Performance
in school depends on a myriad of factors. One of these is provision of
fora for learners to interact, reason together and share intelligent
ideas. Symposia, contests, drama and music festivals are common
platforms for learners' intellectual growth. Our teachers hyped so much
about them. Sadly, no day under the sun saw them thrive. Not even
theoretically. Sometimes we would be invited, but fail to attend;
because invitation letters first fell into wicked and wrong hands.
Sometimes we were hardly invited. The organizers considered us worthless
perhaps. A meanwhile school. They left us alone. We too left them
alone. Thus we were academically distanced from our contemporaries in
worthwhile schools.
2005. Prior to the first harvest. I was a freshman at Mukuyuni Sec. School when we first took part in science congress. Auncle, a naughty lad then, was our ambassador. This wasn't our first time. But I could unapologetically claim that it was the last. Because it would take ages for it to be re-introduced. Amidst ignorance, arrogance and beauracracy though. 2011. My compatriots: Githinji, Wangila and I-- then pseudoteachers, would harder work to re-kindle the fire. We were utterly frustrated. Realizing development in a backward society is no easy!
We hardly interacted with our contemporaries on academic platforms. However, we managed during games and sports. They effected physical and social development. They bred filth too. We fell for girls from neighbouring schools and lost our to some boys around. But only after thorough negotiations with fists and kicks.
Mukuyuni had the pretiest girls around. However, we boys hunted dames outside. Elsewhere. A cow does not graze where it sleeps, unless it's sick or insane. See? Well. We hardly starved. Though. Hundreds of lusty, dry and sexually thirsty bulls-- with extraordinary libido, fit for artificial insemination, around went crazy over our beauties. Sad is the man who has no woman. For he has to wander for miles, and sacrifice and libate to get one. This is what befell our brothers from other mothers. You could bumb into them in extreme corners of the compound and the market, in compromising positions. Desperate? High? Horny? Anyhow.
They were selling policies. Stripping naked before our girls to expose their development projects. Fancy that! Some of our girls were money-maniacs. Gold diggers. Love wasn't love without money. See? Cool. They would then pen flowery and flattering epistles-- a feat rare in their essays and class assignments-- to lure mugs into sneaking and stealing from their poor parents. Stealing for women. Efulumi, a classmate then, fed a girl till she was a full grown woman. Then she eloped with some lousy acre of a man. Ugly indeed! Efulumi hadn't bitten her. He hadn't harvested anything. Oh, friend, whoever looks after a cow doesn't milk it. The mug smuggled all delicacies into her stomach whilst strictly maintaining himself on a zero diet. He was skinny like a mantis when the girl was fat like a pig.
During such occassions-- games and sports, some teachers, particularly perpetual idlers made themselves known. They exercised power and authority. And we felt their presence. They busied themselves with separating and pinching love birds. This was accampanied by hurling lots of obscenities at them. They earned special hatred for that.
Sometimes we were to cough out money for symposia and contests. They were regular and abundant like christian fellowships. But were they not to be catered for by our fees? We were discontended. None of us was ready to be robbed without violence. So we left it alone. Our teachers too left us alone. Who cared? Who would lose?
However, we tested the waters during the Second Harvest. The big big ones had exited. There were only small small ones. And anticipating resistance was like expecting a genuine miracle in this wretched century. It was like expecting one to blanket himself with a fence. Dead or live. Whatever.
We paid to go to Maeni Girls for a history symposium. All was well. See? But it was the climax of the noble assignment that reminded us the need of owning a school locomotive machine. We had hired some ugly, old, blind, lame and noisy iron box. Or was it a coffin? Only nemo could tell. The driver had disappeared with the tout immediately after dropping us. To hustle for extra coins perhaps. Now they had apparently forgotten about us. Damn. Darkness was overpowering the fragile daylight. The sun could rule no longer. The dynasty of the moon had come. And it was silently announcing its presence in the ugly sky. I would describe a woman someday in a poem:
... You are the pride of my heart,
As they are to the sky: sun, moon and stars...
I trekked for a thousand miles to my father's abode. Tired. Hungry. Disgusted. Anyhow, it wasn't difficult. Brother, if you think seeking for knowledge is difficult, jaribu kazi ya mjengo!
I missed the worst. Wonders thrive in the dark. Darkness provide delicacies daylight could not. Anto hyped henceforth. He buzzed from alpha to omega. He had veered into bushes with some crooks to irrigate their throats. They had praised and worshiped the holy waters till ''the iron box'' arrived.
Only a foolish hunter entrusts a dog with his meat between its teeth. Our teacher mistook the boys to be priests in a rector. In their midst he put girls. No one could right such a wrong. The filth that happened could not be captured in any normal man's rhetoric. Many only spread or got rumours. The bush radio could only talk about it; it could not talk it. See? Cool. So the boys and girls were driven to school late into the night. Anto and his crew were atop. Aire... They sat in pairs. In angles.
There was a power outage in school. When the arrived. There were nonrhythmic grunts and moans. Here and there; especially there. Jubilation. Disgust. The boys and girls bonded the more. Sexing. Kissing. Sucking. Sulking. Brother, wonders thrive in the dark. Darkness provide delicacies daylight could not. See? However, the rain of pleasure was short-lived. The chief security officer stormed the arenas, a matchet and rungu in hand; a gun in his mind. They fled. No man who is serious with his life, however wretched, stares at the smiling face of death. They easily passed through the hole of a needle, where a camel has and will never pass. With a coward man on their trail, they jumped over the fence-- tall like the Berlin Wall.
And before the day could break, the news was out. Gossip Fm was hyping it. It salted and sugared it. Who did not mourn and fear for the fate of beloved candidates? Campus hopefuls. And still Anto remained on the throne. The school head boy. Troublesome and indispensable. We philosophized.
Wafula p'Khisa.
Lirango Lienjofu
(Thigh of an Elephant).
2005. Prior to the first harvest. I was a freshman at Mukuyuni Sec. School when we first took part in science congress. Auncle, a naughty lad then, was our ambassador. This wasn't our first time. But I could unapologetically claim that it was the last. Because it would take ages for it to be re-introduced. Amidst ignorance, arrogance and beauracracy though. 2011. My compatriots: Githinji, Wangila and I-- then pseudoteachers, would harder work to re-kindle the fire. We were utterly frustrated. Realizing development in a backward society is no easy!
We hardly interacted with our contemporaries on academic platforms. However, we managed during games and sports. They effected physical and social development. They bred filth too. We fell for girls from neighbouring schools and lost our to some boys around. But only after thorough negotiations with fists and kicks.
Mukuyuni had the pretiest girls around. However, we boys hunted dames outside. Elsewhere. A cow does not graze where it sleeps, unless it's sick or insane. See? Well. We hardly starved. Though. Hundreds of lusty, dry and sexually thirsty bulls-- with extraordinary libido, fit for artificial insemination, around went crazy over our beauties. Sad is the man who has no woman. For he has to wander for miles, and sacrifice and libate to get one. This is what befell our brothers from other mothers. You could bumb into them in extreme corners of the compound and the market, in compromising positions. Desperate? High? Horny? Anyhow.
They were selling policies. Stripping naked before our girls to expose their development projects. Fancy that! Some of our girls were money-maniacs. Gold diggers. Love wasn't love without money. See? Cool. They would then pen flowery and flattering epistles-- a feat rare in their essays and class assignments-- to lure mugs into sneaking and stealing from their poor parents. Stealing for women. Efulumi, a classmate then, fed a girl till she was a full grown woman. Then she eloped with some lousy acre of a man. Ugly indeed! Efulumi hadn't bitten her. He hadn't harvested anything. Oh, friend, whoever looks after a cow doesn't milk it. The mug smuggled all delicacies into her stomach whilst strictly maintaining himself on a zero diet. He was skinny like a mantis when the girl was fat like a pig.
During such occassions-- games and sports, some teachers, particularly perpetual idlers made themselves known. They exercised power and authority. And we felt their presence. They busied themselves with separating and pinching love birds. This was accampanied by hurling lots of obscenities at them. They earned special hatred for that.
Sometimes we were to cough out money for symposia and contests. They were regular and abundant like christian fellowships. But were they not to be catered for by our fees? We were discontended. None of us was ready to be robbed without violence. So we left it alone. Our teachers too left us alone. Who cared? Who would lose?
However, we tested the waters during the Second Harvest. The big big ones had exited. There were only small small ones. And anticipating resistance was like expecting a genuine miracle in this wretched century. It was like expecting one to blanket himself with a fence. Dead or live. Whatever.
We paid to go to Maeni Girls for a history symposium. All was well. See? But it was the climax of the noble assignment that reminded us the need of owning a school locomotive machine. We had hired some ugly, old, blind, lame and noisy iron box. Or was it a coffin? Only nemo could tell. The driver had disappeared with the tout immediately after dropping us. To hustle for extra coins perhaps. Now they had apparently forgotten about us. Damn. Darkness was overpowering the fragile daylight. The sun could rule no longer. The dynasty of the moon had come. And it was silently announcing its presence in the ugly sky. I would describe a woman someday in a poem:
... You are the pride of my heart,
As they are to the sky: sun, moon and stars...
I trekked for a thousand miles to my father's abode. Tired. Hungry. Disgusted. Anyhow, it wasn't difficult. Brother, if you think seeking for knowledge is difficult, jaribu kazi ya mjengo!
I missed the worst. Wonders thrive in the dark. Darkness provide delicacies daylight could not. Anto hyped henceforth. He buzzed from alpha to omega. He had veered into bushes with some crooks to irrigate their throats. They had praised and worshiped the holy waters till ''the iron box'' arrived.
Only a foolish hunter entrusts a dog with his meat between its teeth. Our teacher mistook the boys to be priests in a rector. In their midst he put girls. No one could right such a wrong. The filth that happened could not be captured in any normal man's rhetoric. Many only spread or got rumours. The bush radio could only talk about it; it could not talk it. See? Cool. So the boys and girls were driven to school late into the night. Anto and his crew were atop. Aire... They sat in pairs. In angles.
There was a power outage in school. When the arrived. There were nonrhythmic grunts and moans. Here and there; especially there. Jubilation. Disgust. The boys and girls bonded the more. Sexing. Kissing. Sucking. Sulking. Brother, wonders thrive in the dark. Darkness provide delicacies daylight could not. See? However, the rain of pleasure was short-lived. The chief security officer stormed the arenas, a matchet and rungu in hand; a gun in his mind. They fled. No man who is serious with his life, however wretched, stares at the smiling face of death. They easily passed through the hole of a needle, where a camel has and will never pass. With a coward man on their trail, they jumped over the fence-- tall like the Berlin Wall.
And before the day could break, the news was out. Gossip Fm was hyping it. It salted and sugared it. Who did not mourn and fear for the fate of beloved candidates? Campus hopefuls. And still Anto remained on the throne. The school head boy. Troublesome and indispensable. We philosophized.
Wafula p'Khisa.
Lirango Lienjofu
(Thigh of an Elephant).
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