By Makau Kitata
When my father took me to a day high school, he was a happy man. The fees were near to nothing compared to other schools where my friends were taken. My cousin was going to Kangaru School, a whole 200km from our village in Machakos.
“My son need not go to a faraway school to make it in the exams,” I heard my father tell my uncle.
“Besides, I can keep an eye on him from near.”
With that, my uncle continued with his solo preparations to take my cousin to the distant school. Of course, he was not getting any support from parents who had decided to take their children to nearby schools. Moreover, some of us had better qualifications.
To be fair, the fees remained low throughout my high school days. But my father had not reckoned with the things I was going to learn from the local market. Worst for him, he had not figured out the levies he was going to pay to develop the village school.
As the first term came to an end, the headmaster called a meeting and announced that we needed dormitories. I was elated that I would now spend all my time in school and not trek in the village like a primary school boy.
As the parents dispersed, each received a fee statement for the project. The following term, the construction started in earnest. As the dorms took shape, so did the new house the headmaster was building for himself on the outskirts of the county headquarters.
Soon, he bought himself a new car. The accounts clerk bought a pick-up truck, and a hardware shop opened in our local market. Villagers whispered that the store belonged to the duo.
When the first group of boarding students from our village school took the national exams, 50 qualified for university. My father got the news as he sat with his friend, councilor Munyao, over a cup of tea at Wakulima Hotel, in Mutituni market.
“Even if we are spending a lot of money on that school, we can see results – at least,” Dad said.
“Certainly, you are right.”
On the eve of the second term closing day, our classmate Karisa rented a room in the local market to await the Coast Bus the following morning. Peter Tosh was shot down in faraway Kingston that same week, and we were mourning. We loved him for his song, Legalize it. The headmaster stormed into the rented room to find us listening to loud reggae music. As soon as his clean shaven head shone in the room, someone switched off the lights. When the headmaster switched back the lights, I was alone in the smoky room.
The third term came, and the headmaster called another parents’ meeting.
“Last Man, could you tell the parents what you do at the local market?” he asked, midway through his charged speech.
“We were keeping Tosh company as he awaited to take the bus home the following day,” I mumbled.
“Who is Tosh?” he asked.
There was general laughter among students. To us, Tosh meant more than a name, it was a code.
“The boys in this school could perform better if we stopped them from coming into contact with the market. We will buy a school bus to transport everyone home at the close of the term,” he announced.
“Parents, we need to buy the bus urgently before we lose these boys to the market,” he repeated, with alarm in his voice.
The parents went home with another statement to fund the bus project.
That same year, the headmaster bought his wife, Mrs Madara, our history teacher, a small car. They called it a shopping basket. Miss Kamene, our home economics teacher, was the headmaster’s favorite. She and Mrs Madara hated each other. We were sad when she was transferred to a school near town. Miss Kamene left driving a shopping basket, as well.
The headmaster became rare in school. It was said that he was on trips to bring us exams from big schools, or at ministry headquarters to protect his position in the school. For lately, his job was being coveted by many a principal in the country.
The accounts officer now went around the classes with a file balanced by his swelling tummy. As he wiped sweat off his chubby face, he’d pick out those who had not paid the bus levy.
When I left, there was no school bus on the school compound. And parents had started to talk loudly about never-ending projects.
Dad later visited me in college and was evasive about pocket money.
“I spent a fortune to get you here,” he said.
“Well, you spent it on the levies, not my tuition fees,” I corrected.
I didn’t bother him anymore with money. But I asked him about the famous two-of-a-kind in my former high school.
“They have together moved to another village school on the other side of the county,” he said.
“Good for the villagers, over there,” I said. “The pair will lower tuition fees – and develop the school with dorm and bus levies.”
