Shadows Unveiled

Nursery School

My preschool days were a world ruled by the gaze of Ms. Elizabeth, our teacher. Seated nearby, she wielded her knitting needles, diligently crafting a baby sweater. In the blink of an eye, as soon as the salty water contacted her gleaming floor, she reacted swiftly by placing her prosthetic leg onto the small bed with a determined resolve. She had relocated my little bed closer to keep a vigilant eye on me during our naptime. Her intention? To ensure I woke up at just the right moment. Yet, as I slipped into slumber, my dreams wove an unexpected tapestry.

In one dream, I found myself in a delightful meadow, but the tranquility was soon interrupted by an urgent need to use the restroom. Then, without warning, my dream catapulted me into a heart-pounding fall from a cliff. The relief washed over me like a tidal wave, knowing that my classmates remained blissfully unaware of these dreams, which occasionally led to bedwetting. The burden of bedwetting was a secret I held close, revealing it to no one. 

Despite the challenges, I steadfastly insisted on attending nursery school. The prospect of staying home alone, waiting for my older brother to return, was something I simply could not bear. His stories of the school's thrilling games and swings painted a picture I longed to be a part of. 

Back in the 1970s, nursery school usually commenced at the age of four, yet my determination led me to enroll at the tender age of three. Age was determined by touching the right ear with the left hand. It was a journey marked by resilience. Recess often saw me on the sidelines, watching my peers revel in play, but the highlight of my day was the walk home with my impeccably dressed brother, Joey, who was a student at a nearby Jericho Primary School.

When the moment finally arrived for me to transition to a "real" school, my mother carefully laid out my new green uniform, glossy black shoes, and a matching green cardigan. The excitement bubbled up within me like a sparkling fountain. Our home was nestled in Uhuru Estate Phase 1, and my memories unfolded like a photo album. 

There was Paluku, my neighbor, with his father, a Zairean musician, and a mother who exuded grace. In the neighborhood, Uncle Gabe, Mama's cousin, and his brother Thuraku were familiar faces. We had moved several times, as my father embarked on the quest to secure our permanent residence. Amidst these pages of my past, a vivid memory emerges - a shocking incident where a man was electrocuted right before our house. 

Our tranquil nights occasionally gave way to the heart-wrenching cries of women who endured domestic hardships. I also recall observing young boys draped in oversized shirts, later learning that they were undergoing a culturally significant rite of passage after circumcision. But perhaps one of the most poignant memories was witnessing teenage girls subjected to open harassment in broad daylight near the clinic in Jerusalem Estate. 

My mother, in those moments, shielded me from the harsh realities of the world. Despite these formidable challenges and unsettling memories, I found solace in the protective embrace of my brothers and the unwavering support of outspoken uncles. They were my pillars during those early years, guiding me through a world that could be both unforgiving and harsh, and helping me stand tall amidst adversity.