That does not necessarily make me a fossil, but I consider myself lucky to have lived in 2 millenniums. Yes! I was alive in the 20th century.
If you cannot relate to “Home Alone”, kindly log off your PC and throw your phone in the fire (for the sake of those water proof bastards) and get down to shaping your future. You are a tad too young to be reaping the benefits of 4G connectivity.
1995. 10 years ago. Tell me what you were doing back then on a Thursday like this. If you can actually remember whatever it is you were doing, that makes you an early 90s/late 80s kid. Any older and that makes you someone’s grandparent. Write your will.
On a normal Thursday, I’d wake up at roughly 7:30 am after being pulled out by my soldier of a mother out of bed. You see, where I come from children rights end where parental roles begin. Simply put, one only had rights if their parents did not think it was wrong. Pun unintended.
My small crafty self would then remember I had “Mwead” my bed but there was little or no time to take a shower.
It’s not like I would even if I had the time anyway.
“Water is too precious to be wasted on showering” was my all-time favorite boy motto. So I would get rid of my ammonified garments then slide into my uniform.
By then breakfast would be cold as it had been prepared an hour ago by an ever punctual mum who was threatening to report me to daddy if I failed to go to school.
Trust me that was the last thing anyone wanted at that time. A confrontation with one’ dad left you with sour buttocks and amply watered eyes. Dads had a way of provoking tear glands. I wonder what happened.
Sorry. What was that? Oh! My face? Yes! I never washed that. Who said it was dirty anyway?
By 7:50 I’d be hanging a bag double my weight on my kiddish shoulders ready to go grab the key to life. I was among the lucky few who had bags. A good number of my school mates had to do with 10KG sacks as bags. It was never an issue.
Just as I was leaving the house, mummy would remind me to air my mattress. Then I’d remember I was late for school and dash off telling her I will air it once I get home from school.
There was no way I was going to let other kids know I had a mini urinal in my bed. I bet it never occurred to me that I was stinking like one already.
If I got to school in time, I was lucky. However if the bell rang before I entered the school gate, trouble was imminent.
The TOD would be waiting for me at the gate with a bamboo stick that was too eager to make friends with my bum. Actually, they were best of friends. Need I say how ruthless teachers were back then? As a matter of fact, I always thought school was a mini- Kiganjo. For the clueless ones, Kiganjo is a police academy.
Classes would commence at 8:20am and I’d literally count down minutes till break time. I hated learning. If my patience wells ran dry, I would fish out my 11am tea break snack and have it right there (that felt so wrong). Owe unto me if the teacher caught me in the act.
At break time we would all hog down our snacks then run to the field where some games we played make me cringe to date. Do you remember bano? How about Chobo Ngoto/Chobo Ua, Kati, Bladder, Brikicho (hide and seek) and many more?
“Crackie no payee”, a friend would shout before smashing their marble into mine.
Break time was always short and classes were longer. Lunch breaks were spent under trees around the school compound, trading meals. A table spoon of githeri for a scoop of avocado. And the trade continued. I have always been an entrepreneur.
The last stretch of classes was the most boring with everyone fighting sleep. The heat never made it any better but we managed to live through it, awaiting our savior, the 4pm bell, that would save us from those rod-brandishing, chalk-dust covered army trainers under the guise of teachers.
You see, as much as we’d leave school early, very few us got home before 6pm. There was always something to be done on the way home.
It’s not like I had a PS4 awaiting me at home.
