GHC

GHC (Geography, History and Civics) in Kenyan Primary Schools kinda sucked. Not only was it boring, it was also too wide. Getting a 40 and above out of 60 was quite an achievement. I wonder how I got by without ever getting to know what was cutting with half of the vast chapters on colonial rule in Africa. Here is a list of some of the people you had to know in and out to pass:

- Lobengula
- Nabongo Mumia
- Kinjikitile Ngwale
- Koitalel arap Samoei
- Masaku
- Lenana and on and on
You had to know about the Khoisan, the Shona and the Ndebele, Leopard's Kopje culture, the Empire of Mone Motapa and the climatic conditions and soils that favour coffee, tea, pyrethrum, cotton, sisal and you still weren't done. You did rubber in Liberia, cocoa in Ghana and fishing in Japan.

I guess it paid off, we learned that the higher you go the cooler it becomes. My most amazing GHC moment was in lower primary when it was revealed to me that we live on and not in the earth!I'd always pictured humanity living happily inside a spherical body but not on it. I was in disbelief and wondered how the people at the bottom of the sphere don't fall off and how the Nile flows 'upwards' from Lake Victoria to the Mediterranean. Thankfully, those were answered and I have since moved on to questions of greater importance, such as why my GHC teacher only had long hair behind her ears.

Homework: What were the four waves of the migration of the Luo into Kenya?

Mahoka

One of my favourite programs on KBC TV was Mahoka. The most fascinating thing about the program was the names of the characters. Each had a cocktail of four or five names. You may remember some of them:

- Chapuo Chepeo Chap Chap Mla Chake
- Kwapuo kwap kwap mla chao
- Shombo shombora simba wa mji wa macho
- Sir James Chuck Norris Lord Carrington 360, 4,4,3 Magegania Boy

Mahoka was, if I remember correctly, the first Kenyan comedy to play canned laughter during the program. It would appear that they did not record varying vichekos but would play the same one at intervals of 1 min as the show went on, never mind if anything funny had been said or not.

Anyways, I loved Mahoka, Shombo with his famous stinking boots, Kwapuo going to Greece(Greki as they pronounced it) and Sir James with his silly glasses.

Chapuo once had a nice chit chatted with a beautiful stranger at the bus stop. The girl told the blushing Chapuo 'Haya basi korombo' as she boarded a bus. Chapuo happily recounted the story to his friends only to be told that 'Korombo' was a horrible insult. Chapuo made his way back to the now deserted bus stop and began yelling in the direction the bus had headed half an hour earlier 'Msichana wa saa zile, korombo ni wewe na watu wenyu, na mifugo yenyu...' and on and on.

Break Time

The 10.15am bell in Primo used to usher in break time, half an hour of unbridled fun and games. This was the time for kati, blada, shake, icho, hide and seek (aka brikicho) and the works. There was no better time to hit the loos without having to 'Please teacher can I go the toilet?' only to get 'Yes you can but you may not'.

Those were the days when three shillings could buy break time snacks and to spare. In many primos, mine included, the highlight of break time was relishing a red or green kashata, goody goody, britania or mabuyu. The most annoying thing was when other kids doead your break and plagued you with incessant 'nimosh!' and 'yes durus', just as you were about to consume a snack. Usually, throwing it quickly in the mouth and saying 'nishapaka mate' or just shouting 'no durus' way in advance usually worked just fine.

Anyways, we used to eat our britanias, or brits, in a slow, methodical way; first would be to gnaw away the patterned edges all around the word 'britania'. Then we would eat each letter one by one, spelling the new word as we went along; 'britani', 'britan', 'brita', all the way until the biscuit was finished. As for mabuyus, the real fun would start after break time when the well eaten pod would be rubbed vigorously on the floor until shiny and hot, then placed on the 'squawks' or neck of unsuspecting classmates. The squeal of pain elicited was delightful!

Maziwa ya Nyayo

Whenever the truck bringing crates of 'maziwa ya Nyayo' rolled into the school compound, squeals of delight interrupted the lesson and indeed, the entire school turned its focus to the distribution and drinking of 'maziwa ya nyayo'. Corruption was rife with prefects, teachers and upper primary kids stashing away more packets for themselves, some for drinking and in the case of teachers, some for making tea at home.

My friends from mixed primos tell me that the boys only wanted packets with the image of boys playing boxing, while girls only wanted packets with an image of girls playing netball. It was very embarrassing if you got a packet with an image of the opposite sex and one could even cry or be teased about it. I hear that in certain schools, smashing packets of 'maziwa ya nyayo' on the heads of classmates was a sport of great delight.

Alas! Those days are gone... or are they? Rumour has it that the school milk program may be reintroduced. Perhaps this time they will call it 'maziwa ya kibz'.

Primary English

Do you recall the climb up Primary School so aptly represented by the boy and girl taking a step each year on the cover of Primary English?

For many young people, that journey began with 'Hallo Children', your first English textbook. 'Like a lot of my friends, Hallo Children enthralled us with the mundane lives of Mr. Kamau, Mrs. Kamau and their children Tom, Mary and Peter. They were all speaking to us and saying, Hallo Children! As we would later learn, Mr. Kamau was a bus driver, Mrs. Kamau gave him a banana for breakfast, Mary was lazy and could not be woken up by countless domestic animals, Tom was prone to loosing pencils and Peter, the baby, loved playing with ink.

Then came 'Read with us' in standard two where Tom, Mary and their friends eat some grass soup and get awfully sick. Compelling eh?

We eventually moved on to 'New Friends' in class three.......things get hazy and muda si muda, we are almost 'Stepping Out' in class 8. Over the years debates happen, horrific dreams are retold and Mbogori cooks lunch.

The Loyalty Pledge

Didn't we all mumble the lines at assembly whenever Mrs. so and so in her shrill voice called out, 'The loyalty pledge...':

"I pledge my loyalty to the President and Nation of Kenya
My readiness and duty to defend the flag of our Republic
My life, strength and service in the task of nation building
In the living spirit embodied in our National motto 'Harambee'
and perpetuated in the Nyayo philosophy of Peace, Love and Unity."

I thought that this stuff had been scrapped by now, for obvious reasons, but it turns out that the 'loyalty pledge' is alive and well in Primary Schools to this day.

Nyanyako Star

Disgraceful as it may be, grandmothers were a necessary and very effective ingredient in childhood taunts. Innocent grandmothers found themselves at the heart of barbs such as 'Nyanyako kibogoyo lakini kwa kukula mifupa mwachie' and 'Nyanyako kaguru lakini kwa kudandia lorry mwachie'. The very best was a song composed specifically to jeer at friends and foes whenever the need arose, and you guessed it, granny was its subject. It went like this:

Nyanyako star! Star!
Anakula fish! Fish!
Uji na koo! Koo!
Ananyamba tiririiiiiii riii riiii riiiii
Ghostbusters!

Inathoa madoadoa yothe!

I dare say no OMO advert is as memorable as the 'Inatoa madoadoa yote' campaign. Well, that was just one advert. If you remember correctly, there were about four ladies in different ads for the same campaign. I'll paraphrase the bits and pieces I can remember:

The winner: I call her so because she was the most memorable and melodramatic. By the way she had this wide-eyed look and a thousand Watt smile. What an actress. Unforgettable!
'OMO withi powerfoam is the best! Ndio itakupathia, wath you are looking for. Apenji! Uyu niguo thafuni! This is the dethergent. OMO withi powerfoam. Thry ith.'

Bi Gladys Wakesho alikuwa na haya ya kusema: (Was that Nimrod Tabu's Voice?)
'Kwanza ninalowa nguo zangu na OMO iliyo na powerfoam, kisha ninazifua pole poooole kwa makiiiiiini, kisha zote zinakua safi. Ziwe ni za manjano au nyeupe, zote zinatakaa. Ukitaka kujua uhondo wa ngoma, ni uingie ucheze, hivyo anayetaka kujua uhondo wa powerfoam, atumie!

Rachel:
'Even the neighbour asked! Were looking at them and saying "wooow!". They said "Rachel! What did you use?". I said "Wooow! OMOOOO! Withi Powerfoam.".'
Announcer: Yes. OMO with powerfoam is the strongest washing powder for the cleanest wash.

Fishmonger:
'Unajua kwa hii biashara, lazima uoge... ung'are... ndio utapata customer. Sio mtu akipita, (wringing her nose) mapua!!... mapua!!...'

I think that campaign would make it into Kenya's (nonexistent) Advertising Hall of Fame.

Johni Kibogoyo

There was no better way to silence an opponent in a competitive game (or to wind up an argument you were clearly losing) than to whip out Johni Kibogoyo. The only modification needed was to substitute 'Johni' with the other kids name.

Johni Kibogogyo, alihara kwa mkebe
Akasema ni wageni
Wageni wakasema
Ni Johni Kibogoyo!

I imagine that it created such vivid imagery in the victim's mind that they just couldn't help seeing themselves doing something nasty in a tin. Worked every time!

The normal playing curve

When I was growing up (assuming I have finished), most games began with a suggestion like 'tucheze kati', followed by screams of 'fao' seco' 'thirdo' and so on. As it usually happened, two of us would shout 'seco' at the very same instant and after some intense bickering, we would resort to the time honoured solution to such disputes: 'Iiiii exe exe exe kala kabonding socks' or the remix 'iiie exe exe exe exe darling slipping kala kabonding socks'. If everyone's palms came out facing down and yours came up, you were 'fao' and vice versa, on and on until we got to 'lanyo'. If some kid tried to come into the game much later or we just didn't like him, we would shoo him away with the 'no more no less' policy and he would have no choice but to sit and watch.

After about 15 minutes of happy playing, someone would start 'vumaing' the ball or tightening the skipping rope or unfairly claiming that 'umevunja nyungu' only to make you 'ban' (or is it 'bant'?) quickly. Then the lamentations of 'hii game ni ya harare' would start, followed by lofty proclamations of 'harare hailalangi'. The 'harare' would invariably get personal and one kid would invite the other to solve it with a fight. 'Kujaa... kujaa... unadhani mi nakuogopa?'. If the opponent backed off, we would all taunt them with 'kamehori eh eh! kamehori eh eh!' until we made them cry or agree to fight. Unfortunately, somebody would get hurt and the fear of 'mama so and so' would befall us. To guarantee our absolution from any wrongdoing, we would quickly fix the blame with 'Haishaaa makanjo! Ameeepiiiga! Mtoto wa wenyewe! Haisha! Haishaaa makanjo!'. Or we would simply get bored with the hassle of it all. You could simply shout 'Kila mtu kwao kwao, kila mtu kwao kwao' and gleefully watch the kids from other estates or courts slinking away, knowing full well that you wer firmly planted on home soil.

Remnants of yesterday

Oprah once featured super gifted children on her show. One of them said that an adult is just an overgrown child. Perhaps he was right. There are habits from my childhood that have remained with me to this day and I have refused to shake them off despite advice to the contrary. I thoroughly enjoy kicking a maize cob along whatever path I happen to find one. Never mind that I have been told repeatedly that it is childish to do so, it almost seems unfair to leave a cob in peace. I still do the balancing act on the edge of pavements, trying to make sure I don't fall off, to this day.

The other day on a busy walkway, I caught myself aiming for the spaces between the spikes of a barbed wire fence. I used to get a kick out of deftly avoiding the barbs with my fingers and tapping the plain wire. Still do! Sucking all the air out of my cup (thus creating a vacuum like effect) with the brim of the cup covering and entirely suspended by my lips is another occasional indulgence of mine. I also make prints on the floor using the treads on the soles of my shoes whenever there is spilled water. Playing with large grains of salt or sugar in restaurants is also rather gratifying.

The last habit I haven't completely dropped (and it is happening as we speak) is saving the best for last. As a child, I would always eat my fries first, then relish the sausage last. At other times, I'd quickly be done with the rice, ugali or maize, just so that I could happily concentrate on the beans, peas or meat at the end. The unfortunate bit about saving the best for last at this point in my life is that friends out to teach me a lesson on the importance of 'kujibebea' often steal my patiently saved sausage, piece of chicken or other yummy stuff. Boo hoo!

The perfect little girl

Sugar, spice, all things nice and chemical x is what it takes to make the perfect little girls*. The Kenyan equivalent in the early 90s would be:

• Nguo ya gorofa or Nguo ya Net: purchased at Garissa lodge for Christmas
  
• Socks za net: ankle length
  
• Pumps or Bubblegummers (Pink)
  
• Goggles: From the Nairobi Show
  
• Punk hairstyle: push-back and lift at the front
  
• Mum's lipstick
• Single dot of wanja on the right cheek
• Plastic jewelery set: birthday gift
  

Ah... 'tis the wonder of childhood. You cannot say the same for the current fashion for kids now can you?
*Professor Utonium et al

U

Remember the ad for 'U' that used to go something like:

guy: Hey you, what's new?
chick: U's what's new.
guy: Meeeeeeee?
chick: No, UUUUUUUUUUUUUU?
guy: Ohh, UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU.........

Found it rather redundant the way they kep throwing the word 'u' around, but looks like it worked because I still remember it.

Home Science

Were it not for Home Science, most of us would never know what a back stitch, hemming stitch, overcasting or herringbone stitch are. Where would boys and girls voluntarily knit booties in the absence of this crucial subject? In addition, where would the essential skills of making a lap bag, pin cushion or fringed mat have come from? I never got round to finishing my shorts though.

I remember the way Tois in class 4 and 5 would psyche up for standard 6 Home Science after a sneak preview of the textbook revealed that 'Adole' would be featuring prominently in the curriculum. Among the worst things someone could say to you was that 'Unasumbuliwa na Adole'. Anyhow, through it all, we learned that hips broaden, voice deepens and wet dreams start.

Shamuka

Them days when KBC ruled, Music Time was the show to watch for local and international hits. From the earliest I can remember, Music Time was hosted by Fred Obachi Machokaa, calling himself 'The blackest man in black Africa'. Then came a few lady presenters here and there, but the absolute show stopper was Shadrack Musyoka wa Kaleli or 'Shamuka' as he preferred to call himself. He'd appear on the screen carrying a basket which supposedly contained all the hits for the day's show. I'll never forget the day he said 'Na sasa tunakuletea yule kipusa Ndolly Parton, akitusukumia kizinga - She's an Engo!'.

Rare Watts should have won

You remember the Rare Watts from the days of the 'Win a Car Dance Competition' back in 1990, the three well-built, Maasai-shuka clad guys who could really boogie. I totally loved the way the got down to 'Dirty Cash', 'I've been thinking about you' and Black Box's 'Ride on Time'. The was a way they just ran away with it, or so I thought. Apparently, the judges felt that Jam City in their super-shiny outfits did a better job. Nonetheless, the Rare Watts are indelible in the memories of many Kenyans.

All for Ramayan

When I was in class 4 or 5 Ramayan had hit ile mbaya. In school we would talk about Ram's progress in rescuing Sita from Lanka or argue about who was more handsome, Ram or Lakshman. We would even reenact the battle scenes, with imaginary maces and cries of 'Jai Sri Ram' never mind we had no clue what it meant. The music was beautiful, Hanuman was busy flying around and in short, Ramayan was unmissable.

The only problem was that it used to air on Sunday at around 5pm, the same time I was supposed to go the salon to have my hair braided in readiness for school on Monday.
Just when the signature tune would begin playing (Sita Ram mujareepa kasi baaa baaan...), mathe would ask me to go to the salon. It was unbearable to miss an episode and I had to think fast. I told mathe that I wanted to concentrate on studying and keeping long hair was wasting my time because I had to keep going to the salon. So I suggested getting my hair shaved. Amazed at my love for study, mathe obliged. From then on, I was able to enjoy every episode of Ramayan undisturbed. Unfortunately, the thing wound up all too soon and I was stuck with trying to grow my hair back for a long long time.

You got mail!

In primo, kids were very creative in addressing envelopes for etters and notes to friends. You may remember seeing ''boombasticate it to:' sprawled diagonally across the envelope, followed by the recipient's name. 'Open With a Smile' was pretty common, as was 'Kiss before you open'. I still recall the time when best friends would send each other hand-drawn cards, with 'UR2sweet2B4go10' written on the envelope. The 'sweet' part wasn't written, it was actually a hand-drawing of a sweet and you had to figure it out the code (high tech ha?).

In some primos, TAs would open tois' mail just to make sure it wasn't from 'suitors' lurking somewhere beyond the school walls. If a chick was busted for getting mail from a boy, the TA would read the letter out loud to the whole class. The letter would typically be in blue biro with salient points written in red biro. Teacher So and So would punctuate her reading of sentences such as 'You are the only button on my shirt' with a msomo to the busted girl and bemused class on 'the dangers of relationships', before moving on to 'When I see you my heart goes paragasha!' At the end, busted toi would get a good whipping plus a chat with Headi, mum and dad the next day, all because of a strange boy seated somewhere with a blue and red pen.

Somewhere to begin

I suppose the day my mum brought home a TV is not a bad place to begin. It was a 14 inch black and white Samsung. I mentioned to her that it was a nice TV, despite the fact that children in those days commonly received responses such as 'Kwani ulikuwa unataka ile mbaya?' for making unnecessary observations. If you asked 'Ilikuwa pesa ngapi?', a not so unlikely response would be 'Unirudishie pesa?'. Perhaps parents of that time were an angry lot. Anyway, mum didn't mind.

I proceeded to sit through two hours of what I would now call agonising viewing, in the form of 'Habari' then 'Utabiri wa hali ya hewa' with Nguatah Francis (you remember him), 'Professional View' followed by 'Press Conference' , news, maombi and kufungwa kwa kituo. I would later see these shows as an absolute bore, but for that day I was enthralled.

The next day, I asked mum to switch on the TV at about noon. She explained that there was nothing to watch, since the station in those days 'opened' at 4pm. I was confused and told her that Nguatah Francis had said there would be 'vipindi vya jua kesho mchana'. It was mchana and I wanted to watch vipindi vya jua now. Mum went to explain that 'vipindi vya jua' did not mean 'TV programs about the sun' but ' sunny intervals'. I guess puns have been chasing me ever since.