THE THINGS I HAVE DONE.

 

Limo...

Limo...

Limo....

Mr. Limo!

That is how I heard my name. It was faint initially, but once the school principal, Mrs. Tenai, shouted, I came back to my senses.

''Mmmh?!''..... I responded.

''Answer the question!'' she said firmly but in a hushed tone.

''What question?'' I responded.

She had had enough of it and she was not going to tolerate it anymore. Her face was filled with rage and her eyes were almost popping out of their sockets. I was seated there bewildered.

''Mr. Limo, please explain to the sub-chief and this gathering why your class 6 students have been consistently performing poorly,'' the PTA chairman, Kangogo Kibet, a businessman who buys maize from the village and neighboring villages and sells them in Eldoret Town using his old Peugeot 504 pick-up, told me in a polite way.

I had a lot of respect for Kangogo. A man who has been steadfast in giving a helping hand every time there was an occasion in the village. A man who never stepped in class but made sure that all his children were in school dressed smartly and paid school fees on time. He had children in every class except class 5. He did the much he could to steer the leadership of the school. A man of a few words, a big heart, and a huge body. You could feel him walking and breathing even if you were miles away. His folded, faded signature jacket with protruding pockets was what distinguished him.

While biting a sheath of grass, I scanned the gathering to meet the eyes of the curious parents who persistently received the harsh effect of the scorching sun. Mostly women who wrapped their heads with different colors that made the place beautiful. Their faces and clothing were saying otherwise, though. The few men who were present were deep in thought. Some of them had not even come in contact with water the morning before they attended the parents meeting. The others were students who were murmuring to each other, seemingly bored or hungry. Or both. Their faded and torn blue uniforms were what made them unique. I stood up and scanned my eyes through the guests seated in front of us. The 8 parents' representatives, the PTA chair, the principal, her deputy, and of course, the man seated in the distinguished armchair decorated for the guest. The man I have come to hate with a passion. The man demanding answers from me.

I walked towards the stage, the space separating the general public and the guests of the day. The parents, students, and teachers were seated on students' classroom benches while the guests were sitting on plastic chairs. About 5 meters separated the guests from the parents. A two-foot column separated parents from students. Teachers were seated in the front row on the parents' side. I slowly went to the left side at the far end, where Kangogo, with his wisdom, opted to sit, and circled him. All eyes turned to me as they watched me with surprise. I went behind Mr. Kangogo and moved behind the guests up to almost the center where the sub-chief, Argh! Seated and turned to walk away. That is how I submitted my resignation. After serving the institution as an untrained teacher for 6 months starting in January and ending it mid-June, I opted to leave Kaplelach Primary School. I could not hold it anymore.

The L-shaped school, with the wooden made classrooms running east to west, housed the lower primary, while brick made classrooms running from north to south formed the upper primary and the staff room. At the edge of the L was one of the entrances serving students coming from the Northeast to Northwest of the school. At almost a 45-degree angle and about 100 meters from the L-shaped classrooms was an old colonial building that used to be a horse pen. This was the pre-unit.

I left the school compound that immediately ushered me to a pile of kiosks constructed using corrugated iron sheets. This was the shopping center. Three shops, one hotel, one video room, a pool table, several vibandas for groceries, and a maize milling machine at the far end. At the center was a huge tree with tree stumps surrounding it where men could sit and play karata or kabuti. I passed through the shopping center without my usual excitement of greeting everybody. I was half-conscious. I walked like a zombie with my mind buried deep in my thoughts. Home was about a kilometer away. I went directly to our tiny room and lay on the bed, facing the decorations we put as a ceiling. Paper cutouts from old newspapers neatly arranged to form grids on the ceiling.

I never wanted to think.

I was awoken by my mother who knocked on the door carrying boiled beans and potatoes for my lunch. She called me outside in the shade and she sat down on the grass, with her legs spread. We never said a word as I munched the beans and potatoes.

"She asked for you," my mother said.

"Who will assure her that all will be well? Who will believe in her? Who will help her realize her potential?"

The words cut through my spine. I paused, chewing the food in my mouth. I never wanted to continue anymore. I swallowed half-chewed. It made a thud as it landed in my stomach.

My mother gave me a gracious look and looked away. I stared at her gray hair blankly. She had removed her head lesso. I guess it was hot while she was warming the food or perhaps it is what I am avoiding that is frying her mind as well. 

She was a class six pupil at Kaplelach Primary School. A first-born in a family of 4 children, 11 years of age from a single parent. Her father left them when they were young and disappeared into thin air. Her mother, not from the local tribe, remained to fend for the family through odd jobs. She was despised and even though she was hardworking, the villagers saw her with disdain. She worked very hard to sustain that family living in a grass-thatched house standing alone in a farm where she was a squatter. She was available at all occasions with her 4 girls to ensure that they eat the food and carry some leftovers home. They were not ashamed of what people said about them. They always turned up with smiles and joy patched all over their faces.

A few days before the meeting, Kosi was absent from school for 3 days. It was common for her. She was topping the class despite her constant absence. Topping in my class was scoring 210 marks out of the possible 500. If she was the first, you can guess where her classmates were. Others scored as low as 80/500 but they would wear a smile from here all the way to Timbuktu when you met them. They were okay. It was the norm. There was a joke that our pupils worked very hard in the final exams so that they can join class one in the nearby primary school. I don't want to talk about the school.

I am not a counsellor and I am very poor at consoling or being there for someone who is going through a difficult patch. I will cry with you. I will lack words to say. It always proved tough for me to be emotionally present for my students despite the fact that one did not need to attend any science class to notice that they were going through difficulties. Some came to school with empty stomachs. Their uniforms shouted more than they could speak. Tatters. Some never had undergarments. Never took a shower or oiled their feet while coming to school. But they were happy.

Kosi was not an exception. But she was joyful. The last few days after coming back from her 'off' was different though. She became reserved. Timid. And chose loneliness. She never played. She never answered a question in class. She was in pain. Her walking style changed. I never spoke to her but her eyes told me a lot. She looked at me and left a packed message. I carried the message to my mother. She confirmed my fears. It was in the public domain even though it was said in hushed tones. I was devastated. I felt bad. I hated the school. I hated the principal. I hated all adults.

She was defiled. Apparently, it was not her first time. This time got worse because she was alone. Other times, I was told, her mother was with her. Her mother used to take the heat while her daughter was being prepared. It was a routine. It was the only way they could live through the harsh economic situations. It was the only way they could afford maize flour and once in a while, when Kosi was the target, they could afford to take black tea with sugar. It was the only way they could afford to live on that piece of land. And inside them was constant fear of being ejected from the village. It was a way of seeking survival from the monster who had all the power to uplift them from abject poverty. If it were not for the wife of the sub-chief who sneaks to irrigate her throat, nobody would have ever known what the mighty man does.

The sub-chief, Kiptarbei, was well known for all forms of ill in the village. But he was a connected man. He oiled the fingers of people in big places and bribed his way into almost everything. He was like a spirit nobody talked about. He had ears in all walls and corners. He planted his spies in strategic places. I remember Kiptoo being beaten to a pulp for delaying to deliver the information on time. He used his power to scare people and amass wealth for himself. He took chickens, goats, and cows as payment for seeking his consultation. Every farmer had to give him something for the blessings.

Kiptarbei was a village crook who used his authority to access perks. He used to send police officers to arrest Komen, the village drunkard, so that he could have escapades with his wife. He would threaten Komen's wife that if she did not open her shop for him, she would never see her husband again. He threatened the women who were making local brew with arrests if they didn't give in to his advances. He sent Mose to jail for wanting to marry Faith, who was in university. He was also eyeing her. He stopped a Chinese firm from having contract farming of pyrethrum with local farmers because Kangogo was the one connecting them. He asked Abram to stop the cattle dip in the village because there was no way it was benefiting him better than the rest of the villagers. A lot of young men opted to run away from the village when the star of success started shining in their direction. The village was now full of elderly and those who don't have the energy to resist. He has separated families, taken advantage of woes existing in the families, and driven his agenda.

He defiled Kosi and ruptured her private parts. The poor girl who could not resist. That fateful day she asked her mother not to be in their company. She lured the young girl with chicken soup and chapatti then did the unimaginable. For three days, she nursed her injuries. Her mother was given strict instructions not to take her to the hospital. She was given money to buy painkillers from the shops and herbs from Tapkurgoi, the medicine-woman. She was then forced to go back to school so that the fears of the worst happening may be erased. She was there in my class. Trying very hard to be a child. Her innocence. Her joy. Her pride. All taken away.

The following week was the hardest for me. I tried to concentrate in class but it was tormenting me. I wanted to hear a word from my colleagues or the principal but they went on with their businesses like nothing happened. Just like last term when 14 out of 19 girls in class 8 were found to be pregnant. Nobody said anything. Was this the demand of the profession? Was I stupid enough not to understand things? Was no one bothered by the ills in the village? How can I tell? When the co-wife of Mrs Tenai was a class 7 dropout from the nearby school? When teachers were happy deflowering primary school girls around? When almost half of the population found solace in drinking alcohol the whole day?

At least it no longer bothers me. I am far away from the village. I am in a safe shelter. They saw it fit to keep me away. It is my 7th year in these prison cells. I am sure my mother's tears have dried up. Mine did. She was here about 2 years ago. I had told her to repeat the story again one last time to me. I listened keenly. It bothered her that I enjoyed listening instead of feeling remorse. As tears of sadness welled in her eyes, my eyes became misty with tears of joy that the one stab I aimed at the monster's jugular paid. I will do it again if I was asked.

I hope Kosi is safe.