Mr Bad

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!