THE GRAND HEAD-START

My growing up was simple and authentic.

Growing up in one of those sleepy villages was as heavenly as you can possibly imagine.

I attained the prerequisite for school enrolment pretty early and in I was in search for nothing; they later told me that the search was for knowledge.

Those days, no one told you why school was good for you,

As long as the headmaster’s daughter was in school; that was deemed good for you too; questioning your elders’ actions was forbidden.

War unto you if you could fluently ask for ‘nyonyo’ translated breast-milk without stammering; and that I did and found myself in demeaning environment. Calling out for mama with tears and mucus altogether flowing into my gaping mouth was like a daily doze for all of us. I could crave for that breast-milk all day long and I couldn’t wait for evening to come. Don’t look at me like that, we all did.

Pre-unit and the like were unknown or possibly my village was not enlightened enough at the time.

We were artistic with soils and interacted effortlessly such that we were inseparable.

In fact, all our exams were done on the floor and we became such creators with clay.

Teacher Monica was so motherly she literally fed us and ensured that no one ate another’s food. Plus she was my grandma’s namesake which is solely why we had a thriving bond. May her soul rest in peace.

Fast forward, I made it to class 6 guys.

You see where I come from, episodes of pupils-relations flourished; and before your mother found out, your belly had already outgrown your hiding tactics.

I was now all grown with sharp tips darting through my chest and I later came to learn that mother was worried.

Obviously I outgrew the soils and prospered in taking a thorough bath twice a week.

I was privileged to have a clean shave from the only barber in the entire village; the rest of the time mama perfected her razor handling skills.

Hear me out city dwellers, growing hair was unheard of in my village; only mistresses stood the chance of setting the pedestal throughout our future beauty ambitions irrespective of how unkempt their hair seemed a times,

Worse if a boy tried to keep hair; the demon could be crashed out of him thoroughly in the early morning dew in a congregation of elders, villagers and witnesses.

Back to my story,

It’s in class 6 that I attained bits and pieces of confidence and poise.

Occasionally I participated in giving nicknames to teachers only if the teacher on trial was unwanted.

I severally bribed the class prefect with mangoes just so that my name could be erased from the undesirable noisemakers’ list.

There is this one time my friend and I carried guavas to school hoping no one would find out; the smell betrayed us and we received a beating for literally taking fruits. Such was my school!

On a bright Friday morning, passersby regularly overheard our voices reading from our battered chalk board and soon our screams could be replaced by the junior classes singing through their Swahili lesson. And just like a high pitched choir on session, we raced through classes; one after another.

Looking back, I realize that all these experiences created this being today.

This being that keeps trying on heels only to fall off stairs when everyone is watching; and still try them out the next day.

This being that keeps tweaking words to fit my description only to be betrayed by my uncultured tongue.

This being that keeps falling and rising up only to fall again and still rise up.

This being that keeps retreating back into that girl within and enjoying every bit of happiness thereof.

This being that so strongly believes that we all are made of tiny bits of history from the rich trails of experiences we’ve gone through and that makes WHO WE ARE!

Mwende