Mothers always make things happen. It doesn't matter what it takes but whatever it is they want for their husbands, kids, family and themselves, they get it. Mothers are selfless.
My taught me to be a fighter and a fighter I am. Keep a close watch on people who you're with, she'd say. They are the people who would make or break you. Your friends are your greatest influence.
As a young boy, attending Sacred Heart Nursery School in Baba Dogo, a Christian nursery school in the Parish headquarters, I had a lot of visible potential.
My favourite teacher was one beautiful female, light skinned and about six feet tall and with a beauty spot on her left cheek. Her name was Miss Brown. My mum and I loved her. She was everything to most of us at school anyway.
I remember one time we were learning on how to write numbers.
It was on a Friday, around nine thirty in the morning. Most morning classes were midway.
We had just advanced to using books (those 32 page books cut into half). Previously, what we had was an A3 size blackboard and a coloured chalk.
My concentration in that class was minimal. I was thinking about the weekend, the video shows and a planned trip to Lucky Summer. I made lots of mistakes and having no eraser with me, I looked around to see where the teacher was, applied a little saliva on my middle finger and used it to correct my pencil errors.
It was by surprise that Miss Brown walked behind me and found me just as I finished my lazy dirty bum's business. She picked me up by the left ear, pinching me as if she wanted my ear tray size. It was so embarrassing with little girls chuckling, others staring in amazement, my boys dumbstruck.
She took my notebook and me to the front of the class. She lifted the book up and asked the class what they think was wrong with me.
Amidst chuckles and almost in unison, they responded, "Anatumia mate!". Miss Brown looked at me. Her eyes were motherly, but I felt like a man at the city square, ready for execution. Everyone had stopped their business and was staring. "Enda ukanawe mkono na ukuje uniambie ulipeleka wapi rubber!"
That to me was massive. It was as if she had launched tirade of abuse against my creativity.
I walked out. My tiny legs were feeble. Anger and embarrassment boiling inside me. But one thing came to my mind when I stepped outside that classroom.
That hour, that minute, was the end of school for me. I wasn't going back in there!
As I headed towards the washrooms, I looked at the entire school compound. There was not a soul in sight. I smiled. Inside the washrooms, I hastily washed my hands, hoping no one accompanied me in there.
I felt my heart race. I was like Jackie Chan about to combat an enemy. I walked out, looking around and headed towards the back of the baby class block. There was an old gate separating the church compound with Baba Dogo Primary School. That side hosted Baba Dogo East.
Below the heavy lock was a space enough for me. I sneaked through. My heart beat was so loud I suspected it wanted to sell me out. There after the gate was the senior classes block. I walked to the back. The windows were high built so I only needed to bend a little. The block had six classes, each with a teacher and silent, attentive students. I needed to be careful. No noise. I didn't need to be seen, at any cost.
I squatted down slowly took my first steps.
Behind Baba Dogo East, was MYSA (Mathare Youth Sports Association) playing grounds. There were no people that early, no homeless fellas sleeping along the fence or any one who'd blow my cover for that matter. My left side was safe, I had to take care of my right side and above all, the end of the block ahead. Anyone could be there.
I crept on tiptoes, so careful you'd think I didn't want to awaken the ghosts! I never looked up. I started to sweat when in one of the classes, there was a teacher standing on the window, holding the metal grills.
The end of the block.
This must have been the place I spend the longest time. It must have been days or weeks.
I peeped. No soul. I walked fast towards the fence on the side of the main road. I cut along the huge school playing ground. It was like walking across the Sahara desert. I kept looking around as if I expected dinosaurs to attack.
The fence was not well mend. We'd used it on weekends when there were matches at the MYSA grounds and schools were not running. It was our shortcut. This meant I knew exactly where to pass through out of the school and into 'freedom'.
I crossed the fence so fast I had my shirt torn.
Once outside the school compound, I ran towards home, not directly but through Stage Bar into Kwa Mugure village. No one would spot me. I removed my shirt, remained with my t-shirt.
Most businesses open at around eight in the morning and it was no different with video dens. I knew one where the owner was my elder brother's friend and he knew me well.
I went straight to him and as usual and as expected, he asked me why I wasn't in school. My response was quick, "Tumefukuzwa na mum amesema ni mpaka tu Monday." He either bought it or didn't give a damn about that.
"Nifagie leo halafu nicheki movie?" I asked.
We did this on weekends. Cleaning the hall for two free movies.
"Sawa." He responded.
"Na niko na ten bob so nitawatch nne"
"Haina noma we hata ungekuwa unamalizia saa hii"
I started work. Immediately. I helped him select the movies for the day, making sure the first four weren't among those I'd watched before. It wouldn't bother me nonetheless because all I cared for was refuge until school closed for the weekend.
Two p.m that afternoon, I walked home to my mum like a every good boy. This time I went to her place of work without any of my friends. I didn't want them snitching or saying anything that would mess my day with mum.
"Iko wapi bag", she asked.
"Nimesahau teacher akaifungia kwa class."
"Na vitabu zikipotea?"
"Haziwezi. Mum, ninunulie chipo"
"Enda ukatoe uniform halafu ukuje."
I never came back....
(Photo courtesy)
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