Today, being a day that a lot of history is being narrated, I can’t help but take my mind to almost fifteen or so years ago. My hands clutched at my mother’s skirt, wishing she would reconsider and take me back home. I even promised that I would help her with her work.My mom, being my mum, laughs it off and hands me over to Miss Sarah, a dark-skinned lady with a hearty laugh. She assures me that everything will be alright. She carries my backpack and leads the way to this new class. So today I want to talk about a boy.
Miss Sarah enters holding my hand, and the whole class stands up to greet her in uniform. I almost hide behind her but think otherwise. I know this first impression will stick with these kids, so I gather all the courage not to cry or make a fuss.
A Kindergarten Girl’s Struggle with her Name
Miss Sarah greets them back and tells me to tell the class my name. I say in whispers, “Charity Wanjiru,” everybody turns to look at a particular girl and starts murmuring. This chubby girl appears to have my exact name. The teacher uses the first come first serve analogy and decides that I will go by my surname, which I did not like. Muchiri I became.
In those times (yeah, it’s a long time ago in my head), a kindergarten girl having a boy’s name wasn’t particularly a popular thing. It was a disgrace, and a group of pupils who had decided that they didn’t like me made sure I knew that every day.
A Boy’s Name and a Peculiar Uniform
In those times (yeah, it’s a long time ago in my head), a kindergarten girl having a boy’s name wasn’t particularly a popular thing. It was a disgrace, and a group of pupils who had decided that they didn’t like me made sure I knew that every day. To add to my predicaments is the fact that my uniform was peculiar.
By peculiar, I don’t mean the good kind: I had a light green collar instead of the jungle green one, and my pullover was handmade, unlike my classmates, which were from the Kenya Uniforms, my shoes were boys’ shoes and didn’t require shoe polish, just a little rag, and water and they were shining like the Dumu Zas Mabati.
Oh, and my hair, let’s not talk about my hair. I honestly thought my mum hated me. Why did she have to do everything this wrong? I was a misfit.
The Tale of Two Boys: The Friend and the Crush
I made one friend, a boy whose name started with an M. I can’t remember much about him apart from the fact that he brought me a mandazi daily, and I could share his mandazi with him. Interestingly, I could remember a boy who didn’t have much to bring me.
I think he did even know me. He had better things to occupy his mind than remember the girl with a boy’s name, a weird physique, and a weirder uniform.
He was the first boda (like the champion in our class and other streams). This he became by beating up the biggest boy in class, Isaac Wandera ( I feel guilty now for not remembering my mandazi boy). I now think that it was luck on his side that day, but since Wandera didn’t ask for a re-run, Cliff Ochieng’ became the champion. I remember him because I had a huge crush on him.
Cliff becoming the champion in my class did not go well for me because he would take his team to a corner behind the class and do all sorts of mischief. I was the class monitor, and I had an obligation to report him else the whole class would suffer.
Being Caged and Choking for Air
I couldn’t report him, and many times I had to write my name on the list of the noisemakers, and my mandazi boy would write him too. We would both be the sacrificial lambs for the class.
We always received a beating because I couldn’t let Cliff hate me or beat me up for writing down his name. This boy was the pure definition of evil. He would kill you with the very words coming out of his mouth. Since I had too many faults that I knew too well, I didn’t want him to echo them to the whole class, so I steered clear. I felt caged, almost choking for air.
We got reshuffled in the following year, and my knight, my mandazi boy, was taken to another class, leaving me with my crush’s gang and the teacher’s beatings to contend with. I resigned from being the monitor, and some tall, calm boy called Paul took the role.
The break-time was bearable since I had my friend with me, and his mandazis were still coming. I eventually decided that I didn’t like Cliff in any sense; he was a dictator and no hero. He was a coward trying to rule his “subjects” with fear and humiliation, reminding his subjects of how unworthy they were.
The Colonization of Africa: Breaking its Spiritual and Cultural Heritage
Today being a historic day of how we got independence fifty-seven years ago, I feel obliged to say how is it we got to be colonized in the first place, not Kenya alone but for Africa as a whole.
Lord Macaulay’s Address to the British Parliament
This happened when a certain Lord Macaulay’s addressed the British Parliament on the 2nd February 1835, he said, “I have traveled across the length and breadth of Africa, and I have not seen one person who is a beggar, who is a thief such wealth I have seen in this country, such high moral values, people of such caliber, that I do not think we would ever conquer this country, unless we break the very backbone on this nation, which is her spiritual and cultural heritage.
Therefore, I propose that we replace her old and ancient education system, her culture, for if the Africans think that all that is foreign and English is good and greater than their own, they will lose their self-esteem, their native culture and they will become what we want them, a truly dominated nation.”
The Consequence of Breaking Africa’s Backbone
Fifty-seven years later, though free on paper, Africa isn’t free. The nations are not free; the people aren’t free. We have been made to think that the other continents are better than us. This narrows down to my eight-year-old thinking that I wasn’t good enough. I thought I was always me with the problem, my uniform, my surname, and my height.
I was my worst enemy. I hated myself. If it had a toll on me, it doesn’t have a toll on the adult. It is magnified when you grow up, the urge to measure up, the need to be wanted, the zeal to make a name and prove to all those that thought we were good for nothing that we are worth a second look.
Looking deeper, I realize that it is not to them that I want to prove to, but to myself, I want to prove to the voice in my head.
The shackles fell, but not for long; other shackles cuffed her in her teens, and she outgrew them soon.
The Search for Freedom and Dignity
The nation is free, but the subjects are not. The eight-year-old me is not free, and neither is Cliff Ochieng. If Cliff is left to grow like that, he will conclude that he has to incite as much fear as possible in those around him to survive. I would live with my face on the ground, thinking I am not good enough, so Lord Macaulay’s theory stands out.
It almost echoes in my head, “make her think that she is not worth much. Make her always second guess herself, make her live with her head down, make her think that she only deserves the crumbs being thrown at her, take away her mandazi boy.”
And to Cliff Ochieng, I hear the advice to the colonists, “give him a false sense of freedom, make him believe that he can get away with anything, make him think that his value is proportional to the power he has, and he will never have enough.”
The Boy who was a Bully
I only know a little about Cliff Ochieng now, and I don’t even think he remembers my name. To think that he’s ever told a story about the girl with a boy’s name is unthinkable. I did not exist in his world fifteen years ago.
How would I exist now? He would speak of Daratu Roba, the Somali girl with long silky hair. She was beautiful but dumb, but who cares? No one cared that I topped my class.
I only know a little about Cliff Ochieng now, and I don’t even think he remembers my name. To think that he’s ever told a story about the girl with a boy’s name is unthinkable.
I did not exist in his world fifteen years ago. How would I exist now? He would speak of Daratu Roba, the Somali girl with long silky hair. She was beautiful but dumb, but who cares? No one cared that I topped my class.
Breaking Free from the Dictatorship
Fortunately, I know what happened to the girl with a boy’s name. She ended up liking the name as she aged. And another thing, she outgrew her uniform. She doesn’t even wear uniforms, and her hair is all grown up (I know my girlfriends will laugh at this). She outgrew that cage.
The shackles fell, but not for long. Other shackles cuffed her in her teens, and she outgrew them soon. She’s momentarily free, and she knows that other shackles will try to cuff her, that Lord Macaulay would prove right soon enough but not for long because with time, she has known how to spot the shackles early enough, even before they cuff her and so she misses them at times. She has a BFF that the teachers can’t reshuffle this time, so that she will manage.
Today she understands that the “faults” were not to humiliate her. She was peculiar and still is but in a good way.
Today, the year being half full, she reflects, like her young nation, that she must remember where she has come from and how far she has come, so she can’t throw in the towel.
In Conclusion
Today she must count her blessings, her achievements, and her failures. Today she must get perspective and ask the Lord why her, not grudgingly but with thanks, why her, why he set her free, why He chose her, why His life for hers, the life of God. Today she understands that the “faults” were not to humiliate her. She was peculiar and still is but in a good way.
Today she chooses to defy the theory and realize that she is worth much, that the girl with a boy’s name and the weirdest uniform is loved, she realizes that this love is unconditional, like the mandazis she used to receive daily. She doesn’t have to do anything to keep them coming.
Today she chooses to accept who she is, everything that she is, her physique, height, weight (she’ll work on that, though), temperament and personality, skin complexion, and hair, especially her hair. Today, when she finally decides to free herself, Madaraka Day makes sense.
This is one of a kind, it’s really touching my heart. Keep moving Charity, you are a champion
Weeeh,did not want it to end,it’s beautiful,I only knew today that such a Lord Macaulay existed,very unfortunate for us Africans, it has blessed me
That was @ hotpursuit.
Wow,”it is the day that she decides to free herself that madaraka makes sense”…
What an article,God bless you Sifa; you are a blessing to this generation.Your art of mixing humour and lessons plus your story telling skill is just on another level. I love it to bits & I love the blogger herself to
Amen… Thank you Jane
You are going far my little cousin, I love what you are doing. God bless you abundantly
Amen… Thanks
Wow! This is not only sweet to read but also transformative. Thanks a lot.
Thanks
haters had to make you know they hated you.
Haha… Imagine
Woow amazing sifa .love it.
Thanks Joy
спасибо интересное чтиво
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