The Long Journeys

Sometimes I think the long trips after school were instrumental to our wellbeing. It seemed normal to the both of us, but it was technically a tough experience for kids aged between 8 and 10 to make important decisions by themselves. Mzee ensured we had enough food during supper—not dinnar—and sometimes something to eat after school. He was also very solemn, hardly socializing with us unless it concerned critical matters such as correcting mistakes. He hardly knew anything about our individual characters, and that was his weakness. I will never blame him. He is the best dad anyone can have. This man has not only grown old trying to manage and instill understanding between families but has also raised many people. Those who knew him then have never lost respect for him.

On the weekends, he used to leave for the rural village. My two elder blood brothers had relocated after transferring schools, as earlier mentioned. This only happened after he separated from his first wife. I never followed the issues well due to cultural norms. I have grown to respect traditions, but I keep away from those I don't adore. The reason for their separation and how my mom came to be part of this family is a story for another day.

So we had mastered the fact that Mzee would always go to the village every Friday evening and show up back in our two-roomed house in town. Unlike many families within our poverty-stricken social class in this small town, Mzee could at least afford a bigger house. There was only one other unit in the compound, consisting of two rooms: a living room and a sitting room. It belonged to a Muslim family. My stepbrother and I admired this family because they often had us covered on the weekends when it came to snacks and sometimes lunch, which we never had. They consisted of three siblings raised by a single mother. I never saw the man of the house, so that was my conclusion. Their mother was always busy, often returning home at night. Her only son and lastborn was in high school, and he never spoke to little guys like us, perhaps because he was a teen. He always looked very neat. We called the secondborn Dadah, which I now realize was a nickname. Fatuma, the oldest and very tall lady, was our best friend.

Fatuma used to feed us delicacies of all sorts. In return, we made sure she would not fetch water that day. We could only manage to carry a 5-liter jerrican, but we filled several 20-liter containers in their house. Although she hardly promised any compensation before we embarked on our many return trips to the water source, about 200 meters away, we were certain that our physical efforts would be compensated. She never failed us. We really worked for our lives, despite our little stature and age, but neither Mzee nor my big stepbrother knew about it. They were always committed to their work. They were also absent and showed little concern about our well-being.

Since Mzee had the entire bedroom to himself as we squeezed ourselves into the living room, he seemed to find solitude in the room most of the time he was in town. His absence in our lives grew worse when his sister came to live with us. We soon became five people with completely different mindsets living under one roof. We were completely knocked off our feet after our aunt took more than half of this small room, which we had considered our home for almost two years. She was an adult and a lady, and she needed ultimate privacy. We had to obey the new order.

Reed Chapter 1 of this story

The long hours

Blossom: Acrylics paints on tough durable canvas

The one-shilling coin was enough for an ice cream. The school allowed vendors to sell them by the gate, a welcome relief under the scorching sun. I wasn’t worried about facing punishment for the earlier PE class incident. Besides, the practice teachers lacked the authority to discipline us, which likely explained why the teacher I’d clashed with never followed up. The odds of encountering that mysterious figure again were slim, leaving my mind free to focus on more enjoyable moments.

The ice cream wasn’t creamy but rather frozen, colored water, often packaged in slim polythene bags and air-sealed at both ends. I favored the dark-red ones, their berry flavor subtly laced with a hint of passion fruit. It almost tastes like nothing when frozen, but all the flavors come alive once it melts. I loved it melted.

No one handed us money. Usually, we relied on Cyrus’s older brother for the coins. They were my stepbrothers. Cyrus, slightly older and a class ahead of me at school, was my true friend and partner in crime. His brother mostly earned coins as a shoe repairer and cleaner, a trade he’d taken up after dropping out in Class 3. I think it was the best thing he could do, and he did it with remarkable skill.

He had so much unaccounted money that coins would slip from his pockets while we slept, and he never seemed to notice, or perhaps he didn’t realize how much he was earning. Our bed, made of rubber straps from car tires, had curved inward over time. Coins dropping from his pockets would slide straight to the center of the thin, sagging mattress. It became my routine to search there before getting out of bed, especially since he never asked about the missing coins.

At school, it was just the two of us from our large family and circle of relatives. My two elder maternal brothers had been transferred to a rural school, and I didn’t miss them—perhaps because they’d left before I became aware of their absence, or maybe Cyrus helped ease any sense of loss. Life was tough, but we made the most of it with my new “brother,” always finding ways to afford snacks like ice cream after school. Sometimes, with only one shilling between us, we’d share.

As usual, we tucked the ice creams into our bags, drinking them as melted juice later unless we were sharing. When frozen, they were easy to break into equal pieces or take fair bites. Our patience for the juice version depended on trust, which we could only muster when each of us had our own piece.

Cyrus’s brother worked in the nearby town, about half a kilometer from the school. His shoes business was right outside dad’s office, and they often left for work together on Dad’s bicycle, passing by the school gate, which was about 50 meters from the main road. Being the last ones to leave the house, we had to walk to their workplace every day to pick up the keys before heading home. This meant passing the school gate three times a day. The walk back home from town was about three kilometers, a distance we covered on foot regardless of the weather. By the time we reached home, it was often late in the evening, with nothing to eat for lunch.

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A Reflection: Life, education, and art

Discovering Myself

Tense moment

At the time, I didn’t take her words seriously as she pointed toward me. I was lost in thought, focused on shaping my clay pot to match the vision in my mind. Imagination has always been the cornerstone of my artwork over the years. She was part of a group of student teachers from the nearby Teachers College, participating in a program designed to introduce them to practical teaching.

My clay pot must have stood out to earn that recognition. On that particular day in 1994, we were all buzzing with excitement—not just because we were playing with clay (all kids love mud, after all)—but because these practicing teachers, whom we called TPs, were young, cheerful, and eager to make their temporary pupils happy.

St. Mary’s Boys was a beautiful school with well-kept classrooms. I believe it still is, though I’ve always wondered why they called it “Boys” when my top academic rival in my stream was a girl named Lydia. In truth, it wasn’t a boys’ school—there were just as many girls as boys.

I didn’t particularly care that we were a mixed group of boys and girls. What I did mind, however, was how the girls could often outshine me in simple physical activities, especially during class games. While I loved spending time outside like the other kids, I generally dreaded PE lessons. They felt long and tedious. I much preferred being in class, drawing or writing. In fact, just the day before this memorable art class, I’d had a terrible experience during a PE lesson.

It was a competition between the boys and girls in my class. The lesson began with an exciting football match between the Class 2 girls and boys. We—the boys—won, which wasn’t a big deal to me. I would’ve been fine even if the girls had beaten us. I’m not sure how the other boys would have felt about losing, but with my small stature, I felt safe in the randomness of the game and the teamwork it required.

The last part of that lesson, however, became a nightmare that lingered for years. I was tiny—nearly the smallest in the class. Now, we were being paired for a race: a girl against a boy. The most eager ones, mainly the tall and energetic kids, were excited to kick off the races. I knew I could only beat one or two girls when my turn came. As the self-motivated runners dwindled, the PE teacher had to change his strategy. He started pointing at specific individuals to race. I thought I could slip unnoticed by tiptoeing to the back. But I was unlucky—he spotted me. Mimicking my quiet attempt to sneak away, the huge man murmured something under his breath. His stern face and the seriousness of his gestures, paired with his large hands, made it clear I was in trouble. Still, I pretended he was pointing at someone else.

“Yes, yes, you.”“

You’re next!” he said.

I slowly stepped around the group, thinking to myself, “What now?”

“Who wants to challenge this little man?” he shouted.

Almost all the remaining girls raised their hands. Remember, I was only supposed to race against a girl. I nearly fainted—I was the easiest to beat! This teacher seemed ready to scare me half to death. He pointed at the tallest girl in the group.

“Hey, let’s see,” he said.

I wasn’t about to let myself be beaten by a girl, tall or short. Without overthinking, I said firmly, “No.” The teacher’s expression turned furious. The other kids cheered, unaware that as his anger boiled, I was trembling with fear. I can still picture how terrifying he looked as he bent down, holding his knees to support his large frame, glaring into my small face as if searching for something. I stared straight up into his eyes the entire time. Suddenly, the bell rang, and we all raced back to class.

The day felt longer than usual but my thoughts drifted to a one-shilling coin in my pocket -just enough for an ice cream... keep reading