Shadows Unveiled

Boarding School

In a shoebox, I carefully stored seven locks of hair. The time had come to embark on my journey to boarding school, and one of the compulsory rules was a close-cropped head, aimed at simplifying hair management. I protested and shed hopeless tears, but I ultimately lost the battle. After the head shave, I tenderly placed my seven locks in a shoebox and tucked it away in the farthest corner under my bed, where it would await my return at the end of the term. Memories of the only other time I had shaved my head were still vivid in my mind. 

My schoolmates, Jenny and Agutu, who had taken a liking to me, engaged in a dispute over who would be my best friend and, in retaliation, poured a can of sand over my head. Even in my vulnerability, I paid a price. Mama decided to shave my head completely bald and sternly reminded me not to toy with my hair. I had never been particularly fond of braided hair and disliked having my head touched, except by Mama. I had been careful and now it had grown long enough to be fashioned into seven locks. 

I was sent off to boarding school, and I loathed it with all my heart. Despite my fervent pleas to my parents, they remained unmoved. My first trial commenced the moment I arrived at Sacred Heart Kyeni in Embu town. It marked my first experience sleeping away from home in a dormitory, and up until that point, I still grappled with bedwetting. The doctors could not unravel the mystery, and Mama had long given up on finding a solution. She had taught me the ropes of laundering my clothes early on and emphasized the importance of personal hygiene. Chilly morning showers were my usual routine. 

On that first night at the boarding school, the need to use the bathroom arose, but I couldn't summon the bravery to step into the dimly lit dormitory corridor, despite the fact that the toilet remained illuminated throughout the night. During our sleep, the screeching sounds of bats unnerved me deeply. To exacerbate the situation, there were discussions about these creatures having the capability to bite through one's head. I covered my head in fear and found it difficult to sleep. The dormitories had open roofs, providing easy access for the bats. 

Ten hours of holding in my need wreaked havoc on my system, and when morning broke, I was incapacitated. The matron rushed me to Kyeni Hospital, where most people spoke Mama's native tongue, which I had not yet fully mastered. The nurses could relate to my name but were surprised at my limited comprehension of the language. They would linger by my bedside, treating me with kindness and making sure I stayed entertained. Most of them were eager to learn what life was like in Nairobi. Mama could not afford to leave her job at the Protocol office in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to stay with me in the hospital, so toughening up became my sole option, and that's exactly what I resolved to do. 

At Sacred Heart, Sister Maria's discipline was firm but compassionate. She would assign tasks like cleaning the money plant leaves by the entrance of the church house using soft materials (sponges). On the other hand, Valerie, the Kenyan headmistress, showed no mercy. She advocated for corporal punishment and would send students to cultivate or pick coffee on the plantation, teeming with spiders, caterpillars, and worms. 

Despite complimenting my writing with top marks in class, I will never forget the day she slapped me across the face for carelessness. It was a tough lesson, particularly for a town girl who had only known roaches as insects and had to be coached on how to wield a machete for tilling the land. We attended church twice a day and sang Italian hymns, led by immaculate sisters who served as ushers. 

I did meet some distant cousins, but the language barrier led me to befriend Rachel Nasambu and Beatrice Otieno, who were also from Nairobi and spoke fluent Swahili. Rachel hailed from the Luhya tribe and taught me a few words in her language, while Beatrice introduced me to Luo.

Rachel was the fastest runner in the school and always sought my blessings before a race to ensure victory. We became inseparable. On the other hand, my desk-mate Perpetual was quite the opposite of me. She was a member of parliament's daughter, with a penchant for elegance and a lockable diary, where she meticulously documented her thoughts. Initially, I found this practice rather peculiar. As I advanced in years, I discovered solace in the art of writing poetry and pouring my thoughts into a cherished diary. What a delightful surprise!

Down the Valley 

Saturday afternoons were the most amusing moments at school. We spent the day cleaning the compound and doing our laundry and whilst it was hung out to dry, we would grab our basins and sneak behind the dormitories while singing the "Poor Sammy" song. "Poor Sammy, poor Sammy, poor Sammy, mmh, Sammy's dead, Sammy's dead, Sammy's dead, oh mmh." These country folks had quite an array of fascinating beliefs. For them, the owl was considered a harbinger of death. One evening, as we sang beneath a towering pine tree, the owl startled us with its eerie cries. According to their superstitions, this meant that one of us would soon lose a relative. 

Margaret burst into tears and confided that her father worked at the dangerous Somali border. Although we tried to console her, her mother indeed came the next morning to take her home for her father's funeral. The anxiety triggered by the sound of an owl has deep roots, originating from both early experiences and the tangible reality of encountering it. They also spoke of a peculiar insect, seemingly in its larval stage, that could understand their requests for directions and served as a natural compass. They referred to it as "Kamumuna." It was during this time that I learned how to pray the rosary and felt the profound presence of spiritual power in prayer. The most significant lesson I imbibed was the importance of not seeking revenge and allowing God to fight my battles.

I dreaded visiting days, especially with the uncertainty of anyone from my immediate family coming. I often sat awkwardly with my cousins, feeling like an outsider until my newfound friend, Sophy-Cate, extended her invitation. Her father spoke fluent English, which made me feel at ease and at home. We even spent half-term breaks at her house. On one such visit, while reaching for my shoes under a bed, I got stung by a scorpion, leaving a lasting mark on my right index finger. Fortunately, a remedy called "Maendeleo ya Wanawake" swiftly cured the injury. The warm hospitality, the scent of fresh cow dung, and the crowing of the roosters left an indelible mark on my heart. 

Participating in field games at school was never my forte. My growing behind made running on the track a daunting task. I found solace in writing stories, singing hymns, or immersing myself in the pages of a good novel. Mills and Boons was my favorite. My vacations were spent mostly indoors like a butterfly cocooned away. I gradually lost touch with everyone and became a stranger to my neighbors. The boys had grown taller, sprouting beards, while I had grown increasingly reserved, shying away from everyone except to attend church with my family. 

They became protective of me and understood my reluctance to visit the bustling marketplace. So, I took charge of cooking and cleaning without expecting any assistance. I had a well-practiced routine until the vacation ended, and I was back in school again, always sporting a freshly shaved head and enough supplies to last three months. Despite my pleas to transfer back to schools in Nairobi being ignored, my determination to assimilate took over.