It’s barely two days before I gave a parting shot that am going for a leave. Away from thoughts of where the next post will come from and so on, but this is different.
I am reminiscent of my childhood as I think about my teachers. Someone recently told me that I should always thank them. I should thank them for all the sticks that broke on my butt, thanking them for the many times they put my head between their legs and thrashed me 6 of the best. (It’s not always six. The fifth one rains like El Nino in Cherrapunji but surely not in Kenya. Both teachers and the guys from the meteorological department were liars)
Asante Maalimu
I was born and raised Loitokitok in a town called Rombo. I was in a boys’ school, Rombo Boys Primary school. I cannot remember our Motto, perhaps we didn’t have one at the moment or the moto extinguished. I was neither cheeky nor cunning, nor was I bold and courageous, I was the coward who feared the cane. I was among the top three, what would you expect from the son of a teacher? My mother was a teacher, fierce. She was brutal. She was a Swahili teacher who had just transferred from the neighboring Rombo Girls’ Primary school.
It was the year 2000 and we all went nuts because Mwalimu Keko was coming to teach at our school. She had been yearning to teach me. She had been threatening me saying that my teachers do not know how to cane properly. “If I could be teaching you, you wouldn’t be number 3, you would have been top.” (You know how mothers love to boast around)
The larger population were Maasai’s thus pronouncing the word Mwalimu was a nightmare. They pronounced it Maalimu. The pupils’ names were funny. We made fun of our Kikuyu teachers as they read those names on the pieces of paper that had X4, X2, X13 besides each name. (These are not shares, they were the number of times your lips flapped in a class when the teacher was either absent or when you had bad blood with the class prefect most particularly when you were eyeing his younger sister) It was also funny that the class prefect would misspell the word noise to noice, Nois, Noic, Noce etc but they were not punished for this, the teachers never wanted an own goal. The names would read, Moloiment and Mr Muita would pronounce, ‘Moroimet’, Siloma (Shiroma), Mepukori (Mepukoli), Saruni (Sharuni), Lekimankusii (Kisii), Noonkayiok (Nookiyoo) and our all time class Guiness World Record noise maker holder x13 Leposo who was pronounced as ‘Reposo.’
As we were a boys’ school we would strip our shorts, wear them on our heads and lie on the wooden desks. Muita’s canes were either three or four. We loved him because he was a man of his word but we hated how he handled the last cane. He used all the might he had from his ugali and that would make you twitch like the last kick of a dying cricket. The sad thing is that he would tell the class prefect Keen to keep the list for further review. And damn Keen would pile those lists and whenever he was asked for the noise makers list, he would give out an old list where we would suffer the same predicament. The complains of “Mwalimu nilikuwa naomba rubber.” and “Mwalimu huyu ndio alikuwa amenyamba tukacheka.” never ceased to amuse us after the caning. We always ended up on another list.
Mwalimu Keko used to ‘catch for us’ Mathematics and English. She would more than often try to trap me with very hard algebraic solutions and tongue twisters so that she shows the class that in spite of me being her son, I was not spared. Guys let me tell you one thing about Jesus, the trek I used to make every Sunday from Rombo Boys to FPFK Church to get the word from my Sunday School teacher Kimario was rewarding. Jesus says that we will surpass all the tests that are brought upon us. The tests of algebraic equations and the ‘Peter piper polish paper clips…” “Sally sells sea shells by the sea shoe.” etc
Mwalimu Keko would do just but anything to cane me, even if it included changing the syllabus and writing her own. She was growing impatient, she would occasionally at random get into our class and ask Keen for the noise makers, little did she know that I was getting from one glory to the other. She never knew that I used to buy Keen njoro ya Luba (Luba was a hotel owner at our place) on Sundays, but not with seed money. It is the ten shillings she gave me as we met in church where I would beg to buy the chewing gum called Football, the one that had small pictures of players which we would stick in our previous class’ exercise books using the same gums we chewed. My friend, nothing went to waste. Everything was valuable at the moment. And there was this thing that Jay Jay Okocha was demonic. Ati his picture would fly away with the wind whenever anyone acquired it.
Siku za January ni Arobaini. I remember vividly that it was end of January, I had borrowed Moloimet’s Fountain Pen. It was green in color wrapped with a small cloth at the bottom as its ink was dripping. Mwalimu Keko came earlier than usual in the afternoon session. She began to teach and I couldn’t trace Moloimet’s pen. Moloimet was nagging me and Mwalimu Keko had began to dictate notes. No one speaks or whispers in Mwalimu Keko’s class. No one even breathes heavily in her class. The causes of death in Mwalimu Keko’s class were; sleeping, farting and yawning. Which pupil would not rejoice when it is announced that Mwalimu Keko has gone for games or is sick? Most would whisper the prayer, “Father if you love me, keep the flu running in Mwalimu Keko’s body.” Mwalimu heard of the Moloimet’s whispering sentiments and turned. The class went all grave.
“Moloimet what is wrong?.”
“Siloma has my pen.”
I believe she made the sign of the cross in her soul and thanking the Lord that the long awaited time has come. Her words were sweet, soft spoken and mellow.
“Keen, come forward. Carry Siloma’s bag with you.”
She instructed Keen to empty all the contents of the bag and Moloimet’s pen dropped to the ground with a drop of ink spattering to the floor as if to say, “Hey, am here men! I was in the dungeon of a kidnapper, it’s so void and dark in here and the smell, phew! this guy stinks.”
“Siloma. Come forward.”
I lowered my shorts and placed them on my desk. I was terrified. I wanted the world to open up and bury me alive. I was as terrified as Macbeth before the ghost of Banquo. (Haha, the similies and vocabulary we had to use, the struggle was real).
Mwalimu Keko flexed her fingers. She tightened and relaxed her knuckles that they gave a sound. I was beaten like a cat that purred on my grandma’s feet. I was thrashed more than a years of Leposo’s x13 noise making series and for the first time I saw the sadness in the faces of my sadists. When she was done with me, as if to show she was king, she said,
“When am home, am mama but when am in school I am?” (She talked holding her ears waiting for my reply”
“Mwalimu Keko.”
“Louder.”
“Mwalimu Keko.”
Then she forgot that it was an English class
“Ati mimi ni nani?”
“Mwalimu Keko.”
Mwalimu Keko was dreaded and feared. She acted as both my mother and Father. She was among those in the meteorological department. Liars. Those teachers who tell you that they rain you five of the best but end up to be 50. I once perused her documents and found her award certificates and was amazed. She was the District’s overall best in 3 consecutive years in the 90’s. Her harshness was not just through the cane but she was a good teacher.
Despite the low pay and harsh conditions, despite the pain in being a single mother, the old mama has raised us to valuable men and women. She gave her all through the pain and the sunny days. Most friends acknowledge her for her caning too, “Your mother was harsh, but if it were not for her, I would not have been here today.” I was talking to her recently and was asking her how she managed to give us the best childhood ever and she said, “The ways of the Lord are complex. It all about Jesus.”
Maalimu Keko, you are the reason am here today. Your thrashing and good teachings have taught me to be the best kid ever. You are the reason am writing this post. You are the reason I stand out and not try to fit in. You are the reason I run this blog and the reason I am whom I am today, spiritual, disciplined and respectful. Asante Mwalimu…. ooooh, I forgot am a Maasai. Asante Maalimu.
Jacaranda Africa will be issuing magazines to schools around the country in their effort to say thank you to their teachers.