Duckling years

 

MY stint as a frog

“London’s bridge

 Is falling down

Falling down.”

It is games time, and I am playing with a new group of people. My usual group has skipped out on me to go play with Winnie and her merry band of popular kids. I don’t blame them. I’d probably have done the same if I was in their place. Who wants to spend time with the obscure when they can take a sip from the alluring cup of popularity?

The new group is playing a game that I have never played before. The two leaders of the pack form an ark with their hands, and we walk under it while singing the nursery hymn, London’s bridge.

 The person walking underneath the ark when the song ends is captured. They are then asked to stand aside and wait until all the kids have been captured and the game ends.

We are then sorted into two groups by the pack leaders (in the short time I’ve spent with them I’ve discovered that they run the show and their word is the law). One group consists of queens while the other consists of lowly frogs. I’m sad to discover I’m in the latter.

 The queens are tossed in the air while sitting upright, a treatment that befits their royal status. We frogs are tossed up while lying stomach down on the hands of the two kids forming the ark. I think the frog experience is better, but I kind of hope to be a queen next time.

We play the game for a second round, and once again I’m placed in the group of frogs. I feel disappointed, I was really looking forward to being royalty.

Round three, I’m still a frog. I just shrug, I guess some people have a greater frog appeal than others.

Of puke and shoes

All 1500 pupils are crammed in the school’s assembly hall. The teacher on duty announces the day’s hymn and we scamper to the nearest person with a Golden Bells. My arch nemesis, Margret, pairs up with my best friend Clare. I try to squeeze in next to them, but Margaret possessively grips the golden bells and then shoves me. It’s clear to see that she is not interested in forming a happy little trio. I guess she still hasn’t forgiven me for being her best friend’s best friend. Oh well, I’ll just chew my lips and pretend to sing along. What could go wrong?

The entire school is united in song. Teacher, student, girl, boy, we all belt out the chorus of the hymn. I’m trying to figure out what the hook, ‘I will go without a mama and the footsteps follow steal’ means when all hell breaks loose. One minute I’m daydreaming about thieves and mothers, the next I’m adorning the school uniform of the kids standing near me with chunks of my breakfast.

A mini stampede ensues. Everyone is trying to scramble out of the trajectory of my vomit. I stand there bewildered at the sight of the un-chewed rice lying in front of me. I regret all the times I derided my brother for his slow-eating ways. Turns out I’m no better than him, I’m just a kid who doesn’t chew before they swallow.

 A teacher manages to get to me and as she leads me out of the hall, I can feel the wrath of my vomited-on classmates.

I skip school till I heal but when I return the usually snag assembly hall is a lot comfier. No one is willing to stand within vomiting distance of me. There are at least 1.5 metres between me and the nearest person. I’ve been reduced to leaper status.

At home time one of my victims, a kid named Ndengu (his hair earned him this nickname), ambushes me in the playground and hurls a slew of profanities at me. He waves his shoe around and asks me to put myself in the shoes of the person who had to wash it.

 I’m tempted to ask if he spent the whole day in his puked-in shoe, but I don’t want to remind him of his suffering lest I join the cat in the list of victims killed by curiosity.

I apologise profusely for my transgressions, I even shed a tear or two. It’s all in vain, his face remains contorted into a sneer. He is immune to my grovelling.

He mutters something about making me pay and then storms off. Forgiveness denied. The next day during assembly there are at least 2 metres between me and the nearest person.

By the time this incident is forgotten, I’m so used to my social pariah lifestyle, that I’ve forgotten how to talk to people my age.

(In hindsight, I believe they owe me a ton of gratitude. Thanks to me they were able to hone their social distancing skills. Maybe I should send them an invoice, I deserve payment for equipping them with Covid 19 prevention skills and experience.)

They were babylocks!!

I’ve repressed most memories from my tween years the only thing that stands out is the state of my hair.

The year is 2010 and I’m still in primary school. My class teacher is a Cruella De Vil doppelganger with a tar-black heart. I can’t stand the way she looks. Her skirts are a size too small, her perfume reeks, and her eyes are deader than Dedan Kimathi - her smile never reaches her eyes.

The feeling is mutual. She can’t stand the way I look especially not my hair, with its tight unruly coils.

Every day before I leave for school, I comb my hair till it’s almost straight but in an hour or two, it goes back to its coily self. Why can’t it just cooperate?

Every day before assembly Cruella of the diamond-hard heart walks to my desk and punishes me for my unruly hair. Sometimes she pinches me, sometimes she yanks my hair, and sometimes a slap will do, anything to remind me that some hair textures are better looking than others.

In no time at all, my comb-averse hair and my adventures with Cruella earn me a reputation as ‘yule wa nywele ndengu’. A moniker that will continue to exist long after leaving this school.

I guess the price I have to pay for pioneering a new hairstyle is disdain and ridicule.