain how bad it felt, how my stomach did back flips and how my heart thumped unevenly in my chest. I knew this would be the last time we would see each other again. As I write this I see her clad in a green dress, a green sweater, a light-blue blouse and black rubber shoes standing beside the door as she lifts that pretty hand of hers over her gorgeous face and wave at us.

I rose from my desk, peeped through the window and watched her disappear from the school compound. I sat, leaned my head on the table and wept. I literally fell sick. I stayed home after lunch that afternoon and slept. If that was not love then I don’t know what is. Fate was against me, everything changed within a very short period. It’s now almost a decade and half and I haven’t set my eyes on her nor heard of her whereabouts.

I have searched for her in all social media platforms in vain. Maybe she is that type that calls themselves Beyonce Bonita on Facebook, Empress Rihanna on IG and probably Etana yule Msweet on Twitter. I wish she would just know how much she has put me through over the years. If she knew she would have used her real names and maybe her real photos to save me the agony.

Name withheld for my security sake. You never know, she might be Nelson Marwas’ third wife or worse Jimmy Wanjigis’ mpango wa kando. Who wants to go to jail for writing stories about dangerous peoples’ wives anyway?

To those I went to school with, especially my class 7 mates, I know you all know who I am talking about. If you happen to know the corner of planet earth she stays in, kindly let me know. I will deeply appreciate.

To you my crush if we will never ever again cross each other’s paths under the sun, tutaonana siku ya Kiama. Inshallah!!