In the name of civilization…..

So it is a Friday afternoon and I am sitting in the parking lot of Walmart store; Walmart is a store or rather a supermarket where you can find anything and everything from food to furniture to vehicle spare parts. They also have extensive parking spaces and it is convenient for some folks to sit and idle for a little while after a long ride. Some choose to pull over these spots when they are lost in the streets to stop and refresh their memory. I chose this spot today because my friend is not quite familiar with this place and he only knew his way to the store. So I arrived here on time and I picked up a book to read a couple of pages as I listen to some music. After a few minutes one car pulled besides my car, a lady driving it. I presume from her look that she was anxiously waiting for something. Highlight the ‘SOMETHING’ because it is relevant to what I am going to unveil to you. It took a few minutes then a truck pull beside and a boy of about 5 years came  out from the back seat and his dad whom I confirm from how they boy called him followed him with a book bag. What really pinched me is how the boy gave a long hug to his dad and in between he stared to his mom with love and at the same time with a face that said “I love you both but why all this?” All his dad said was “See you on Sunday evening …… bye daddy I loves you”. Remember there was no exchange of words between the two parents.

My question is, how did we ended up here? What future is left for our children if they grow up in such unnecessary parental conflict and hate amongst parents. I would rather say they better stay in one place than to be taken as products of exchange for pleasure and company.

Part 2: The Good Ole Times.

Do you recall these: Sololoi has been living in Kajiado since he was a baby, no Pencils for Amoit and Atyang, Kibagenge co-operatives, Adventure in the forest (Ewoi) and grandmother’s basket? If you can recall these stories, we are on the same page, perhaps you might have a better recollection than I do. This is the beginning of class four. Hormones control nearly everything, everybody is scared of doing something foolish, no one wants to sit in front, boys don’t want to sit with girls and older boys want to be back–benchers. This is where you begin to hate school and your English teacher, but if you think about break and games time you will rather suck it up and have the lean part later. You would rather be in school and break the language than be at home chasing sheep and goats up and down. The girls themselves are separated according to age, the boys also group themselves in mini – age-sets. The older ones, especially the circumcised men stay at furthest isolated elevation (hill) in the school compound and the almost ‘ripe’ boys and girls are beginning to isolate themselves from the young and hyperactive pupils. Put yourself in any of the groups and I will probably detail a few episodes that might help you recollect your good times.

I would rather begin with days you would have hated school, top on my list is when you had a double English lesson. To make it worse is when you had a passage to read and a few dictation to begin with. As a norm, everyone gets a sentence to read. And you would pray to God, wishing to get the shortest line or paragraph and not come across these words: Veranda, Several, Listen, Enough and so many others. Of course it was different for some people because I remember one day my friend, whom we trusted with pronunciation threw everybody out with wrong pronunciation and we all followed him. The teacher asked him how to pronounce the word UNTIL and how we ended saying OONDIL God knows and yeah, everybody got a few sticks in the buttocks.

Secondly, arriving at school late on a Monday, when everybody is already on the assembly line. You are late and everybody is staring at you, my favorite teacher Mr. Kitur won’t give you a second chance to explain how kuni was not dry or how mom was late for tea and the stupidest excuse is “I was sick”. Assembly was a comedy dais, a church, a court and cell at the same time. I recall one day when the Head teacher was asking this young girl why she didn’t bring the activity fees: she had a very clear, honest answer “ kale mama ndochob Tugun aibun”(Mom says when she makes and sells busaa I will bring the money” funny isn’t but kids are amazing. There was also an incidence when you had to learn that chawa (lice) had the instincts and moments to embarrass. They would come out of some boy shorts or sweaters and take a tour around their scalp: ooh boy you would want to laugh or help but in the assembly line any movement was a cause for suspicion and you would be punished terribly. There were times when we had to lie down facing up and the teacher would check your neck by scratching with a pencil, beat you and warn not come to school dirty. Did we really care? Not. There was too much to be happy about than shower so we only reserved it for Saturday and Sunday and the other days it was parts of the face excluding the surrounding of the eye. Almost all the time you would miss the gastrocnemius or the ‘sekwembe’, even if you are only applying some lotion, sorry the Arimis milking jelly. Tractor grease or oil works best for folks like me who spent days in the marshy swamps and would have their legs looking like the back of a tree: rough and dry, requiring soaking before a real shower. I used to enjoy rainy days, especially if you are in the swamp, your legs would be moistened and makes it easy to clean.

There were several types of punishments that accompanied each offense, the most common one was “Hold Your Ears”: it was not easy to do so, you had to bend down and  stretch your hands  down and under your thighs and up to your ears, it is impractical to imagine, but the purpose was to get you buttocks tight and accessible. The other common one was kiss the wall as it is, lay down, locking your head in between teacher’s knees and putting your head under the table. Others included ruler strokes on the dorsal of your hand and also the pinching which was used on a rare occasion because it was too mild for chronic offenders.  Kenyans are funny people, they always have a survival tactic for instances wearing two shorts or putting on a cow skin or books under your back or buttocks. There were other forms of good punishment for instance weeding flowers and slashing grass. They were very good, especially in the morning when you had a Math and English class. Sometimes you were told to run around the buildings or the track and it wasn’t that good because it was a form of public humiliation. Similar punishments were very common at home, the only difference is that at home it was very severe and life threatening. You can imagine your mother, stepping on you at night and with serious strokes and they don’t care whether you are bleeding or not and you can’t escape because it is dark outside. There were days when you would be told to go back to where you came from, I wish they would knew you were starving. To the extreme were the mental tortures that came as a form of discipline. There is sherehe in your neighbor’s house and all your friends are full and playing and you are just across the fence looking after the cows and all you do is imagining and cursing internally, wishing for a day you will have your own sherehe and thinking of not inviting your parents. Hey, they were terrible, but I guess they make us disciplined and adaptable to all kinds of lives in this world. They make us hard core.

I hated this most: showing up in assembly line on a Monday with wet clothes that smelling like TABUT or barbecue grill, and you really don’t know why. It is just that Friday always looked like a closing day, and on Sunday evening is when you think of school….there you have the answer. Secondly, when you have a mandatory parent’s day, and your parents are the kind that talk a lot in meetings, pray it is not closing day and your score is impressive. Scores really didn’t worry me a lot, it is mom/dad speaking in front of all the students with broken Swahili and English, that’s when you really want to run away. I haven’t finished yet, you still have this letter you wrote to this girl and put in an envelope that you made from a piece of paper and decorating around the edges with blue and red pen. If it happens that you lose this letter you will find it in the ‘Lost and Found box’ in the principal office. Sometimes you gave it to your intended recipient and if her hormones aren’t there yet, she will staki wewe (report you), wish they will not read it in public and hope it won’t.

The fun part of being in school, especially at this level, largely is when there was a strike or teachers’ meeting. You had nothing to do, but jump from class to class, desk to desk and making the loudest noise. If your hormones were active it was the perfect day to find a mate, I mean to smile to a beautiful girl of your choice as long as you were not in contention with gigantic fellow. I won’t recollect what sort of dates these were, it was too early to imagine marriage and wealth. I only remember we had to spend much talking about what your dad is planning and how to fantasize how successful you and your family will be. You had to do this because it makes kesha or Vijana parties entertaining. You cannot attend crusades at night with a lot of happiness if the girl you are interested with won’t be coming. Having a date at class 7& 8 was good for December parties. I mean those small groups of boys/men who would arrange for small contributions to buy bread, soda and rent a battery to play music. It was really fun, inviting girls to this night-dance and get together. This is where I learnt to use the words ‘better late than never’ and also the goodness of serving hot tea before real meals, it reduces eating capacity. Other than village parties were the Muziki in the boys’ cottage, you buy two or three Eveready pakapower or Bell batteries and there you have a long night of entertainment, to avoid interruptions hire an FFU (fanya fujo uone) for a bottle of changaa and he will make sure there was no one interruptions. Sometimes it was worth interrupting some other guy’s party or Muziki with some sort of local engineer tactics. Just get a few spoilt eggs and throw in the house and the whole place will smell horrible. Others would even get some pepper and when you drop this into a dance floor everyone will be sneezing. To the extreme was the use of bees which I didn’t do, some guys would get bees in a polyethylene bag and unleash in the party house or singira.

But the real deal is on the day of Mchezo, you have all these schools coming and you spend a good deal with you village boys picking fights irrelevantly with your age mates. It wasn’t common among the older pupils, but the young folks really had good fun with terrible acts. For instance, you snatch Mangoes from others and run away or pick up spoilt fruits thrown away and bite them to taste if it’s really bad. The rule was so simple, pick anything that’s lying loosely be it food or something and take it. And I wonder what was magical about this glucose powder they used to give to players/ runners after the sport.

In the end, remember I do not write to ridicule the past but to cherish the moments that makes us distinct and enduring in all sets of cultures. There is possibility that what makes Africans and more so Kenyans excel in diversity is because of their childhood upbringings. It is all for you to read, remember, imagine, laugh and share.

Part 3 coming soon!!!!!!