A story of how I missed out on my first school trip to Bungoma ASK show, laden with many lessons for life.
I failed mathematics in primary school not because I was stupid but because of bitterness, pain and a grudge I harbored towards my mathematics teacher following a painful experience. The incidence was so painful to the young me that every time it crosses my mind I well up.
Khurokota kamaindi
Look, I grew up in a large family my parents having brought forth nine of us. Nine! I mean 1,2,3,…. 9. We struggled to survive with limited resources. This meant luxuries were not available to us. Things like toys, school trips etc remained pipe dreams. We didn’t know better and thus lived joyful lives especially it being that my family, by village standards, was considered well off. More importantly, we learned quite early how to fend if we wanted to enjoy some of the good things of childhood.
For example, when one of us wanted to access a luxury, you needed to go out of your way to find alternative ways of getting the money to buy yourself luxury. One such way of raising cash was looking for maize forgotten in maize fields after harvesting – khurokota kamaindi.
Gorogoro
The school I attended had announced at the beginning of second term that there would a a school trip to Bungoma ASK show in the course of that term. One was required to pay Ksh 100 to book a chance among the limited spaces available.
Second term happens to coincide with the first harvest season in my motherland. I put in my shift. I looked for all maize remains from people’s farms as well as our farm. Mum also rewarded me with one basket of good maize as a way of appreciating the good work we had done helping in harvesting.
By hand, I shelled my maize and dried it. My loot summed up to a good six gorogoro that I sold for a cool Ksh 150 bob. A tidy sum back in the early nineties that could get you what Ksh 500 can now. This meant I had earned myself a chance to attend the school trip to Bungoma ASK show and had an extra Ksh 50 bob to buy sweet things while on the trip. The teacher coordinating the trip, Mr. Maliongobi would announce on parade every Monday that there were only 100 chances available and that the slots on the bus be allocated on first come first serve basis.
No benefiting twice
Some days he would give statistics of the number of chances remaining. He would them remain behind to allow those who had money to pay for the trip. Given how I was sourcing the funds for the trip, I was to be among the last ones to pay up for the trip.
The trip was to happen on a Friday. This was purposed to coincide with the day the head of state would officially open the show and reward best performing farmers. The Monday before the week of the school trip, Mr. Maliongobi announced that there would be no parade that week
I had been anxious the whole weekend after raising the cash, afraid if by some bad fate I lost the money and it with my chance on the school trip. I purposed to make my payment the first thing Monday morning.
My brother on the other hand had used all his proceeds to purchase marble balls commonly known as banta. He refused to share with me the marbles as I would go an the trip alone. “No benefiting twice,” he’d quip whenever I asked to play. I took in the torment consoled by fantasies of all I had heard about the joys of a school trip to Bungoma ASK show.
Mr. Wekesa
After the Monday cleanup, I went to the staff room to look for Mr. Maliongobi. He was not there. Mr Wekesa, who happens to sit next to Mr. Maliongobi was present. Mr. Wekesa also happened to be our mathematics teacher. I inquired the whereabouts of Mr. Maliongobi from Mr Wekesa. He had not seen him either. Since I did not want to miss out on the trip, I asked Mr. Wekesa to accept the Ksh 100 for the trip.
I saw Mr. Maliongobi in school sometime that week but I didn’t bother to make a follow up. Instead, I got ready for the big day. I borrowed shoes from a friend for the trip. I washed my most descent piece of school uniform, got a shave. At I home I was the most helpful and obedient one. I didn’t want to vex my parents in any way and get my visa revoked. The long awaited day came. Those of us going for the trip were asked to assemble in front of the staff room. There was excitement and disappointment all over the school.
Driver, driver, weka moto!
St Patrick Netima school bus had already arrived and was parked behind the staff room. We all gathered in front of the bus. Mr. Maliongobi stood at the door with a list. He started calling out names one by one as they entered the bus. Number one…..2….number 15….number 47. All this time I had been standing there with my snack of mahenjera safely tacked in a plastic container. Number 89…. Number 98…. still, there were three of us still waiting to be called.
My heart refused to stop pounding hard in my chest. I think rib cage could be seen moving up and down. When the bus revved the engine and my peers squealed in delight, I begun to sweat and my body was literally shaking. Number 100? But my name was not the list. Ooh my goodness! This was not happening! I wanted someone to tell me it was a lie. Mr. Maliongobi then leaned forward to find out who I was and why my name was not on the list.
I tried explaining my case to him in vain. Then accompanying teachers entered, plus their kids and house helps and at this point I was the only one still outside. As if to taunt my predicament, the students that had boarded started singing “Driver, driver, weka moto!”
Spotting Mr. Wekesa from a distance, Mr. Maliongobi pointed me towards him who was just entering the staff room that very moment. As I turned, he locked the school bus door and off the bus drove off.
All this while, pupils who were not going for the trip peeped through windows of their classrooms. Literally all activities in school had come to a stand still as a school trip to Bungoma ASK show was a big deal. As the bus zoomed off, I could hear loud laughter and words of embarrassment all over the school. I was a subject of public humiliation and was embarrassed to the core. The pain I felt within coursed though my bones crushing me at the core.
I ran to Mr. Wekesa’s desk in the staff room. He did not seem to remember me. I reminded him about the Ksh 100 I had given him earlier that week. He remembered. To date, I don’t know whether his forgetfullness was genuine or not. Nonetheless, he was sorry and handed me the money back.
With no mobile phones and thus no way to call Mr. Maliongobi to stop and wait for me, Mr. Wekesa ordered that I go back to class. I had never been heart broken before. Looking back, I do not remember wiping my face that whole morning. Tears of the pain of humiliation, mucus and saliva flowed as I sobbed freely. I was really hurt. Just wanted to run home and get comforted by my mother.
With that, my perception of Mr. Wekesa and the subject he taught, mathematics, irreconcilably deteriorated. Unfortunately for me, he was the only Mathematics teacher for the upper classes.
