Wednesday, April 28, 2010

My special role in Juma’s blissful wedding

Weddings in my village are very rare, but we had one last Wednesday; and I was very much involved.
It started when Mr. Juma, our Deputy, went to church last Sunday, after a long absence. After the service, the pastor challenged him to solemnise his marriage. Juma agreed and they settled on Wednesday – three days later - as the big day.
Juma came to seek my help that Sunday evening. “They want to appoint my wife as the chairperson of Mothers’ Union but she is not wedded,” he told me. “Since this position will bring home an extra shilling; I readily welcomed the wedding.”
I quickly agreed to help him in planning. We did not need to consult Juma’s in-laws about the date, dowry, among others. All that Juma’s wife did was to send them an SMS informing them the date of her wedding.
We drew up the budget. Two chickens, a kilo of meat, sugar and milk was required for the high table – which would consist of the pastor and teachers. The rest of the villagers would do with ‘strong tea’ and Githeri. No cards were sent out but by Sunday evening, the entire locality was aware of the big wedding.
For the wedding gown, we looked around for any woman who had one. We only found one in the neighbouring church but it was too big for the bride’s slender architecture. She therefore decided to use the purple church choir uniform. Using an old mosquito net, our local tailor managed to fashion it and this beautifully completed the gown.
The pastor cancelled all activities he had for that Wednesday. You see, besides the Sunday service, he only presides over funerals. He therefore could not to miss a wedding of a Deputy Headmaster.
On Tuesday, Juma sent me to the market to buy a few things for the wedding. Among them were two rings. After a long time of searching, I stumbled upon two that looked almost similar and I bought them at Sh35 each after long bargaining. I also bought two films as the photoman promised to charge us less if we had our own film.
Wednesday morning. I went to Mr. Juma’s home early to oversee arrangements. With his wife having slept at a friend’s home, Juma’s sister was in charge. I paid the bodaboda guy to go and bring the bride in style.
As Juma’s best man, I went back and put on my still new green Kaunda suit, white sports shoes and red socks. Juma had his only grey Kaunda suit although it was creased and had patch below the left pocket.
“The material of the suit is so heavy,” he explained to me. “A piece of red charcoal burnt it as I was ironing it, and I had to repair it this morning.”
We walked to the church, a few kilometers away, and found the church choir practicing a few bambios. They sang and danced as they escorted us to our seats. The church was full with women and children.
The women went wild with song, dance and ululation as soon as the hooting of the bodaboda motorcycle was heard. The bride was looking stunning in the purple dress and net. Her best women, all members of the choir were all struggling to hold a piece of the flowing net.
The service followed the usual format but the pastor used the sermon to castigate all around who had not wedded. “You are all fornicating sinners,” he shouted. I then remembered that we had not bought a cake. I briefly saw my younger brother outside and sent him to get either bread or scones quickly – we couldn’t find cake anywhere.
Then vows were exchanged. “Have you been with Juma during end month and when he is broke, and will you continue doing so?” The pastor asked Juma’s wife.
“Yes!” she answered amid ululation.
My brother came back and told me that there was neither bread nor scones. He however had bought some mandazis. “This will do,” I said.
After exchanging rings, it was time to cut the cake. The mandazis had been cut into small pieces. One mandazi had been left and Juma’s wife took this, cut it into two and they shared with her new husband. The other pieces were distributed around but some boys ran away with most of it leaving the women angry.
The journey from church to Juma’s home in the hot sun was slow but interesting. Juma and I walked slowly as the women marched and sang. We arrived to find the high table already occupied by a few villagers who had not attended the church service; and they refused to budge.
As we ate the MC called for gifts. As a staffroom, we had contributed money and bought Juma four glasses, which Madam Mary presented. Juma’s mother gave them bananas while the bride’s mother gave a big cockerel. That was all.
By the time we were finishing eating; the bride had already removed the net and was busy helping around with clearing the table. Juma too changed. He then took a slasher and started trimming his fence while we reviewed the day. We agreed that the day had been a great success. Our spirits were only dampened by the photoman who arrived to announce to us that the film had accidentally ‘burnt’ and all negatives spoilt before they could be ‘washed’.
Without photos, how will Juma and his wife convince anyone that they had such a wonderful wedding?

Spokesman’s bad table manners that spoilt Pius’ big day at in-laws

It was a great day, and all plans were ready by last Saturday morning. The matatu we had hired arrived early enough. With helped the driver put some leaves around it to indicate that it would be ferrying people to a ceremony. To ensure that no policeman would stop us, the driver placed a wooden sign in front for them to see. ON HIGHER, the sign read.
As we did this, Pius and I explained to him that we may expect more people than had been planned for. Just then, Aunt Trufosa arrived with her daughter – both of them dressed for the occasion. Her daughter was not on the list.
My mother had left early to go to our neighbour’s to have her hair ‘burnt’. It was useless for she planned to wear a headgear on the day. “I don’t want to be embarrassed should the headgear fall down,” she said when I pointed this out.
With my father and Pius in black suits, I decided to look different. I put on my green Kaunda suit, and matched this with my white Reebok sports shoes. Soon Alfayo our neighbour arrived. He had come to apologize that he would not be able to join us. The shoes his son had brought him the day before, he said, were too small. “I don’t want to come with my Akala; the people of your wife may think that their girl got married into problems.” Though we expressed our remorse for him, inwards we were happy an extra slot had been created.
Next to arrive was my uncle who surprised us when he said that he had not eaten since the previous day. “The last time we made such a trip there was so much food but I could not eat since I was full. Today I am not making such a mistake.”
By 9.30 am, we were ready to leave. Besides Alfayo, three others did not make it. Before we left, we all converged in my father’s house for prayers. It was Aunt Albina who prayed. She did not even mention the purpose for our journey but repeatedly prayed for the matatu and the driver.
We arrived without a hitch, and after more prayers, two crates of soda Kubwa were brought. Mr. Lutta and my uncle knocked down two bottles in a matter of minutes, and were itching for a third.
We then had an introductions session, with our side led by Lutta, who sat next to Pius and kept consulting him. After this we were led out for a stroll. This was a clear indication that we needed to clear our stomachs in preparation for the real thing.
Before we went out, we were asked if any of us had any special needs. My grand aunt announced that she does not eat beef from a cow. When she was told that they could not tell if the beef was from a cow or a bull, she said that she would easily tell this by looking at it, and if it was from a cow, then “I’ll have to do with just chicken.”
Aunt Albina said that she only takes cocoa with undiluted milk. I gathered later that at home, she only can afford ‘strong tea’, but one must make maximum benefit from such ceremonies.
We came back to find the table full with food. There was fried beef, nyama choma, fried chicken, rice, ugali, fruits name them.
Seeing most of us confused, my uncle had a word of advice for us: “Avoid any food you are likely to find at home soon.” Ugali and sukuma were not touched by anyone, but chicken and chapati were over within minutes. While those who had suits and ties were sweating profusely as they ate, I was happy I had chosen a Kaunda suit.
Lutta, his plate full with chicken and beef, struggled with every piece he picked ensuring that no meat was left on any bone. It happened so fast. Lutta struggled with a hard piece of chicken so forcefully that his right elbow knocked off Pius’s plate, splashing the entire soup on Pius’s clean suit and messing his shirt and face.
Everyone stopped eating. Pius was led out of the room to another house where his wife wiped out the mess. Lutta, like everyone else, continued eating as if nothing happened, his shirt wet with sweat. My uncle returned most of his food.
When Pius came back, he was in no mood to speak to anyone, least of all, Lutta, which made the rest of the day cold since Lutta was the spokesperson.
We had more small talk before they brought tea accompanied by bread, scones, groundnuts and more chapati. I saw Lutta and my uncle take at least two cups. As per her request, Aunt Albina’s undiluted milk and cocoa were served separately, to the envy of other women who regretted having not made any special requests. Meanwhile, aunt Trufosa and Albina were filling their lessos with whatever food they could.
It was on our way back that my uncle explained why he had not eaten a lot.
“You see I mixed my chicken with chapati and waru. But it tasted so bad. It was only later that I discovered that I had taken pineapples thinking they were waru. To avoid embarrassment, I just kept quiet.”
We only smiled, being too full to laugh.

My Valentine’s day out with Cate and Ruth’s little secret

Although I only first heard of Valentine’s Day this year, I decided that I would give Cate a treat. To make the day a success, when I went for my salary, I took time to buy some gifts for Cate. I had done some research, and settled on gifts that I knew she would really like.
I actually had consulted Madam Ruth, whom I am now close to. As you know, the political arithmetic in our school is changing quickly and I am now more aligned to the Deputy’s side, to which Madam Ruth firmly belongs.
I first asked her if she knew about Valentine. “She was good in Maths,” Ruth answered. “She is in Form two at St Teresa Girls.”
I clarified that I was talking about Valentine’s Day, not Valentine our head girl of 2008. “Oh, that, I know it but you know Juma will be with his Main Sim Card so I will not feature.”
I asked her what her ideal Valentine gift would be. “A nice dress, necklace - something that would make me look pretty,” she said before adding. “But Juma ni mkono-birika. He won’t buy me anything.”
So I settled on three gifts: Ngoma rubber shoes from Bata, Kitenge material, and Piece for her hair. I could not get Kitenge material. I therefore went for “Piece”, and quickly bought two of them. Next I went to Bata. Finding Bata too expensive, I got the same pair of Ngoma rubber shoes at much lower prices at the open air market.
Valentine’s Day. I was ready by noon. I had my latest new green Kaunda suit, white Reebok sports shoes and since it was Valentine – red socks.
I wrapped the gifts in fresh newspapers, and carried them in a yellow polythene bag. We met at the market posho mill, where Cate had brought maize for grinding. We left the maize with the mill attendant. Since it was Valentine’s, I was not going to take her to a hotel at our local market centre so I carried her on the bicycle and off we left for the next market centre – some kilometers away. We went straight to Kasuku Hotel, which mostly sells chai and mandazi.
“Kuna madondo Chapo, lakini maharagwe haijaiva,” the waiter answered when I asked if lunch was ready. I could not ask for beef since Cate does not eat ‘animals’. We were assured that lunch would be ready within half an hour.
We decided to take a soda as we waited for the lunch. We each took Madiaba (Soda Kubwa) and half bread. As I parked the bicycle, Cate placed her lesso under the tree behind the shop and we sat down to enjoy our drinks.
I took out the margarine which I always carry and Cate applied it on the bread. We didn’t have much to talk as we took the soda. I sought to break the silence.
“Do you think the Naivasha constitution will pass?”
“I thought it was passed?” she asked. She had no idea what I was talking about. I finished my Stoney, helped her finish her Fanta then gave her the gifts; but told her to only open them once back home. “Let’s check if lunch is ready,” I said as we stood up.
It was not, but one waiter brought us water to wash our hands while another left the hotel in a hurry. After some wait, they brought us beans which had been fried before they cooked well. The waiter who had left came back but left immediately again. The other waiter gave one chapati to Cate and asked me to wait for mine. The waiter who had left earlier rushed in back. She then brought me two mandazi – cut into pieces.
“The chapatis are over, please take mandazi," she explained.
Cate didn’t eat much so I cleared her plate once I was done with my mine. All the while she was quiet. I was keen to end the silence.
“Do you see Ongeri resigning?” I asked her.
"Kwani what did he do?” she asked and I knew I had to look for another conversation. Just then, I received an SMS from my brother Pius: “Raila has dissolved the cabinet.” This made me very unsettled and although I shared the news with Cate, she wasn’t moved.
Just then, Nyayo, who sold food by the road side, rushed into the hotel. “Bado mnataka Chapati?” he asked the waiters. We realized then that we had just taken chapati and mandazi from his dirty roadside shed.
As we were mounting the bicycle ready to leave, I saw Madam Ruth, together with Mboya, a high school teacher, come out of the lodgings behind Pumzika Bar. Ruth hugged Mboya, and then boarded a Bodaboda motorcycle while Mboya waved at me, then swaggered back to the bar.
Late that night, I got an SMS from Madam Ruth: “I know u enjoyed ua Vals like me... lol. U know what not to tell Juma. Sweet dreams dear.”
I hadn’t finished reading this when Cate’s double SMS arrived: “Thanks dear 4the treat n gifts. The shoes were hwvr small n I gve my small siz. I usually use 4 sets of hair piece – not 2. Did u check them? 1 was brown n de other black. But I love them. Xoxo.”
Although I did not understand what lol and xoxo meant, I was happy to have received good SMSs from two pretty ladies at the same time. What a memorable Valentine’s.

Mathematics drill that turned tragic

When I was moved to teach maths in class five, I found a class that was very poor in the subject. This was not surprising since Saphire had been their maths teacher since 2008. With their maths books marked only thrice in the two years, Saphire definitely had better things to do at Hitler’s during maths lessons.
First, the pupils knew nothing about The Table; many of them could not give an answer to 4X4. As for 13+18, they needed all their fingers and sticks to solve: but only two of them got it right.
Since I expected to move with the class until class 8, I decided to start early. Who knows, I may appear in the newspapers in December 2013 for having the highest Mean Score in maths countrywide!
Although the government banned corporal punishment, caning cannot be avoided when teaching maths. So when my CRE approach to maths proved unsuccessful, I had to become a little tough – and I have seen a cane in time save nine.
The entire class had to know the table off head. Every lesson began with a five-minute “mental arithmetic moment” during which I would randomly ask any pupil to instantly answer my mathematical problem. Those unable to give correct answers received instant slaps while repeat failures were caned.
The results were instant. Within just a few weeks, most pupils were able to say the correct answers – although few were unable to give answers to problems outside the mathematical table!
A few complaints started coming through, though. I first heard of them at Hitler’s. Although avoiding Hitler’s drink was one of my New Year Resolutions, while my heart always wishes to be at Cosmos, my pockets always lead me to Hitler’s.
“Mwalimu tumesikia wewe ni mkali sana?” Rashid, our PTA chairman asked me. I did not answer. “Bora tu usiguse Sandra wangu,” added Nyayo, a PTA member whose daughter is in class 5.
A week later and the HM called me in his office. “Thanks for the good work you are doing in class 5,” he started. “But I have received complaints from parents that you are caning their kids badly.”
“No, I only slap once or twice,” I answered, smiling.
“Remember corporal punishment was abolished? We need to use counselling or we can always involve the parents for complex matters,” he said.
“I know that. But if a class five pupil cannot tell you the answer to 3X3, do you counsel him? Do you send the kid home to bring his parents? By the time the pupil comes back, he will have forgotten 2X2. But a quick slap gives instant results!”
The HM laughed at this, then said: “I agree with you. But wanyoroshe na mpango. Hatutaki makelele.”
Last Monday, I was angry after most of the pupils failed a test I had given them. I asked all the students who had gotten below 40 per cent to arrange themselves in a circle. I gave each of them a cane and asked each to cane the one in front five strokes.
“One!” I started counting as they began punishing one another. A few of them, who had given out mild ones, on realizing that the person behind had no such mercy, put all their energy in the subsequent strokes.
It happened so fast. After the fourth stroke, Sandra fell on the floor, fainting. This brought some commotion in the class but we soon handled it and the girl was ok within minutes. I knew her father, Nyayo, would create a big problem out of this. But nothing was heard for three days.
On Thursday, I left school early and having nothing to do, I passed by Hitler’s to have ‘one for the path.’ It was getting dark and I had just ordered my third glass when Saphire arrived panting.
“Mwalimu, kimbia twende, ni kubaya!” he shouted. I knew it was a police raid and so I followed Saphire into Hitler’s maize plantation.
“Mmeona Andrew?” I heard a voice ask behind us. “Kwa mahindi!” someone shouted.
I followed Saphire and we lay low in a small thicket in the plantation. They passed us and returned a few minutes later, disappointed. “Hakajui bei ya watoto na kalipiga Sandra wangu kama punda! Bahati yake!” Nyayo said as the other ones clicked loudly. “Twende kwa Hitler mpewe moja,” he told them.
I left once they had disappeared – shaken to the bone about the danger I had just escaped. But Saphire’s words still ring in my mind. “Mwalimu, no parent will remember you once their children pass. Take things easy.”
Thankfully for me, I will not be facing the class again very soon, for we already have began end term examinations and next term I will be at St Teresa’s Girls for my first Teaching Practice. I hope to meet better parents there.
***
When I started writing this diary, I had expected that within a few months, someone would have seen my abilities and given a big job in Nairobi. A year later, and am still in this village; regularly quarrelling with my parents and school colleagues; riding the same Hero bicycle to school; and struggling to make citizens out of the sons and daughters of my people. Saphire still hasn’t paid me my Sh350; and I still haven’t bought a posho mill. But you, the reader, have been with me through my struggles and joys; and I thank you for that.
mwalimuandrew@gmail.com