Stepping Out

It was about fifteen minutes to eleven o’clock. The classroom was full and the air was filled with the smell of sweat and of different jelly we had applied on ourselves. A smell of Kimbo in one corner, that of Arimi's in another and a random Rune and Rays from a few girls. The noise was going out of control, and the class prefect gave her usual threat, ‘Nyamazeni ama nitaanza kuandika noise makers.’ Meanwhile, Mr Mugambi John (Jitu) the English teacher entered and the loud noises turned into a pin drop silence.

‘Good morning class’ He saluted.

‘Good morning sir’ we answered while standing.

After requesting us to take our seats, he turned to the blackboard and what he saw did not excite him.

‘Who drew this caricature?’ (It was my first time ever to hear that word) He asked.

His question went unanswered.

‘I am asking for the second time, who drew this caricature?’

No one opened their mouth.

‘Kneel down all of you’ He commanded.

Before anyone could kneel down, I raised up my hand. I did what Ezra Chiloba has refused to do amid all the demonstrations rocking our major towns across the country.

‘Kaburu! Kaburu! Kaburu! So it’s you? Get out. Go home and come with a box of chalk!’ He shouted.

I shed tears as I walked home. I knew mum would swallow me alive. How on earth could we afford a whole box of chalk? I knew it would not cost anything less than a few thousand shillings. A thousand in the early years of 21^st Century was quite some big money. Nevertheless, I went home and broke the bad news to mum. I told mum how I had collected a small piece of chalk below the blackboard and the teacher caught me doing a sum using the same on the blackboard and sent me home to buy a whole box.

Mum was in high spirits that day. She asked less questions and told me how it’s bad to lose lessons as a candidate. She said a few unkind words about the teacher, handed me a two hundred note and ordered me to go to the bookshop and inquire how much a box of chalk cost.

‘If it costs more than two hundred shillings, tell whoever is in the shop I will cover the balance later.’ She instructed. The bookshop belonged to a family friend.

Believe it or not I bought a box of Someni school chalk at fifty shillings only. I laughed all the way to Makena’s Ngumu shop the rest of the week. I cheated mum that the box was retailing at two hundred and fifty and the bookshop owner agreed to sell it to me at two hundred shillings after a heated negotiation.

You would see how I bounced back to school that afternoon, my ego literally went out of the roof. Having gone home earlier than everybody else that morning, I was the first to arrive in school after lunch. And for that no student saw me with the box of chalk, I dashed into Mr Mugambi’s office, handed over the box and went to class.

The look that my classmates gave when they found me in class was that Oh my God! Look. They couldn’t fathom how I would be sent to buy a box of chalk some minutes to eleven and there I was some minutes past one o’clock having bought a whole box of chalk.

‘’How much was it?”  One classmate inquired.

“Two thousand” I cheated him without blinking (Mimi ni nani!) They thought it was a whole big carton when in real sense it was a small box the size of a serviette pack. And just like that my name got admitted to the list of pupils who came from very rich families (Saa ngapi!).

This is one of the many incidences I so vividly remember about Mr Mugambi. He was a teacher and half. It is because of him I can construct an English sentence that makes sense. He is the kind of a teacher I would wish my kids to be taught by.  He so loved what he did, he was born to do it. I remember how we would go to school very early in the morning and he would teach us for a whole one hour before normal lessons would commence. In the evenings after normal lessons he would again be in class all this time without an extra pay.

Far from class, Mr Mugambi was a disciplinarian, he was a no nonsense teacher. He caned us and pinched our ears for various indiscipline cases among them using your mother tongue, having not tucked your shirt/blouse, noise making among others. It is while in class 8 that lateness became a capital offence. Mr Mugambi would send you back home to collect a Jembe that you would use to dig a 1ft wide and 1ft deep hole and plant a banana tree. Oh! And those banana plants plus the flowers outside our classrooms made the school look so green and beautiful.

Before I forget, I must add that Mr Mugambi taught all my siblings, all the six of us from the first to the last born. Several other teachers in the school did among them Mr Muthaa, Mr Mwika (Kabitutu), Mr Mugambi (Thirungu) and Mr Rukunga.

Far from being the discipline master Mr Mugambi doubled as the deputy head teacher, he deputised one of the best head teacher of our lifetime, Mr Muthaa. A true son of the soil. Mr Muthaa was to Muthara Primary School what Bob Collymore is to Safaricom.

Muthaa is a true visionary, he carries with him an ability to formulate and shape the future. Always with the willpower and patience to see things through. He inculcated into us the doctrines of honesty, hard work and obedience. He never tires to remind us of these virtues to date.

I remember his CRE lessons in class 8 and the good stories that he shared with us. The fun we made in class minutes to his lessons. We would take turns to write the words ‘What we have learnt’ and ‘what I am supposed to do’ on the blackboard before his arrival. These are the words he would always write after reading us a story from his book.

His wise counsel was out of this world. He always ended his address with his usual Kimeru phrase, ‘Buwikua luui chiana!’ This was maybe to ensure whatever he said sunk into our heads. I can’t forget how he called our names syllable by syllable while stressing the first one. The parents’ names would leave one floored.

NTO-A-ta-ya A-ta-ya

MA-ri-mba NTO-i-the-wa

Andrew MU-thi-mu

I celebrate these two teachers plus many others for their immense contribution to who we are today. May God grant them a long healthy life.

Disclaimer: Mr Mugambi if you happen to read this forgive my typos and the many ungrammatical sentences. They don’t at all represent what you taught me back in the day. The mistakes are my own and I entirely take responsibility.

The Crush

Photo Courtesy

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!!

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!