Eclectic day

Apologies in advance for the long post hereafter, but so much happened yesterday. Also, I’m really getting into this Blog caper and find myself getting carried away with it from time to time. But I am sure you’ll grant me this small pleasure as it is after all Friday night and I am writing this with zero chance of getting a nice cold beer. Where are you?!

I agreed to get up very early this morning and accompany James across the valley to Kiambugi High School for Boys which sits atop the hill opposite us (he’s scared of the vampires :-). I can actually see Kiambugi from my front porch and so, having been here for 2 weeks, it thought it high time that should go and see our scholastic neighbours.

Although it was 07h30 as we walked down our side of the valley I was very happy with my decision to go with James … come 07h35 we were walking up the other side and I was regretting every step. James had a date with the school assembly to talk to boys about “the blessed man” and what he does & doesn’t do (apart from get up at 07h00 to walk across a valley). It really is no wonder that the Kenyans have such powerful legs and are such strong runners when you see the terrain up in this part of Kenya and the journeys the children take to and from school (often barefooted).

Kiambugi is a much larger school than St. Anna … but so are the children; they age from 13 & 18. It has recently been taken over by a new school principal (known as Mr. Principal) who is slowly turning things around from its not so impressive recent past. The school now currently has 260 students but has a capacity of 600.

After the boys had assembled, the traditional raising of the Kenyan flag commenced. Once unfurled the school broke into a stirring rendition of the Kenyan National Anthem. To the tune of the Kenyan National Anthem, the words are:

Oh God of all creation,
Bless this land and nation,
Justice be our shield and defender,
May we dwell in unity, peace & liberty,
Plenty be found within our borders

James then bounded onto the podium and bid the boys a very good morning. Barely had I had time to catch my breath from the hike, when I heard him calling my name. To my surprise he was beckoning me to introduce myself to the boys. Never one to pass up an opportunity to address a crowd (win the crowd and win your freedom), I gladly obliged. Unfortunately my brief introduction started badly, tailed off in the middle and the least said about the ending the better…but apart from that it was excellent. It was however received to generous applause…especially the word Manchester. Indeed, I have found the word Manchester sends most Kenya boys into a kind of fevered delirium. It is deeply worrying for the future of the nation, that most of the young men support Manchester Utd. If Liverpool’s parcel of goodies ever shows up I will begin converting them mark my words.

Back to the blessed man. The main purpose of the visit was for James to talk to the boys about the “blessed man”. For those who are interested, according to James (and Psalms Ch1, V1-3), blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands with sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers. I couldn’t help thinking of my ex-bosses as I listened to James’s speech.

Mr. Principal closed proceedings with the following question to the students: “Your brain & life is an empty book. Are you writing a best-seller or a trashy novel?” Are you indeed?

Following assembly we adjourned to the staff room for tea. Now let me tell you about tea. Many people associate Kenya with coffee, and you’d be right to do so as they produce a lot; we even have some in our garden. But it is a cash crop and destined purely for export. No-one here actually drinks the stuff. They do however drink tea by the bucket, but not quite as we know it. It is prepared with milk … and when I say prepared with milk I mean they put a tea-bag in a cup of hot milk. This makes it difficult to drink without a little sugar. Now, it is a fact that sugar is expensive here and therefore a precious commodity. So when you go and visit a family or a school and they serve you tea with sugar you are honoured (you may be way ahead of me by now). The more they wish to honour you, the more sugar you get in your tea.
I was very honoured this morning!

As I sat in the staff room sipping my sugar, I couldn’t help noticing on the blackboard that the following students left the school on Friday without permission:
. Evanson Mwanga
. Levis Mwanga
. Daniel Mwanga (the whole family?)
. Michael Maina
. Moses Karuiki
. Duncan Mbatha
So if you seen them please contact Kiambugi High School.

We finished our time at Kiambugi with a tour of the school and grounds (they even bake their own bread you know), and a sit down chat with Mr. Principal. He was delighted that we had come to visit. He asked me to sign the visitors book and promise to return frequently to speak to the boys as it makes them feel special and I “will surely be role model for them” (keep your comments to yourself please). Agreeing whole-heartedly, Mr. Principal called for more tea!

To be serious, a visitor from outside Kenya is SO welcome. The fact that you have taken time out to come to their country and further more you are taking time to see & talk with them is really appreciated. It doesn’t have to be formal lessons or something structured, just answering their questions and explaining how life is back home is enough. Note for housemate Matt … I signed you up to give physics classes.

We left Kiambugi promising to return soon (James has just informed me that we will be going on Sunday), and made our way to an old local lady’s home that is beginning to flood and get washed away when it rains. She showed us around pointing out all the places where the she had plugged holes with plastic bags to prevent the water rushing in.
She lives with her two grandchildren who attend St. Anna live in the worst conditions I have seen so far; with no light, little ventilation, and a small kitchen belching out smoke that fills the other rooms.
Although the mason is currently working flat out to complete the boys’ dormitory, we promised to return as soon as possible with him so he can decide what precisely needs to be done: repair or build her new home. I know which one gets my vote.

On the way back to St. Anna, James and I parted ways as he was off to teach a bible class at the public primary school at the end of our track. Just as I was about to get to school, I heard my name being hollered over the hedge and then the face our neighbour Henderson peering around his gate. “Wimwega Mathayo!” (Good day Matthew) … “you must come and see my home and shamba (garden)”. As the man carrying the large machete is always right, I accepted.

Henderson proudly gave me the guided tour of his home and introduced me to his mother with whom he also lived. The Kenya culture dictates that when a boy reaches 13 he is circumcised, and from then even if he still lives with his mother, he must move out into a hut of his own as he is now a man. Henderson must be a least 40.

Having made the acquaintance of his mother, his dog, his cat and his cow, Henderson then asked me if I liked mangos. In case you do not know, January to March is mango season. The trees are practically buckling under the weight and you can pick them off the branches and eat them as you walk. If you cannot reach them you can throw a stick or another fallen mango into the tree to knock down more…just like conkers back home.

Buoyed by my response, Henderson handed me a plastic bag and told me to follow him to the bottom of his garden. There standing majestically at the foot of the hill was the mother of all Mango trees. With a wink, Henderson disappeared up it and began shaking the branches. It was literally raining mangos. In a matter of seconds the bag was overflowing.

As Henderson would not hear of keeping any for himself, I now have 31 mangos in my cupboard. One thing you notice very quickly here is that everyone shares everything. Even though most people have next to nothing, they will gladly share their next to nothing with you. In Paris we have everything and we don’t share anything.

The remainder of the day was a much more sombre affair. The funeral of the watchman’s wife Jane took place in the afternoon. When I arrived at the watchman’s house there was already quite a turnout; I counted about 50 to 60 people.

Rural Kenyan houses are invariably constructed around a central courtyard, and it was here that the closed coffin of Jane had been placed. I took a spot at the back of the congregation from where I could follow the proceedings and waited to the vicar to arrive.

Seated at the front and around the coffin were Jane’s immediately family and close friends including the Bishop & Mama (his wife). It was at this moment that the Bishop caught my eye. What happened next was all a bit of a blur. The next thing I know, I am being ushered to the front of the congregation and told to sit in the vacant seat at the right hand of the vicar. To be clear, I am now nearer to the coffin than the family. I have no illusion of the tremendous honour that was being bestowed upon me, but I did feel a little uneasy all the same. It was only when the watchman smiled at me that I was able to relax again.
I was very glad to see the vicar arrive and the ceremony begin. The service took place in Kikuyu with many people standing to say a few words or sing or recount tales of Jane. I recognised some of speakers as St. Anna school governors, then Mama and then Bishop. I wouldn’t have understood much had Mr. Waigi the school administrator not been translating everything in my left ear. It was just then that I noticed the speakers were getting mighty close to where I was sat, and it was no sooner that I thought to myself, please don’t ask me to make a speech, that the Bishop asked me to make a speech.

With Mr. Waigi translating, I introduced myself to the congregation and recounted the only memory I had of Jane. I told them of our visit to her home last November and the hospitality she had shown us. How we sat right here in the courtyard together and talked and taken photos. I was too ashamed to tell them that she had told us of her ailment and that I had done nothing.

After the speeches, Jane’s coffin was carried to the garden where a grave had been prepared for burial. I paid my respects to the family and departed, promising to come and visit them very soon. And I will.

As I sit on my porch writing this and reflecting on the day, it feels like I have been here for a lifetime. So much seems to have happened. It also seems to me that there is no such thing as routine here in Kenya; everyday is a challenge.

From where I sit I can see St. Anna and hear the children laughing and singing. I can hear the carpenters hammering to complete the workshop; I can see the stone-masons John and Matthew sat on top of an ever growing pile of stones for the dormitory. Across the valley I can see Kiambugi high school and I think of the Principal working hard to realise his vision for the school and the boys.

Obama was right in his state of the union address, “the best anti poverty programme is a world class education” and it occurs to me that maybe we have never been as hopeful about the school & the children as we are today.