Of my primary school days...

 I was lucky to attend an academy in town for my nursery education, something my peers from our village were not. Each morning was a hustle. Leaving the house itself was a task. Imagining the only time I’d get to see my Mum again was 5 in the evening, I had to make sure I bid her enough goodbyes, which I recited every morning crying. “Mami bye”, “tuonane hwaine” (see you in the evening) “Kurushi mami”, what was even kurushi???  I would then sit squarely on my neighbour’s shoulders and he would brave the 4kilometres walk to town and made sure I got to school on time, I owe him to date. I dint like the other kids at school, they spoke in English...a language I could not understand. 

I remember one day I was innocently counting sticks while doing my maths homework “imwe, igiri, ithatu, inya” (one, two, three, four) when one of the “elite” classmates overheard me and raised his hand “Excuse me teacher, Ann is counting in Kikuyu...I was called at the front and told to repeat what I had said...I just cried. At that moment, the teacher removed her hanky to wipe my tears and mucus, and she asked me what it was called in English, I timidly said “Ngashifu” (handkerchief) she was stunned. It was not a surprise when I attained position 9 out of 9 during that term. 

With time I got accustomed and by the time I was ready to go to class 1, I was the best student. I managed to secure a place at the then prestigious D.E.B Karatina; I was the first person in our village to attend it.

I loved our class teacher, who unfortunately passed on some years ago. She always made sure class 1 East was always on the lead. I remember a Monday morning in 1996 at the beginning of term two, it was the opening day and as usual, she was inspecting our books. She would call out the name of each subject and if you did not have that book, she would send you home to collect it. “Art”, she called out. I looked at my book, my mum had conspicuously written “art and Craft”. The teacher wanted an art book; I had an art and craft one. I slowly moved to the front and was sent home to collect the book. Needless to say, I got a thorough beating from my mum, one because of being dumb and two because of walking 4kilometres without my “chauffer”.

I joined class two and by then my sister had joined our school. The mode of transport had to change. We were now ferried to school using an old bicycle left behind by my dad, the chauffer remained constant, I still owe him. I would sit on the thin metal joining the front wheel to the main seat of the bicycle while my sister sat at the back seat. He would then cycle four kilometres with occasional stops when we came to a hill where my sister had to alight to lighten the weight, poor girl. She was a class ahead of me and it was my duty to teach her English. Having attended our rural primary school previously, English was news to her. I remember one day I had removed my pullover at school and she spotted me during lunch break, she was concerned where I had left it and she went like “Wambui, what is your pullover” dear sister, umetoka mbali.

With time, she caught up and my mum was a proud mother on prize giving days as her daughters occasionally scooped prizes, my sister in Maths and I in Kikuyu, yes u heard it right, I was the queen of vernacular subject. I could memorize all pages of the small green and white book “wirute guthoma”. I still have the certificates I was awarded, they are such a treasure. My sister became my “secretary” and in the years that followed, she would always write my homework in the evenings either because I had gotten tired and started writing biiiiiiig letters that would fill an entire page or I had fallen asleep in the course of writing. I remember my mum telling her “geria kwandika na mwandiko wake” (try and write in her handwriting). 

 On our way home, there used to be a fence we would jump and so I used to remove my bag pack, throw it over the fence then jump after it. On this particular day, I threw the bag, jumped over the fence, forgot I had a bag and walked home. I did not realize my bag pack was missing till the homework session I arrived. We searched and searched and searched but could not find the bag, all I kept saying; of course crying was “ni nengerire muiritu wa wira” (I gave the house help) who would then answer a series of questions asked by my mum. Eventually I would be asked to recount my journey from school and only when I got to the fence part would I remember I left it there. My good neighbor, the same one who ferried us to school would go for the now drenched bag. That always made attending school the following day difficult. I still owe him though.

In class three, I was made a group prefect, for a short while though. My work was to write noisemakers in our group (12 people) It was a very coveted position and I held it head high. Most of the times I would get to class just on time after hearing the bell miles away(we were now walking to school) No sooner would I sit down than the teacher on duty came demanding for noisemakers, normally I would have none. Therefore I devised a plan whereby I would write noisemakers at home such that I would always have a list ready with me anytime, anywhere. The plan worked for sometime till that day I wrote someone down only for them not to show up. I was demoted.

Class four passed without much drama save for a few couple of times I was sent home to bring my mother, those are the times I wished I was courageous like some of my mates who would pay people to act as their parents.

Class five was not a bed of roses, the rule of sitting boy girl was enforced and I hated sitting with boys. My mum stopped preparing packed lunch for us and we had to eat the soupy githeri popularly known as “supro”. This continued all the way till class eight. I lost a desk mate to a fire and it was very painful, especially because the last time I had seen him he had given me a half razor blade and  told me it might be the last time I’m seeing him.

Class six was a very important stage in my life. I had my first crush! A boy I admired in every way, the good thing is we still talk to date, till late. I was made class prefect, not group! (50 students) I was overwhelmed. I held the position head, shoulders, hair high! I was in charge. There was this belief by most parents that if you were made a prefect, you did not have time to study, therefore I did not tell my mum. However she got wind of it, and as expected she told me to resign, I did exactly that and what happened next was unexpected. The crazy teacher spat on me, and walked away! No word, no nothing just thick sputum covered spit. That was shocking. I didn’t tell my mum.

By now, my sister was flying high. She was among the best students in the school and was every teacher’s favourite. I was barely known. I moved on to class seven and the most humiliating thing happened. We were given an English test and then exchanged our papers so that we could mark for each other. Mine fell in the hands of a very bright boy who went on from getting placed at the prestigious Starehe boys centre after KCPE to being top ten in Kenya during KCSE. Back to the story, he marked my paper and gave me a 1, 1 out of the possible 50, reason being, I had not put full stops to my sentences, I mean, who does that???? 

My sister completed her class eight and attained a whooping 455 marks out of 500; she got placed at Alliance Girls. In the meantime, we were sitting for our end of term class seven exams to determine who went to class eight. Ours was an exam without choices so you had to think, think and think. I shamelessly got 275 marks out of 500 marks. Word went round that I was Emma’s (my siz) sister and I was called in the staffroom to prove I was indeed her sister and if so explain why I could not match her brains. I cried. 

Anywho, I went on to class 8. I had inherited my sister’s uniforms and till today I normally wonder why my mum ever allowed me to put them on. Considering that I was super skinny, they hung on to me like a draped skeleton. I looked ridiculous. We had been organized in such a way that the crème dela crème were in the same class, the average in another class and the “others” in one class. I worked very hard and managed to become position 1 in our “average” class, hence I was taken to the class of the elites. Here I started dancing to a different tune.45-50 became my favourite positions in a class of 50 students, I always got over 300 marks though, my mum’s target, and yea I got another crush too. A super brown cute boy who liked me too; or so I thought.

G.H.C was my worst subject. I hated it with passion and many a times I scored higher marks in C.R.E than G.H.C. yes, I once scored a 19. We were asked to write our K.C.P.E targets over a weekend and asked to hang it on Monday morning on the walls. It was to stick there for the next 365 days. I cannot express my disappointments when I pinned mine and the whole class stared it in awe, I was the only one with a 300 target, 352 to be precise, the rest had 400 and above. Well, I had structured what I knew I could achieve. The teachers were very impressed with my sincere target. KCPE results came and needless to say 90% percent of my classmates did not even get close to their targets. I surpassed mine by 26 marks. 

Once again, my mum was a proud mother!