When I was growing up, I was often worried that I would be sent to Wamũmũ- this is a correctional facility for kids who:
- Kids who forget to water the cabbage nursery
- Kids who use a quarter of sugar and flour to make chapati in shoe polish tins behind the house.
- Don’t talk right away when spoken to (even now I still have to think before I answer)
I would imagine how the Wamũmũ guards would come for me dressed in
navy blue uniforms and drag me down the kitchen ceiling where I’d have been
hiding. And in the process the firewood stored there would come tumbling down hitting
one of the guards on the forehead, he would scream and call me -ngomeno.
Calling people satan was a normal term those days.
I would not be allowed to bring my pink dress or my orange one, just
the green school uniform, a gray sweater and leg warmers.
I would get that vision every time I did something wrong, like that
time I cut the blue fringe off my granny’s bed sheets to make dresses for a
doll. And she told me she would hang me on the kitchen ceiling.
But I did serve time, when adolescence hit. I was Renegade the Hound, I was
the new sheriff from Blazing Saddles, fearless, Nemakũhĩa.
First term standard seven. My class teacher sat me down and gave me
a one on one talk, how I should take my education seriously and be respectful
to the teachers. In term two, he tried to train me. He gave me books and
answered my questions in class, he was the class teacher so I behaved, but
other teachers complained about me. Even the English teacher.
My wrongs
I wore marashi from moyale
I read novels in class during the Science and Agriculture class
I was receiving letter
writing lessons from a boy in class 6
I didn’t wince when beaten, I just gave my hand and wore a stubborn
face
I was still scoring 32% in Maths
I didn’t speak loud enough
I smelled like-koo- all the time, who was supplying me?
Actually it was just Aquafresh.
Trimming horns
Term three, Mr. Gg decided to take my discipline into another level.
I had grown horns and they needed to be trimmed urgently. He prescribed 20
strokes every day. I got five every time there was a break during a school day.
He would stand at the staff-room door and I at the standard 7 door,
that was located directly opposite..
and call out:
Shishilia Gathoni!
Yes Teacher!
Give four characteristics
of the Majimaji Revolution.
They bathed in special water
to prevent bullet shots.
I can’t hear you! Name
four freshwater lakes in Africa
Four? Teacher I don’t four
ũka nagũkũ, Nyakang’a mũka Kĩraka!
And he would stroke my hand five times
I would feel annoyed. But strangely, I didn’t hate him.
And when he asked me to write
an apology letter, I wrote it on a strip of paper (I donno why honestly, I was
just naughty). He finally got very annoyed and told me he didn’t care if I got
300 marks in KCPE.
Now that got to my tiny head. I had to pick myself up. If he had given up on me, I was beyond repair. I went to him
and asked for a study program, I started to read novels on Sundays alone and
washed the perfume off my blue jacket. I studied Maths and made 62% for the
first time in my life.
I wasn’t properly reformed but I was trying. I wasn’t naughty bad,
like cheating in exams bad, no. So I only needed to bring down my imagination a
bit. I would try to pay attention in class,
or pretend to, while really my mind was outside running with dogs. Then I would
be called to answer and get up with a start, upset my desk and get a caning out
of it. But I improved, So much so that in college, one teacher said that Kenyan
students are very respectful to teachers and polite, I was the only Kenya
student.
Adolescents are difficult creatures to deal with, and to have a
class of 34 male and female adolescents to manage and be accountable for is a
big responsibility. Mr Matiang'i, please give upper primary teachers a consolation benefit, where they can withdraw
a hundred K in November and go skydiving or just sit at home watching Blakish.
Mr Gg saved my life. He showed enough interest in me to make me want
to try, and when I felt I would disappoint him, I tried, and it worked.
I guess this humble teacher
is stuck in my brain because regardless or all my escapades, he never alluded
my indiscipline to my upbringing. He never said anything about me being brought
up by a grandmother, in spite of her coming to check on me every other week in
her maroon and white polka dress, he never once made me feel like I was any
less human compared to my two parented classmates, or such other nonsense I had
to put up with from some teachers who could never see beyond my last name.
He treated me as an
individual human child who had been brought to his class to get an education.
He had a daughter in class four then, I sometimes think he might have adopted
me unconsciously. He deserves a medal for his patience. I wonder if he still
teaches, and why didn't we take pictures with our teachers, 8-4-4..nkt.
Next up on translations- teacher teacher teacher we by Kamande wa
Kĩoi.
