Mud slides, on the other hand, were unsanctioned and terribly illegal. How else do you suppose we were so utterly drawn to them? Picture this. It’s 10am, on a rainy school day in May. It’s just the beginning of the 2nd school term. You’re barely back in classwork and homework mode, and in addition to that, you got rained on this AM. Your normal 35 min walk, dissolved into a series of puddles, and unsuccessful attempts to keep your shoes dry. The entire soccer field is one giant pond. Grass has overgrown after its 3 weeks hiatus from being trampled on by several hundred primary school pupils. The standard 7 boys started it. It’s always the class 7’s who did. One moment everyone is extremely languid and irritable, and the next moment there is a crowd cheering a number of daredevils achieving feats on their bare feet you could never dream of on a pair of skis. These boys are answering their true calling. They were born to perform. The sticky, grey clay soil does not disappoint. It offers them a stage.
Mud skidding is an art as much as it is a science. The first thing you need is a slope, the steeper the better. At school, however, even a nice gentle one will do. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Once you’ve got a nice slope going, you need to flood it with water until it oozes a sleek, molten clay. Now you can begin smoothing it over. You walk back a few meters, jog, then break into a sprint, before letting your feet glide over the clay. This is a thrill like no other! Real artists can skid on one foot, and contort the rest of their bodies into impossible shapes. Real clowns, those who do it for the applause, would run, sprint, and finish off on their knees. The mud slide has now turned into an arena. The crowd now speaks as one, and they are asking for more. A bell rings in the administration block to signal the end of our morning break. It barely registers as an echo to this mob. The teacher on duty is puzzled. How come half the school seems to be missing? It won’t be long now before she makes her way to the sports field. Suddenly, like a pin pricking your finger nail, you remember that this is school, after all. That there are consequences to waltzing into class late. We all run past the teacher on duty who, knowing she can’t convict every willing observer, zeroes in on the performers. It’s not hard to identify them. They’re caked in slimy clay from head to toe. Their school uniforms are undecipherable. They may as well be in camo. She gasps and prods these muddy goblins forward. They are marched to the staff room. Aside from trying to reason with adults who have long since accepted a sedentary lifestyle, our group of artistes will also be the unwilling recipients of several strokes of the cane. The rest of their nightmare will unfold this evening, as soon as the house help or the mother spots them sneaking into the house to change out of their clay costume. And yet, all of this is more than worth their 5 minutes of glory.
You didn’t wait for Physical Ed. class to get a football game going. Kicking the ball around was the default activity whenever we had more than 3 minutes of unstructured time. This could be in class, if a teacher was absent and there was no substitute; it could be during our tea or lunch break; or right after school as we all walked home. Pick-up soccer was not always innocuous. Chobo Ua was, as it names suggests, deadly. At first glance it looks like a run-of-the-mill soccer game. 2 sides are attempting to score in their opponent’s goal – usually two rocks placed a few feet apart. What made Chobo Ua a game that separated the boys from the men was that during dribbling, it was taboo to let a fellow player squeeze a ball between your legs. If you were so unlucky as to forget and let this happen, the party responsible would quickly remind you by shouting, “Chobo!” At this point, it was best if you could invoke the cheetah inside you. The only way to escape an onslaught of slaps and punches to your back and head was to run, very fast, jumping over legs set up to trip your, or dodging arms stretched wide to hinder your escape. If successful, you’d make your way to a previously designated safe refuge, often the fence on the other side of the sports field to give your pursuers maximum capacity to capture you. It is only after touching one of the fence posts that you were now considered clean, and could return to the game, eager to dribble the ball through the next victim so you could get your payback. Suffice it to say that many a young man’s tears were shed during Chobo Ua. I knew enough not to attempt anything that required quantities of courage I could only fantasize about ever possessing. And yet even non-Chobo footie games could sometimes degenerate into ape-like chest thumping. This sports field nurtured dreams of masculinity and molded personalities in ways we never fully appreciated. My run-in with Mureu was one such instant. Perhaps I’d fouled him; I forget. He was, however, irked enough by my behavior to challenge me to a fight. This, during a low-key afternoon soccer game seemed wholly over the top. I went into my default, backing down from the confrontation, but kept on playing making sure to stay away from the kid out to kick my ass. Eventually we moved beyond the incident, staying in touch long after we’d both outgrown Ngong Hills Academy. At the end of term, however, knowing that I had bested him in academic standing was good enough consolation. I may not have fought back on the soccer pitch, but every test and every exam we took the rest of that school term was just one more battle ground for me to demonstrate who was really the -ish!
Strolling home from school has always been an event in its own right. The pupils from Ngong’ Hills had all kinds of daily commutes. There was Karuri, who lived literally two houses down from school. He and his younger brother went home for lunch. I’d swear they could probably smell whatever their parents or guardians were prepping for their midday meal from class! Fred had the same short commute. Fred’s family lived opposite Karuri’s house. It never ceased to amaze me, however, how these two kids somehow always managed to get to school late or after I did. It probably had to do with the fact that we become complacent when the object of our pursuit seems so close. Unfortunately for Fred, his parents moved the family two towns over when he was in grade 5. Taking public transport to and from Matasia was a pain. Even I did not envy him. There was a large group of kids whose commute was in the 10-15 min range. Mureu, Kevin, Martin, Irene, Mary, Joram, and Chris all had a pretty sweet time walking to school. I certainly wished to be in their shoes whenever it was raining. A whole bunch of kids who lived farther away from school got dropped off by their parents or chauffeurs at the entrance. My crowd had no such luck. We were clearly the students from the inner city making our way each morning into rich suburbia for our daily does of pomp and luxury. Nyamnyak, Samuel, Stella, Paul, Steve, Barbara, Anne, Esther, Jane and a few others forded rivers and summited hills daily to get to school. Literally. And I was right there with them every step of the way. There were a number of ways to get home. Sometimes I’d accompany Agnes and her elder brother and we’d walk together after school. They lived closer to school than I did, so they’d waltz through their main gate and after quick goodbyes, leave me to my fate. Bob’s house was usually empty by the time he and his elder brother arrived home from school. I’d walk in with them for a quick drink of water. And then we’d spend a few minutes petting the rabbits or doves housed in their backyard. Or I’d walk with Eric, taking a more round-about route home. I’d accompany him up their tree-shaded driveway which lay halfway up a gentle slope. Sometimes I was successful in enticing Mureu to drop by my house. Usually on Fridays when it didn’t matter too much if we got home late. He’d drop off his school bag at home and then we’d head out – stopping ever so often to pick up succulent weeds for my pet rabbits. Keeping rabbits was the in-thing, and any boy worth his salt had at least a few does and a buck. We were learning about all kinds of animal husbandry in Mr. Ogola’s Science & Agriculture classes. We could recognize Chinchillas by their grey fur coats, and New Zealand whites with the super pink eyes. Charlie came by my house, too, sometimes. He and his 2 younger siblings were a morbid fascination for me. They’d lost their mother a few months before enrolling at Ngong Hills. I couldn’t fathom what that must have been like. Their dad had taken pains to re-create the family as best he could for his kids’ benefit, but it’s impossible to replace a mother. Our friendship rested as much on my curiosity about the new apartment building they lived in as it did on Charlie’s interest in a more rural part of Ngong.
As private school kids, marked by our red and white checkered shirts, we were easy prey for village bullies. Anxiety about social mobility in the region manifested itself in many ways. Being kids, our experience involved getting waylaid by herds boys who went to local primary schools. Having got home sometime in the afternoon, the boys would grab lunch, then release the family cattle from wherever they were tethered. During the dry season, goats and cows would simply be let loose in empty fields, fending for themselves in the morning by chewing on dry maize stalks and short shrubs. The swampy area by the river always had some green grass available, even in the middle of a drought. This marsh made it ideal for juvenile herders to water and feed their animals. Come evening, if the cows were not well fed, their milk production would starkly demonstrate inadequate herding. At best, that would result in a tongue lashing. Sometimes that could easily degenerate into a spanking, combined in a mother’s mind, as it often would be, with last week’s attempts to steal from the sugar dish, unfinished household chores, and street fights with other kids. I don’t recall these kidos being more than 3 or 4. And they were just as puny as we were. What they lacked in stamina, they made up by arming themselves with sticks and knobberies. Plus they exuded this bad boy appeal, while we in our private school cocoons reacted by propitiating them and avoiding confrontation. We rebutted their “I-don’t-care” attitude with a kowtowing of our own. Like zebras, we’d approach the riverside apprehensively, expecting to be pounced upon at any moment. They got a hard-on from preying on our fear. They’d stop us in the middle of the foot path, ask us our names, our ages, whether we had any cash on us, and generally make us feel extremely tiny. If we were lucky, they’d spot an adult approaching, and they’d cut short their machismo displays with a warning that we shouldn’t use that path again. Otherwise, we were held up for more than 10 minutes, and put in our places – despite what the sparkling new uniforms suggested. At some point I decided this was all too ridiculous. And I took to carrying a nail cutter with me to school. The idea was to use the file to either scare away our tormentors, or to fight my way out of one such encounter. Still not sure what was more hilarious, the original problem, or my imagined solution.