The dorm was named after a bishop. It was furthest from the admin block, Away from teachers, from watchmen and the rest. Behind it was the sin city. All contraband made it way into the compound over the fence behind that dorm; Bread, donuts, mandazi, juice, avocados, sugar. We had a small economy, a sub economy. It thrived. It made some random boys village merchants, and wealthy, by village standards. Two hundred bob made you rich, very rich. You had bragging rights; you were the boss with a complete posse of cohorts. All you needed to do was make runs between the shops and the fence, where luxury starved boarding school kids waited with bathed breaths. That and trust. They waited for simple luxuries, for bread and juice. It meant giving the awful sukuma wiki a miss, and respect and bragging rights, for loudmouths.
Between the dorm and the fence, was a space that was slightly scorched. A lone tree stood at the middle of this space, donning a weepy face, forlorn, about to go teary at any moment. It was lonely, forgotten. On any day, it was just that, a semi parched space with a lonely tree. But occasionally, it transformed, it became something else, christened. It became the yard. For, at the school gate, someone had written prison, bringing into life what we believed, and whispered about, or mentioned deprecatingly in reference to the school. On such days, lonely tree had some company, loud company that cheered and jeered. And patted her and caressed her and hugged her. Their minds were on something else, but the tree didn’t know. And it doesn’t matter if you don’t know. She enjoyed her moments.
It was the place where issues were settled, the way men do, but by boys. Knuckle to knuckle, hand to hand, till a victor emerged.
It is on this space that I had an appointment one day. Because of briefs, my briefs, my new briefs. And because of Node, and against Node. It all began at the football pitch. (more…)
Native Essays 