Haunting Memoirs 2.

2009. It was young. We too were young; pregnant with expectations. And Mukuyuni was the best place to reason, experiment and showcase our innate endowments. It was awesome. We loved it.

The school had just, recently, woken up from an ageless academic slumber. A comrade, Musiambo secured a ticket to university on a regular basis. Then Kalamu, another ambitious fellar had followed suit. It demystified the common belief that gnawed at our hope for ages that Mukuyuni was intellectually barren. So it could not sire academic giants and hum the tune of eliticism for the world to dance. Moreover, Musiambo and Kalamu had unlocked and left wide open the golden gates to the university. They had been, for centuries, closed on us. Now we could march there happily, if we so wished. For the desire to go to campus, to complete the 8. 4. 4 system is the heartbeat of every serious student. A son or a daughter of a peasant or middle class cohort in extreme corners of this country. Staunch believers in the god of education as the ultimate social equalizer. Fancy that!

My soul brother, Auncle and I had postponed success the previous year. Albeit unwillingly. But the year, 2008 had been a bore anyway. See? Thus comrades: Mariko, Maka, Weresh, Musoka, Justine and Muheshimiwa leapt forward. The latter was a mathematics genius. The dude knew the numbers like his mother tongue! Perhaps he was the greatest mathematician I had ever seen. His remarkable game with numbers was amazing. We even understood him better than our teachers. I envied him. Anyway, Auncle and I were now determined to achieve success by all means possible.

Exhibiting brilliance was an uphill task. No easy eh! So Musiambo and Kalamu were just good. But they became our role models. Indispensable inspires. I personally shed tears of admiration when the former was hoisted and carried shoulder-high. Celebrating. Ululating. I dreamt and longed to be in his shoes. It required extra-ordinary efforts and struggle to attain any remarkable brilliance. For whoever attends a local school-- the kind commonly baptized ''CDF schools'', those only used as polling stations: there are no relevant books-- those available are archaic and full of cockroaches' shit; there is no motivation; there are very few qualified teachers-- these are ever bored by the sick condition of the school and the principal's frustrations; and financial constraints are a darling. Therefore, manouvering through these, and feel the sweet fragrance of success is a matter between life and death. Many tried. They failed. We survived. Sometimes we were clobbered to go home and bring fees-- amidst hungry times. Something the principal knew pretty well to be rare like a chicken's urine. While in form two, a comrade, Toshiba had quit school under such circumstances. I loathed it.

Furthermore, being in a mixed school earns one special challenges, wrapped in beautiful flowers of fate. Girls, beautiful senoritas, are in plenty. At Mux, some were beautiful whilst some suffered from the incurable disease of ugliness. Some were tall like flagposts whilst others were dwarf. Some were fierce whilst others were docile. Some were lovable and worth dying for whilst others were a no-go-zone. Some enthralled with killer smiles whilst others scared the hell out of us. But we loved and adored them. We seduced them; fought over them; emptied our pockets for them; and bit them. This was perhaps when chewing books became damn boring. We really felt alive. Damn. Fancy that! But this sector, under the department of Heart Affairs, was strictly for professionals. Professors and doctors of Sexology and Seduction from the university of life. The likes of Meta, Abu, Mkwe and Mariko.

Clashing with teachers was inevitable. Hatred and violence erupted like volcanoes. But we overcame. The worst of all was the mere misunderstanding with our maths teacher, Man Chalo. It emanated from our desire to dictate the quantity of content to consume. So the guy was infuriated. A student telling the teacher what he wants was unheard of. He salivated to thrash us. He prescribed a punishment dosage for us. We refused. He chased us out of class. So while he taught, we were away digging a latrine pit. Giving back to the community eh! But our game didn't go far anyway. His dues were met. He eagerly thrashed us, particularly Mose, Melo, Achesa, Anto and Lawi. They had not attempted doing his damn assignments for ages. Poor dudes!

Anto, Auncle and I were members of a wonderful gang. Anto would later pursue a gun; as we follow the pen. In dilapidated and archaic lecture halls. He is now a policeman, walking about with a deadly piece of iron strapped around his neck. Serving our bloody nation. We are busy collapsing under piles and piles of books; going crazy over nasty exams. Uncertain where the wind of fate will drift us.