An AIDS scare and other strange stories from my childhood
The older I grow, the more adventures I go on and the more I realize that life, however daunting it may be, is best lived when it’s not taken too seriously. In the words of Henry Beecher -A person without a sense of humor is like a wagon without springs. It’s jolted by every pebble on the road.
So here are a few stories from my childhood that require you to be a wagon with springs:
An ugly baby: A few weeks or months after I was born, one of the women who came to see me said this of my mother “she has given birth to an ugly,tiny, black baby.” When I look at photos of me as a baby, I kind of see her point. I will never know what may have warranted such cruel words, but I found it utterly hilarious, so don’t feel bad if you also laughed. (I suspect she had a thing for my Dad and was speaking out of spite- he was quite a catch in his day). Granted, I may have been both of those things but today, one cannot accuse me of being ugly. Black and tiny, perhaps, but certainly not ugly.
Short for life: While time may have worked its magic on the “ugly”, there is no escaping from the tiny. I blame my mum for marrying a short man without thinking about the repercussions her choice of mate would have on her future offspring. So here I am, 28 years later, hardly a meter off the ground and condemned to a life of looking up to people and struggling to reach objects on shelves that are always out of my reach. (I have long since forgiven my mum on account of my Dad being the best we could ever ask for.)
So acute was my height deficiency that when I joined class one, I couldn’t reach the “writing part “of the desk while seated. I had to do all of my writing while standing up. Before long, I had become a spectacle, a source of entertainment for the nefarious. The students in class eight would come to my class and take turns measuring me with a blackboard ruler. I should have charged the rascals a viewing fee.
An AIDS scare: When I was in class 4, they began teaching us about HIV/ AIDS. I remember how we would gather under a tree behind the class, the teacher perched on a wooden seat while we sat in a semi-circle on the grass looking up to her. She would be holding a book on her lap from which she read as we listened in silence and fear of this monster. We would be warned against fraternizing with members of the opposite sex, and advised to report any suspicious behavior to an adult.
On other days, the classes would take the form of videos from a man we only knew as Uncle Cinema. On these days, one of the classes would be converted into a hall and we’d pay 5 shillings for an utterly harrowing two- hour experience. The movie, usually starring an innocent boy and girl who refused to practice abstinence, would show terrifying images of severely infected genitalia and the shockingly emaciated couple with bones jutting through thin sheets of loose skin. The movie would end with the untimely death of the two delinquents and we would be left quivering in our knickers, swearing never to let a boy near us.
It was during this tumultuous time that the school head boy started calling me sweetie. I still remember him- short and dark with skin the color of charcoal. He would smile at me, his teeth a stark white against his dark skin, and I was sure he was going to give me AIDS. I was also sure that I didn’t want my genitals to develop grisly sores and die a shameful death- my parents were pastors and as the firstborn, I was expected to take over the church. So, I did the right thing and reported him to the teacher. He stopped, and I dodged that bullet. If I ever bump into him, I pray his memory is as short as his stature.
Sweet potatoes for soda: When I was in class 5, one of my teachers who really liked me (he never called me sweetie so its fine), gave my mum 50 shillings to buy me a soda. She bought ngwaci — sweet potatoes instead. Mr. Mwai is now dead and I have since hated soda, which makes me suspect the two are connected. My mum needs to make financial reparations for this odious act, taking into account the inflation rate in Kenya.
A morning carjacking: When I was in class 6 and my sisters were on our way to school, our matatu got carjacked. The robbers had a gun that they used to rob everyone but us with , letting us keep our fare and breaktime snacks as long as we stayed quiet.( I think this was quite magnanimous on their part)One of my sisters, however, ruined the deal by crying so loudly they kicked us out of the matatu before we got to our stop, adding the further inconvenience of looking for another means to get to school. The roots of education are bitter indeed.
Short for life- full circle: When I joined high school, they didn’t have a uniform in my size. For the first two weeks, I walked around wearing the white school with a pair of black and brown jeans that my mum had bought for me in Eastleigh. I stuck out like a sore thumb. It was like class one all over again, only instead of people coming to measure me with a ruler, they baptized me kadogo. May they marry short men and their children suffer the same fate.
Here’s to another year of living a life that includes some humor!
