By Makau Kitata
It was the week of the primary schools’ music festivals. That Monday, after a term of intense voice and “doh, re, mi, fah, so, lah, ti, do!” training, we had our divisional competition in the neighbouring school. We had the opportunity to wear our new uniforms for the festival. The white socks and new rubber shoes stood out against the red soil of our village. Our shirts had been ironed to ensure the sleeves would cut dead any fly that dared ramble around us. Even after the trek to the other school, we looked sharp.
After a short assembly in which we were reminded to train our eyes at the adjudicators, we walked to the podium. The choice was either to look at our choirmaster, who conducted the singing with comical swings of the hand and waist, or look at the stern judges in front of us – and impress them. They looked at us like scientists observing an insect with a microscope. If they looked up, they were supposed to count all the teeth in our mouths. We were not supposed to see anyone else.
They had not told us about the journalists who stood behind the judges with cameras pointed at us. When we started to sing, I noticed the camera with its big eye and looked straight back. The young lady handling it looked pleasing to watch. Throughout the singing, I stared at her and the big eye. We were united at that moment as I performed for her.
When the singing was over, we trooped out of the auditorium with the audience cheering wildly. I was excited.
Upon getting out, we assembled again for the choirmaster to debrief us. Then the headmaster emerged from the crowd and came straight at me. I thought he was coming to congratulate me. Smack. A brick-heavy slap landed on my head accompanied by curses.
“Big-eyed thing! You alone have cost us the win.” He shouted. “Get walking back home!” he ordered.
I walked away, alone and stunned, knowing that I had made the team lose by ignoring the adjudicators and singing for the camera.
In the evening, big sister who sang for the seniors returned home and reported that our team had won, and was proceeding to the district competitions.
The whole week I was forlorn. I was the miscreant who almost made the school choir lose. I avoided the headmaster and the singers like a hunted villain.
Friday came and I was dejected to watch my friends board the bus to Machakos for the districts. In the evening, Father came home from the city with the week’s newspapers – as he always did. My sister would ordinarily use them to light the charcoal stove and stash the rest as our toilet paper. This Friday there was a difference.
In one of the papers, there was a story of the festivals with a photo of my singing group. I was recognizable as the child in the middle, with big, popping eyes – looking charmed and staring back at the camera. As I cut the story to save it, I remembered the journalist.
“I can see your team is doing well,” Father enthused.
“Aha, this person was chopped out of the choir for not impressing the adjudicators,” sister re-counted.
“Well, then they must have done well, today,” Father returned.
“I’m afraid they lost. I don’t know why. They lost!” she repeated.
You might imagine that such news made me happy – especially after I had been dropped from the choir. But for me, it ended my week of misery. Clutching at the newspaper cutting, I slept calmly, reassured that good performance is not about impressing judges. It is a kind of surrender to the beauty of art and the appreciating audience – and it is not a competition. I was ready to face the headmaster and my friends the following week.
