Shadows Unveiled

Growing Up and Liking It

Nairobi's weather consistently graced us with splendid dawns, setting the stage for our daily adventures. Early in the morning, my two sisters and I set off toward Uhuru Primary School, while our brothers headed to Kimathi and Ofafa Jericho. As we progressed through elementary school, I found myself in class four, burdened by a heavy backpack filled with books, which made our short walk feel like an arduous trek. 

Being the eldest came with the expectation of discipline, and I took pride in waking up earlier than my siblings. My routine involved assisting the housemaid in the kitchen and getting the charcoal cooker to prepare tea before everyone else woke up. Sometimes, we faced the challenge of lighting a fire in the cold or rainy weather, but we always found a way. After ensuring the younger children were dressed and fed, I would join my neighbor, Evril, for our daily walk to school, never once being late, as we often arrived early to enjoy a game or two.

During our first 15-minute morning break at school, my friends and I huddled around the safety of the classrooms, either engrossed in reading Hardy Boys or indulging in girl talk. Meanwhile, the boys raced to the playground, eagerly resuming their soccer games from the previous day, their excitement palpable. They returned to class after the bell rang, still planning who would provide tubes and plastic bags to bolster their well-worn handmade soccer ball. Their clothes were often covered in grass and red soil, and the teacher occasionally had to send them out to brush off the dirt. 

The most eagerly awaited bell was the one signaling lunchtime. We would sprint back home, eat quickly, and then dash back to school just in time for the afternoon session. Our school desks were arranged in sets of three on benches, leaving us with just enough space for our little bodies. My desk mate, Irene, lived only a block away, but we did not develop any close friendship. Instead, everything between us turned into a competition. Seated between us was a boy named James Gitau, who is etched in my memory for making our lives miserable. 

James was mischievous and once challenged us to a fight to prove who was the strongest among us. We were too naive to understand his intentions, even when he exposed himself under the table. We kept this disturbing incident a secret, choosing instead to keep our distance, writing our notes sideways and nearly dropping our books. It is a mystery why the teacher didn't notice something was amiss with the two shy girls' awkward seating arrangement. 

James persisted with his instigations until we decided to settle our score in a field near our homes. In a surprising turn of events, Irene boldly slapped a rock from my hand, challenging me to stand my ground and fight. A passerby had to intervene and rescue her from my retaliation, labeling me as the troublemaker. I walked home, feeling both ashamed and triumphant for winning the battle, but I no longer needed to fight my battles as my brothers took charge from that day forward. Several girls faced physical punishment for taunting me when I declined to spend time with them.

The Poem 

Approximately seven children were chosen from each grade to represent the school in the year-end graduation ceremony. I, as the Grade 4 representative, was tasked with memorizing a poem titled "Usafi ni kitu bora," (cleanliness is the best thing) while my neighbor Stephen, representing Grade 6. We shared sentiments that it was a preposterous assignment and mutually decided to defy the teacher's request. 

The following morning, we found ourselves summoned to the staff room and instructed to bring a whip deemed suitable for our perceived insubordination. We were sternly cautioned against selecting a feeble whip. In pure allegiance, I brought a conduit pipe typically used for electrical wiring, causing other students to gaze at me in awe and trepidation. As the teacher held my unconventional whip, she surprisingly approved, deeming it fitting for disciplinary measures.

The consequence was five strokes, etching memories that linger vividly even after five decades have passed. The poem, beginning with the lines "Usafi ni kitu bora, naungama shikashifu," meaning "cleanliness is the best thing, I ultimately confess" is intricately etched in my mind for life after that beating.

Whispers in the wind

Having money was a rare occurrence in our time, but when Evril unexpectedly revealed a coin during our walk home, her excitement was contagious. The weariness of a full day at school, burdened by backpacks laden with books and a pile of homework, vanished from her thoughts. She pleaded with me to help her cross the road to buy some candy, known as "patco." However, the idea of facing Mama's discipline if a neighbor caught us crossing the road filled me with dread. The thought of sitting on a hard bench with a sore behind was enough to make me firmly decline Evril's request. 

Without much persuasion, she slyly hung her heavy backpack on my left shoulder, catching me off guard, and leaped over a trench before darting into the road. While I contemplated how to convince her not to go, a split second later, I watched in horror as a green Land Rover crushed her petite body and came to a halt, the driver fleeing behind the shopping center and abandoning his vehicle. The drivers description was: a short man with a protruding belly squeezed into an ill-fitting shirt, and a balding, gray head. Word spread rapidly, and a crowd began to gather as I stood there in stunned silence, my hand still covering my mouth. 

Struggling under the weight of both our school bags, I made my way home. Fatefully, I encountered Evril's older brother and handed him her bag, providing scant information about her accident. Without a word, he sprinted off, while I hurried home to recount the traumatic incident to Mother. Minutes later, the wind carried a mournful, piercing wail, creating an eerie sense of sorrow, especially for me, who had yet to shed a tear. A peculiar awareness had taken hold, leaving me numb and lost in my thoughts. Just in time, Mama emerged and witnessed a policeman marking the ground with chalk, requesting a statement from a witness. I should have been that witness, telling a harrowing story, but shock had rendered me silent. 

Back home, I mechanically completed my homework and silently consumed my dinner. Witnessing death had altered my perception of life, and I grappled with its meaning for a long time. Mama instructed my brother to let me sleep, as he incessantly probed for details about the incident. The neighborhood burial ceremony commenced, and everyone somberly followed the procession to view Evril in her casket. Yet, I could not summon tears and clung to the memory of her last moments, marked by a radiant smile. 

While others wailed and paced back and forth, some screaming in anguish, I remained unmoved, unable to approach the coffin. This solemn ceremony extended for two weeks until her body was finally transported to Kakamega. It was then that I met her tall and handsome brother, Ndinya. I had now lost my second friend and was burdened by trauma. My first was Marion, who lived a few blocks from my home. Every morning, we would eagerly seek each other out. She was the sole girl in her family, enjoying an abundance of dolls and toys. 

Her stepfather was a tall handsome Italian. Tragically, Marion and her brothers, Babu and Comanche, had an accident while trying to start a fire on their cooking stove (Jiko) with kerosene. Marion, was caught off guard, when the flames erupted. She suffered severe burns all over her body, and by the time she healed, she was left completely disfigured. She remained indoors for a while, and I never saw her again as I had left for boarding school.

That marked the onset of my maturity and the end of playing with dolls or pretending to cook grass with little plates in a make-believe kitchen (katolo). I developed a coping mechanism, withdrawing from friendships when they became too dear to me, fearing the pain of losing again.