High school has some of my favorite experiences in life. Too bad this is not synonymous with all of us. In my post high school years I have met people who will give anything to forget high school, others will give everything just to have another go, and others still use despicable words to describe their classmates, schoolmates, teachers and even supporting staff. Luckily am not one of those people.
In high school I was king. I made people squeal, teachers tremble and prefects whisper. I decided when it was right to report noise makers and when it they were allowed to talk. I decided who eats, whose sister was hot and whose was not. When I walked in a hall, a hush fell into the room such that the only things audible was the heels of my suede shoes. While other regular students put on bata toughees I made do with top of the range suede Gucci shoes. This is all a lie. I was never anything mentioned above, I was just another John Doe. Let me indulge you.
When I was in high school, schools were run by powerful cops who would give one heinous punishment. The fact that they were in form 1 and you a form 4 never mattered. There the law was anything a tiny form 1 class prefect thought was humiliating enough for the hugely built form 4. Bullying had long been banned and thus the elderly members of the society never enjoyed the once enviable level of respect our fore fathers fondly talks about. A cop could make you lie in the assembly ground the whole day, the scorching sun notwithstanding. Thinking about threatening a cop was an offence whether within the school compound or outside it. The schools jurisdiction extended the entire four years from the moment you got the admission letter to the moment you cleared from school. Everything was punishable based on the emotional scale. You could spank the apple bottom of a randy Teacher on Practice and get away with it except for a few laughter and crazy questions from the teachers in the lower staffroom. Other times you could have forgotten to spread your bed and get a mandatory 2 week vacation at home and if your lucky they could spice it up with punishments that involves you soaking the football pitch. The water used in this effort was always from the borehole and the supervising teacher could be a sly one who would wait an entire hour so that when he comes the pitch is completely dry. That was the life that as the principal used to say, the school admits a boy and produces a gentleman at the end of high school.
Stringent rules have a way of breeding outlaws and my high school had its share of outlaws. Unlike the guys in the movies who fear no one and run lights, curse before judges and have huge tattoos of their asses on their faces ours were known only to the select few. They operated in a way that would make guerilla warfare a big joke. As much as they hid in the comfort of darkness and anonymity their actions were well known to the cops and cop lovers. These are the guys whose most active sessions in school was when the lights went out, in dark coners and in the hostels. They did despicable things to cops from sitting on their faces and slowly fart their contempt into their mouth to throwing a flying toilet into your white shirt during a funky. When the lights went out our generator which had to be turned manually on provided them the much needed moments to avenge the inhumanity bestowed on them. They would noiselessly walk to a cops position and lash out the loudest slap ever known to darkness. By the time the lights came on everybody will be seated at their position laughing themselves to death and the cop would unleash the black book. Generally the black book was a book where noisemakers and any other silly offenders were recorded for the dreariest of punishments. The general policy was that by giving such punishments to these silly offenders they won’t breed into huge offenders. Who knows maybe it works.
Once your name was written into the black book the damage was done and we adapted in ways that included standing on top of the cops locker and telling stories to the amusement of the rest of the class. Other times we could start mchongoano with fellow offenders who would be seated in the farthest corner of the class. Other times we read out stolen love letters to the dismay of their recipients who might not have realized they were gone. This went as far as marking the spelling and grammar mistakes and underlining the juiciest part of the entire love letter. If by mistake that letter belonged to a cop then we copied into several papers and distributed to the class as an assignment. Woe to their girlfriends who were unlucky enough to travel with the outlaws home (everybody who went to school upcountry knows the beauty of the night bus).
During funkies everybody put on their best. Even the loudmouths whose only clean thing was their prayer found their way into tight fitting clothes borrowed (nay Stolen) from form ones. Rosy words mingled easily with a luoish pronunciation of English words as easy as the naivete of a luhya was robbed by the sexy brown teethed girl from the sister school. The Kamba spoke in words that required the patience of a saint and the deaf ears of pig. The kikuyu thrived in the business of selling things that were hitherto illegal within the school compound d and very few people could explain their entry point into the tightly secured school. The kalenjin brushed their shoes clean and their teeth smelled of utter alienation. The kisii spoke in the musical tongue that always ended in high notes. But above all else these funkies made friends where enemies once existed and relatives where strangers once were. The height of honesty is still hard to come by as then we said it in your face on our assessment of your girlfriend. They were either hot or not and the nots seemed to rule in numbers. We got to learn who had a sexy sister and whose sister had a man face, hands or even legs.
When the night drew nigh a number still had no dates we went into turbo mode. One that involved a group of boys talking their way into one girls heart simultaneously. The confusion that arose within the girls who ever found themselves in this position explains the caresses and torn clothes they went back to their school in. To explain the group work just a tiny bit it involve one guy removing another’s had from the girls tits only to find another hand already in place and the process continued over and over. For the lucky ones who got laid in the field, in the farm lands and in the hidden corners I know
In a nutshell had I gone back to high school I would be different I wouldn’t be the coward I was I would stand up and reclaim the lost dignity. Yeah Yeah am just talking, cowards live longer and that explains why even though I pretend otherwise I would still be the coward or worse a douche bag.