Then I turned seven and for the first time in my life, I was thrust into a new reality, devoid of my dad at my beck and call. My parents were still married, but mom wasn’t dad’s assistant at work anymore. Seeing my parents leave the house together in the morning and walk back in, together, in the evening was my normal. Sometimes, I would be given a lift to school in dad’s official government vehicle. Not anymore. A new government directive forbade spouses working together, so my mother was transferred to a whole other universe.
Our big house sitting in the middle of a big, well fenced and well-guarded compound was replaced by a small house, in the middle of a large, overcrowded estate. An estate that had a rather conspicuous shortage of friendly people who kept their noses in their own homes, not to mention the fact that my delivery-in-five-minutes service was no longer possible. I had a lot to adjust to.
A few years later I was in class eight. A candidate. I borrowed a classmate’s Top Mark KCPE Maths textbook. Now, at the time Top Mark was a really big deal. It was touted as the ultimate exam cheat-sheet. It was a hot commodity and somebody had stolen mine. My mother wouldn’t replace it.
“I don’t grow money on trees,” she retorted, without making even the smallest effort to raise her eyes off her Danielle Steele novel.
This new reality was disappointing. “Dad would have bought it for me,” I muttered under my breath as I sulked and dragged my feet back to my room.
So I borrowed Kipchumba’s, Top Mark. Kipchumba was the tallest person in our class. Whenever he walked in, it didn’t matter what you were doing or where you were looking, you knew Kipchumba had walked in. He was also very dark-skinned. Back then, that was something to joke about and people told a lot of jokes. I was a little jealous of them because they always seemed to churn out those jokes with the speed of light. Me, I sat and laughed awkwardly at those jokes and then reminded myself that I was the smartest girl in class and the jealousy went away in a puff of purple smoke. Yes, I wasn’t exactly familiar with modesty.
Kipchumba gave me his book during our Maths class that day. The teacher was away and he hadn’t left us any work to do. The entire class was in a happy frenzy. It was their chance to be naughty and tell stories and make noise and merry. But I couldn’t. See, a person needs friends to be able to do these things and I had none.
“Joyce anakuanga na maringo sana,” a classmate would accuse. I never understood what this meant, until one day another classmate volunteered, “Unatembeanga ukibounce.” I still don’t know what this means because I know for a fact that I do not walk with a bounce.
“We hupendelewa na walimu ndio sababu unakuanga number one kila saa.” This one I didn’t really mind, because it included an admission that I was always number one. I was really obsessed with impressing people. Can you tell? I would spend hours on end studying the dictionary, just so I would use humongous words in my compositions and speeches. It felt godlike when somebody asked, “What does that mean?” Or that time I corrected the headteacher’s pronunciation of ‘athlete.’ This particular one came back to bite me in the backside, but that’s a story for another day.
So moments like these when the teachers were away, for me, meant a chance to study, to do extra work and be even better than everybody else than I already was. When the break-time bell rang I put Kipchumba’s Top Mark in my bag and went outside to bask in the sun. That’s what break-time meant for us, basking. Rumour had it that students of the neighbouring private school would take tea and bread for the break. Sometimes we would sit in the sun and fantasize about going to that school. Fantasize about 10 0’clock bread. Everything about it was a dream: it had storied buildings and a playground with swings and slides. It was an academy, which some of us would pronounce as “akedemi” because students of that school talked with an “American accent” and that was our impression of an “American accent” pronunciation for the word ‘academy’. The school had hired workers and cleaners whereas, in our school, we were the workers and cleaners. Every morning before classes began, a few of us would sweep the barely cemented floors while the rest would pick up the leaves that littered the large compound. Friday afternoons were for a thorough cleaning, which basically meant mopping the floors.
Woe unto you if you got caught coming to school late, or making noise because that meant you’d get stuck on toilet duty and that was hell! See, this was a school with approximately seven hundred students and about ten toilets, total, including toilets reserved for teachers. The school delinquents had to make sure the toilets were absolutely clean and the walls were free of graffiti. Which usually lasted about two minutes because the following morning there would be more graffiti for the delinquents to clean up.
At the end of every term, I made up stories about how I wouldn’t be back the next term because I was going to that school. I would, then, try to hound my mother to take me there. It never worked. First, because it was a new school that went only up to two classes behind me. Secondly, because it was a bit expensive, and far be it from my mother to be one to spend more money than she needs to just for bragging rights. Every term I went back to my school with a new story about why I didn’t leave. My mother knew our school was well-performing, architectural challenges notwithstanding.
When we got back to class after break, Kipchumba’s book was not in my bag. I looked for it frantically. I didn’t find it.
“Excuse me, class. If anyone picked a Top Mark book from my bag, return it before I go to the teacher. God is seeing you,” I announced, standing on top of a chair to make sure I got everybody’s attention.
I reported this theft to our class teacher, who was as helpful as traffic lights at a Nairobi roundabout. All he did was make an announcement that was eerily similar to the one I had made. Thus began the worst two months of my life.
I came clean to Kipchumba, and all he said was, “I want my book back right now.” I half expected him to say accidents happen and it wasn’t my fault. That he understood. I had seen him be nice with other students who had lost his stuff before. I had no such luck, though. Apparently, it was unreasonable of me to expect that people would be motivated to extend mercy my way, seeing as I walked around as if the sun shone from the crack in my rear.
For the next one month, I had to come up with a story, at the toll of every bell, to get Kipchumba to hold off a little. Because at the sound of every bell, when the teacher walked out and before the next walked in, he would be at my desk, frothing at the mouth, wanting his Top Mark Maths. He was getting angrier and I, more desperate.
One day he walked over to my desk and said, “Nimekuwekea wanted.” It basically meant I had a bounty on my head. Having been in this position several times before, I knew exactly what it meant and it was a fate far worse than coming in second at the end of year exams. For me, it meant being assaulted by whoever had put the “WANTED” on me and then having my mother do the same when I got home. Of course, I wouldn’t tell her that I got clobbered, I am not that crazy. See, telling her that I’d been beaten would mean explaining why, and more often than not, it was because I had done something she didn’t approve of. Not telling her about my beating meant she only had my dirty, slightly blood-stained uniform to go on. Guess what? I still got my thrashing from her. It was a lose-lose situation for me.
My initial plan was to wait until my dad visited, then I’d tell him that I’d lost my own Top Mark and then lost somebody else’s. My dad would have replaced both because that’s the person he is. He always said he would do whatever it took to make sure we performed well in school, and that included ensuring anything that would bring me any kind of stress was out of the way. God, I loved my dad.
Kipchumba was getting on edge, so I had to urgently rework my plan. He wasn’t going to wait another one or two months for my dad to get home. He wanted his Top Mark then, or I would get what’s coming. So one evening I went home and did all the house chores I didn’t usually do, and made sure my mom knew about it.
“Mom, I need to tell you something,” I said, barely, between swallowing hard and choking.
My mom’s face deeply buried in a Sidney Sheldon novel did not help ease my tension. It was bad enough that I was interrupting her, yet here I was itching to deliver bad news. She didn’t even bother to lift her eyes off the novel until I mentioned that I’d lost somebody’s book. Then I had her full attention, which I assure you, was not exactly a good thing.
“Which book?” She asked, curtly. It was a very difficult task explaining to her that I had lost my book then borrowed somebody else’s book which I proceeded to lose as well. With every word that came out of my mouth, I knew my world was rapidly coming to an end. I talked very quietly. I didn’t even realize I was doing this until she bellowed at me to use my outside voice.
She went on and on.
“What do you want me to do with this information?” She asked, calmly, her eyes piercing above the silver frames of her glasses. Irritated. So I explained that Kipchumba was threatening to treat me like a dusty throw-rug.
I stood in front of her, head bowed, and I could still feel her dagger-eyes on me. If looks could kill, I would have died ten times over.
“You realize that the book is seven hundred shillings?” She asked. Silence. This, followed by her constant reminder that she did not grow money on trees was making me uneasy, my head bowed down, her voice rising. I quickly started realizing that this was a terrible idea.
“Maybe Kipchumba should beat you up, thoroughly, so you learn how to not only avoid other people’s things but to also take care of your own things.” She said with finality.
Then she picked up her book and kept on reading, ostensibly a clear indication the conversation was over. I knew better than to try again, and honestly, this was as good a result as I’d ever had hoped for. Pushing the conversation further would earn me that beating I was so desperate to avoid. Now I only had my initial plan as a fall back: avoid Kipchumba until Dad came home.
One day as I was leaving school, I found Kipchumba and a gang of boys standing by the gate. My ‘WANTED’ notice period had lapsed and he was there to collect. I froze, I could feel blood pooling in my feet. Kipchumba approached. Flight or fright? Fright. I screamed at the top of my lungs, which apparently wasn’t as loud as I’d hoped, but it was loud enough to spook them and they chose flight. It wasn’t over, though, and I knew it.
I still don’t understand how he managed to convince all those boys to wait with him outside the school. Was I that unpopular? Was he in the Mafia? We’ll never know.
This went on for another month. I had a brilliant plan. I would stay back in school and wait for the teacher on duty to leave and I would use them as a human shield. Leaving school two hours after everybody felt so much kinder than getting beaten to a pulp by Kipchumba. So I stayed. At some point, as we were about to leave, the teacher sent me to go check that the chapel doors were locked.
Now, the chapel was right next to one of the gates and quite far from the staffroom. Kipchumba spotted me before I did him. This time, I chose flight. Ever watched a wildlife documentary and wondered how a cheetah, fast as it is it fails to catch a zebra? Yeah, when people talk about Kenyans being good runners, they mean me on that evening. This was an especially big moment for me because, as I had mentioned earlier, Kipchumba was tall and fast and I was a heavy-set girl of very average height.
I have tried to run or jog for fitness on numerous occasions knowing that somewhere deep inside me lies an Olympic gold medalist. I’m convinced that it was a one and done for me. I’ve never been able to do anything quite as fast ever again.
Later that evening, I sat in my bed, weighing my choices. See, at that point, I thought I had just two: drop out of school or move heaven and earth to pay Kipchumba back. I was convinced he was going to kill me. Either literally, or figuratively. I didn’t think I was capable of running like that another day, and even if I could I had very little faith in my chances of survival. So I did what any right-thinking person, afraid for their life would do: I sneaked into my mother’s room and helped myself to some money from her purse.
I walked to school confidently and gave Kipchumba the money. I then sat down to catch my breath and heave a sigh of relief because it was done. My torture was over. I was finally free. And for two days, I was.
But you see, I grew up in a very small town in what is now known as Vihiga County. It was so small, we didn’t think it deserved to be called a town. We simply called it Lotego Market. My defective census tells me Lotego had a population of about fifty or thirty, because how else was it possible for everybody to be so up to date with everybody else’s business? This interest in everybody else’s private life must also have been because of the boredom. Lotego was a very boring place. You couldn’t even sit on the road and watch vehicles, because there was a maximum of ten matatus, and maybe twenty to fifteen private vehicles. Car-watching would pretty much end by eight o’clock because everybody who had somewhere to go was already there. But people would do it nonetheless: sit outside the five shops or at the numerous grocery sheds, watch people pass by and share tidbits about them. It wasn’t fun if you were on the receiving end, which for me meant always. Well, except the time when I joined the university. Somebody was told I had joined KU (Kenyatta University) but the story that did the rounds was that I was in the UK. So when I came back home for the holidays I was somewhat of a celebrity, which means I could wear whatever I wanted and not have anybody say anything to me. To everybody else, maybe, but never to me.
Word quickly got around school that I had somehow managed to get Kipchumba off my back, and word ran around town even quicker that my mother was missing some money. So my desk mate, who I honestly didn’t think was that bright, put two and two together, went and blabbed to my mother.
On my way home that evening I bumped into my mom. She was furious. I could tell because her eyes were bloodshot and watery. I could have sworn I saw steam coming out of her ears. I wasn’t worried because I was quite sure I had hidden my tracks well. I had managed to game the system. Little did I know that my best-laid plans had been torn apart by a person who was best known for not being the sharpest tool in the shed.
My mother began her interrogation. I denied everything, of course. She dragged me to a police station nearby, where she issued instructions that I am whipped and caned until I came clean. Then she left me. Lamb for slaughter.
Successfully running from Kipchumba quite evidently swelled my head and exponentially inflated my sense of infallibility, because I maintained my story. That was until my hands were wrapped around a gas cylinder and tied together, exposing my back to the policemen’s lashes that I realized I was not a hardcore criminal. I caved. The more strokes of the whip I got the more sins I confessed to: the time I woke up earlier than everybody in the house and licked a lot of sugar; the time I broke my sister’s toy because I was jealous that I didn’t have one of my own; the time I wet my bed and lied about it… I sang like a canary.
By the time my mother grew some sympathy and came to release me from doing hard time, I had vowed to forever turn my back on crime. I learned the hard way that crime really doesn’t pay and that snitches don’t always get stitches; stitches are for criminals. And that is why I would be this country’s best choice for every single senior government office.
The following week, Kipchumba showed up with Top Mark Maths book. Only, it wasn’t a new one. It was the same one that I’d lost. Maybe crime does pay, after all.