I
am elated to inform you all that we are back together after a long period of separation
with my long time soul mate. Our separation lasted the entire President Kenyatta’s
term. I am not blaming his administration for our separation thou. I am not
that kind that blames the government for everything negative that happens even
to their private lives - Although the
coincidence here speak volumes. Like everybody else, I am tempted to pass
the blame to Number 2 but again I’m reminded ‘Yaliyo ndwele sipite.’ The
turbulent that hit us harder than Hurricane Katrina and her twin sister Rita
hit United States and Mexico respectively is now behind us.
We
promise this time to stick together. Nothing will lay us asunder not even the
son of Jaramogis’ presidency. In fact we have just enunciated our oath to
sticking together no matter what. God willing we shall be here on this platform
more regularly to affirm our endless love towards each other and prove wrong all the
doubting Thomases who thought our past would define our future. Ladies and
gentlemen I am talking of none other than the one and only friend – My Black Speedo Pen. Together we took a
break of putting something on paper for our fans to read here in this blog that
we started in 2012. The sabbatical is now over and we are looking forward to
getting back into serious writing. Welcome back good people to part 3 of my
growing up.
Life
in school was getting adventurous by day. There was evidently something about
getting into class six. I dreaded getting into that class long before while in
class 4. I stumbled upon my sisters’ class 6 science book in her school bag and
I kinda got curious about the drawings I saw in the book. I finally got
promoted to class 6 two years later and life couldn’t be any better. We walked
heads up and shoulders high with an ego of a cock that had just learn't to crow. We considered ourselves grownups for a mere fact that we were being
taught reproductive health. It is during this time that I started protesting to
my mother that I wouldn’t share a bed with my younger brother whom I then
considered a kid.
What
was funny about the topic on reproductive health if I may ask? Boys and girls
in class kept laughing and stealing suggestive glances during all lessons until
we got done with this topic. Maybe the topic was misplaced to be taught in
class six where 95% of us had not undergone most of the physical body changes
we were taught save for a few boys who had broken their voices and now sounded
like frog croaks and some girls whose chests had started lifting their blue
blouses.
I
nostalgically remember all my days of this year like it were yesterday. I
remember all my classmates and my every subject teacher. However one teacher
stands out. Not because he was better than the rest, but because he left a
permanent mark in everyone. He was likable and pupils would easily identify
with.
He
was my GHC teacher. He was passionate about his job. In fact as I write this I
can vividly see him narrate how Ethiopians defeated the Italians in the famous
Battle of Adowa. I can hear him talk of the ‘Hehe resistance, the Kabaka
kingdom, the majimaji rebellion, the mwene mtapa kingdom, the mau mau uprising’
and several other relevant/irrelevant topics 8-4-4 insisted we should know to
be ‘fully baked’ only to be subjected to the desert of joblessness thereafter.
Mr
Hussein Adams Mbaya (BAD) is a teacher that taught you a thing and it got stuck
on your mind. He loved his miraa and his cigar. He actually owned a Nissan
mini-pickup that was nicknamed ‘Wembe’ that he transported miraa with to
Nairobi on Fridays after his prayers. Occasionally during his lessons we would
go out of school for what he called nature walks. The walks were not in any way
related to class work. We looked forward to them, it felt heavenly to walk
around listening to his unending tales.
You
would however taste his wrath if you crossed his path. During his week on duty
the punishment if you turned up late in the morning was to sit at the middle of
the pitch and read from there the entire morning preps until the bell for the
parade goes off. This was regardless of the weather, rainy or not.
Of
all the events this one here stands out. It’s one of the most unforgettable
events during my primary school days
During
one of his lessons he announced he had talked to the then Chief of Defence
Forces and he had agreed in giving him one of the military choppers to ferry us
to Somalia. How one chopper would carry a whole lot of us remains a mystery.
Our naivety coupled by our young age couldn’t allow us think beyond our cold noses.
This
maiden trip was arranged in a record two weeks. We were to inform our parents
for arrangements for an extra uniform. You would have seen the look my mother Rosalia
gave me when I delivered the news to her – that look that speaks. I never dared
remind her even as the days drew near and the anxiety kept growing.
The
D-day finally came and you would tell that all and sundry was ready for the
trip to the land of Al-shabab. Everyone was neat, even those dirty boys who turned
up in class smelling of excreta. Remember them? A few whose parents fell into
their trap had small bags and in them was an extra uniform and maybe binoculars
stack between the clothes that they would use to zoom Abdala grazing his
father’s cows on the shores of River Shebelle.
News
of our trip had spread by leaps and bounds in the entire school and by
extension to the neighbouring schools. We were the envy of the entire
institution that Monday morning. We class 6 Elephant members became celebrities
overnight, we even mocked members of class 6 Tiger who were not joining us for
the trip because they had a different GHC teacher.
The
school program kicked off normally and the teachers reported to class for the
morning session lessons. No one’s mind was in class - you would tell by the
look on your classmates anxious shinning faces. After the 10 am break, we had a
GHC double lesson in accordance with a handwritten two page timetable stuck on
the wall next to a class duty roster titled “Sweepers” near the black board.
No
single soul in class had set their eyes on Mr. Bad. I kept telling myself maybe
he had gone to the big city so he would accompany the pilot and give him
directions to the little known village school.
Ten
minutes into the lesson and Mr. Hussein Adams Mbaya (Bad) shows up clad in his
usual Miguna Miguna like cap (Taqiya), a long white woollen jacket, black khaki
pants and brown open shoes - size eleven I guess. In his hands a GHC text book,
his Kasuku note book and two long whistling pine canes.
“Good
morning class” He saluted.
“Good
morning sir” It was a rule of thumb that our answer should be so loud that
every being in the compound would hear.
We
remained standing awaiting instructions to sit in vain. It is then that he took
to the blackboard amid a quiet class and wrote these letters in bold and
underlined - maybe even italicized,
“BANANAS IN SOMALIA.”
He
turned to us and reminded us that the much awaited day had finally come. He
opened his remarks with his usual phrase “Nkamba (Rubbish)”
“Nkamba
we are going to Somalia. You all remain standing, your necks tilted sideways
and your heads bowed like you are peeping through the windows in a chopper.
Anything I tell you the answer should be “Yes mwalimu – am I clear?”
“Yes
mwalimu” we all answered
Off
we went, “Mr pilot can you please take us near River Juba and River Shebelle?”
“Yes
mwalimu” he answered himself
“My
pupils can you see that Somalia is a dry area?”
“Yes
mwalimu”
“My
pupils can you see Abdala taking care of his father’s cattle at the shores of
River Shebelle?”
“Yes
mwalimu”
“My
pupils can you see Miriam fetching water in River Juba”
“Yes
mwalimu”
This
went on for almost an hour save for a few interruptions to discipline those who
defied the orders of not looking down or answering to the ‘Yes mwalimu’ chorus.
The beating was what teachers in our days referred to as thorough. You would bend,
touch your toes, one cane would be stroking your back so you don’t stand and
the other cane would be doing justice to your sitting apparatus.
After
almost an hour of standing (Read, being in Somalia), Mr Bad requested us to
take our seats (we
finally landed) and we embarked on copying notes he started writing on the
topic, ‘Bananas in Somalia.’ His handwriting and his name had one thing in
common - BAD.
Finally
the lesson came to an end. And that ladies and gentlemen is how the sons and daughters
of peasant farmers in Muthara Primary School made their first virtual trip to
Somali land and back in a record 60 minutes shame written all over their
innocent faces. We became a laughing stock to the entire institution for the
remaining part of that term.
Long
live Mr Bad!
