Aasai

Journey back in time.

I used to be a very confident speaker. I still am, but I used to be better, back in high school. Let me explain.

Saturdays at Masii High School always followed the same routine. They were designated for general cleaning and house inspection. The day would start lazily, with students waking up a bit later than usual and taking a plate of thick porridge and when money allowed, a quarter loaf of bread from Diblo’s canteen. Afterward, the dormitories would became a hive of activity as we undertook a deep cleaning operation, led by our house captains. Bedsheets were stripped off, beds made neatly, and belongings tucked away in our wooden or metallic boxes. By the time we dressed in our cleanest uniforms, complete with neckties, we were neat, sharp, and ready to face the scrutiny of the teachers.

At around 10 a.m., the inspection would begin. Teachers moved into all eight dormitories, assessing cleanliness, organisation, and occasionally confiscating contraband items. They checked our nails, hair, and general appearance. For some reason, my dorm, Kifaru House, was always top.

After inspection, apart from a few Adventists like Martin Sikuku(not to be confused with Shikuku), who headed to church, most of us settled in for a short prep session before lunch. Lunch on Saturdays was usually rice and beans, which was one of the three weekly meals that was not githeri. Afternoons were for entertainment in the hall or an outing every two weeks.

Now, Masii High School was surrounded by several girls’ schools: Vyulya, Masii Girls, Muthetheni, Kyethivo, Mwala, and others I barely remember. In those days, there were no mobile phones, and even landlines were unreliable. Communication relied heavily on chance and persistence, which makes this particular Saturday all the more intriguing. Because of this, there was no prior communication as to whether we were expecting any visitors, and certainly not from a girl’s school.

On this fateful Saturday, just after the house inspections, a van from Kyethivo Girls pulled into our school compound. The van carried a group of their form four students, accompanied by one or two teachers. Their mission? A literature discussion with us. They parked and waited at the sports pavilion.

Since our literature teachers had mysteriously gone AWOL, their teachers took charge, organizing us into groups to discuss different literature questions. My group got a question from a short story we had yet to we had yet to cover in class. I volunteered to take notes for my group.

The question we tackled was notoriously difficult, and their teachers, eager to test our mettle, hovered nearby as we discussed it. Despite the challenge, the group dynamics were lively. There was one girl in particular, a beautiful girl, whose presence made the task far more enjoyable. She had bulbous and droopy eyes and a radiant face the colour of an anthill. She had just the correct figure and smiled like the rising sun. As we read and analysed the story, our eyes would meet and linger longer than necessary. I found myself mentally planning our future together. Wedding dates, the number of children we would have, where we would live, it all played out in vivid detail in my mind. Other, more vivid and less innocent images may or may not have crossed my mind as well.

When the allotted discussion time ended, we gathered in the dining hall to present our findings. As the group’s secretary, I was tasked with presenting in front of the entire Form 4 class, about 250 boys, 60 girls, a handful of teachers, and some curious Form 3 students. We were the third to present. As our group sat on the dais, she sat next to me.

As I stood up, the girl whispered to me, “Go get them, dear,” or something along those lines. Her words sent a surge of confidence through me. I stood tall and delivered my presentation with poise, drawing applause from the crowd. Her whispered encouragement continued throughout, bolstering my confidence with every passing moment.

When it was time for questions, a member of the audience challenged one of our points. Without missing a beat, I countered, saying that even without that particular point, we still had enough to score full marks. My group cheered, and the girl, who was seated right next to me, gave me an enthusiastic pat on the back.

And that’s when it happened.

A day full of casual flirtation, the adrenaline rush of presenting, and her gentle touch triggered a reaction that I wasn’t prepared for. In front of the entire hall, the contents of my trousers betrayed me with a huge, very noticeable, and a very strong erection. The applause for my presentation turned into cheers and laughter for, well, my predicament. Mortified, I bolted from the hall. It was, without a doubt, the most humiliating moment of my life.

That single incident shattered my confidence. For the next 12 years, I could not muster the courage to stand in front of a crowd that had more than twenty people. Even today, twenty six years later, I feel self-conscious whenever I speak publicly. I rush through my presentations, stumble over words, and often find myself repeating myself.

If you’re that girl (I don’t remember your name), I need to find you. Not just to sue you so that you may pay for my therapy sessions but also to see what we can do to get you out of my system. And hey, I might even need your support if I ever launch a career in politics. I am sure your husband will understand.

But as embarrassing as that was, it doesn’t compare to an encounter I had with a girl from Vyulya.

I was coming back to school from home, though I can’t quite remember why, when I met her at a bus stop as she was headed home, unwell. She introduced herself as “Vera Achieng’”.

Let me heal from these memories first. I’ll tell you the rest of that story later.

Follow me, BEN, the writer