Down the memory lane.

Our house stood tall at the very end of the compound. My mother was a teacher in this particular school so we resided within the teachers quarters. If you stood at the door looking outwards, Lake Primary would be to your left and Kisumu Boys to your right.

Shabby fences separated us. 

Your six o'clock would be what we called Reru, or Upper Railways Estate. There were two kiosks in Reru, Baba Kemunto's and Baba Wainaina's. You would always find idle boys in front of those two shops which were, by the way, conjoined so there was no way on earth you'd miss seeing those boys, or they would make themselves be seen and heard by you. Boys who were more than eager to put their hands up the skirts of small girls like myself. The most resistance we would put up was ah! Niache! (Leave me be!).

The school that my two sisters and I attended was up the road, about a 10 minute walk away. On our way there, along the road was the gate to Lake Primary, a salon/barber's, Orya's kiosk (lord bless his soul for those one bob kashatas ), an A.P camp, a shortcut to Kakamega Road and then our school, M.M Shah Primary. Can I just say that we were for the longest time the best school, academically, in the Municipality? We'd attend prize giving days at the Stadium and we'd return with trophies for all kinds of categories. You  had to pass through a court of sorts - Patel Flats - to get to our school gate. Just next to our school was Siri Guru Singh Saba Nursery. I wouldn't know much about it. All I used to do was peek through the super thick Kei Apple fence situation that they had going on all year round. Oh, they had this funny brown checkered tunic for a uniform. I thought they all looked like they came from comfortable families.

As you entered my school, you'd walk right into the assembly ground that was lined with white washed stones which the kids who'd be picked from school in the evening would dirty, with the pretext of sitting on as they waited for their people. On your immediate right would be the entrance to the nursery section, decently sized. The rest of the compound housed the primary section. We shared a small section of our fence with Arya Primary. I am yet to see a more space-starved school than that one.

The buildings within the compound were the usual administration block, class blocks, canteen, grounds men quarters, a shed where they made and sold the best fries ever, with peppered ukwaju sauce on the side and a headmaster's house which persisted in incompletion throughout the years that I was there. There was also a gray gate on that end which, if you timed correctly, would be open and we'd slip through it and get home in less than three minutes. I have to mention that the class 8 block housed a science lab of sorts, in which there was a prep room. The room had "pickled" reptiles, and was also a chill spot for some male teachers who considered themselves members of the cool league. Legend has it that that prep room saw and heard things and bore witness to deals being struck and broken and done over. That room should do an expose`. Oh what I would do to have been a fly permanently perched on its walls.

It would be an understatement to say that I thoroughly enjoyed my primary school days. In fact, it is the only part of my slightly longer than usual academic career that I genuinely enjoyed. I would go back in time and tape the button down on replay. I was really quiet, but my eyes and ears feasted on a lot. Of course I was teased. I had a distended belly and had, still have legs for days. Back then my legs were an object of displeasure, said legs are now a conversation starter between men and I. Life really comes full circle if you are still wondering. Also, my voice was deep. Anytime I spoke someone's child would parrot up. Looking back, that did inform my decision to stay quiet. I didn't want to be teased; I just wanted to be awesome.

Classwork came easy to me, I was the queen of minding my own business (I wanted so badly to mind the prep room's business though), so why were people minding my voice and my belly and my leg calves? Before I forget, I have the lazy eye syndrome. I had so much to be made fun of. So I chose to make myself smaller. That would be going well until we wrote compositions and they had to read mine up front or when the school term ended and I was almost always among the top three on a lazy term. I hated being seen because that would remind the other kids of my presence and they'd be back at it again; the lazy eye, the voice, tummy and legs. That being said, school was still a blast for me.

Street food was amazing. Mangoes with chilli - raw or ripe, we'd always pick our poison delightfully. Cassava crisps at Ochola's. Flavored ice at any of the houses within Patel Flats. Mabuyu of all flavors and colors, with or without chilli. Bhajias, ice cold homemade yoghurt, more fries, sweets...The only hindrance was money to spend. Or should I say parents who hardly gave money to spend? The good days were great. The dry days, well, just that.

Remember the idle boys around the two kiosks in Reru? I figured I had to do something about them. I knew the "accidental" touching was wrong. No one told me so; I just felt it. I took a keen interest in action movies. Back in the day I had the programme lineup tucked away in my heart plus we only had KBC and on lucky days the aerial would pick up some funny channels too. I would watch whatever action film was on and I was particular about fighting. Those boys had to be fought off. There was a catch though; I was a girl. On the flip side, there was nothing girly about me so that worked in my favor. I watched as people fought and thought myself to have mastered the technique. I couldn't wait to surprise the unsuspecting boys.

Once, I was sent to the shops late in the evening to buy milk. I was given a thousand bob note and I'm pretty sure the milk cost way less than fifty bob. Anyway, that was my mother, always deep ending me. I went to the conjoined shops but I found that they had just run out of milk. My only option was to go to Orya's, which was a bit farther up the road, and the entire section was dark. I reminded myself that I now knew how to fight and ain't nobody's dusty ass son gon' mess with me and off I went. I ran the entire way, realized that I hadn't carried a bottle and suggested that he pour it in a plastic bag instead. He did just that and gave me my change. I also randomly thought of asking for a box of matchsticks which I didn't need by the way.

I turned and started sprinting home. About twenty meters in, I realized that the milk was leaking out and so I stopped to try tie a knot around the hole. Then I heard someone catcalling. I was barely nine years old. I knew it was one of those small boys; they must have followed me here.

There I was, a girl in shorts, with nine hundred and forty seven shillings and a matchbox in her pockets, leaking milk in her hand. I tried making a step forward in an attempt to run. Three other boys emerged from the tall grass that graced the entire length of that dark section, while two boys came from behind me. I remembered from whose bloodline I came and started fighting. But first, the matchbox. I was as short as they came. I'm tall now, but every old person I meet endears me as nyadundo, meaning short one. I took the matchbox out of my pocket and struck lit a matchstick and I walked around in the circle they had formed, holding the light to each of their faces. I wasn't really going to fight them; the idea was to spice things up. But one of them touched my elbow and I lost it. Another tried to grab my butt cheek. I lost it some more and I put up what I cannot now confidently refer to as a fight. I threw jabs in the air and kicked aimlessly. One stepped on the milk that I had put down. I held him by the collar and gently guided him down and I beat him up. I was livid. I think the intensity of the situation made the rest scoot off because no one came to his rescue. I left him there and went back home without the milk. I didn't care that my mum would beat me up. I was just from teaching those boys a lesson in good manners 101 and nothing was going to dim my shine. Not even death by my mum.

When I entered the house the first thing she noticed were the milk tracks along my legs and from the look on her face it was understandable that I had just gone through a lot. An hour passed before she asked for her change. While giving her the money, I narrated a sketchy version of the story and I saw her lips crack into a smile. I had done well. At least by my mother, I had.