Always The Bigger Man...
In an oversized khaki short exposing dusty, scarred knees, I am sat on the third last desk of the middle row in class 5 West. Waist up I'm in a blue sweater covering a sky-blue shirt. The sweater is holed on the elbows, worn out by contact with my wooden desk, necessitated by the constant need to hold up my head to stay awake for each forty-minute lesson. Madam Irene is in class today but I was 'mtu wa mjengo', busy laying brick and mortar for my golden castle in the air. Every new brick sent me further away from class that I failed to realise my blank gaze had been spotted and Teacher Irene was stealthily walking towards me, armed with a hot slap. Pah! "Come back to class!" I'm not sure which my brain registered first, the pain or the words, but I was instantly brought back to reality. Lower Primary School felt like being stuck in an unending cycle, I never grasped the necessity to read and understand, cramming was how I passed exams. The cycle begun early ...