By Victor Ochieng’
vochieng.90@gmail.com
When I was in STD 8 boy at Anyiko Primary School in the gem of Siaya, my dream was to join a national school for my secondary studies. That is when after one glad day; our head teacher came to class, and asked boys from humble backgrounds to fill scholarship forms. Our head teacher, a tall man with a well-fed frame, dark like a thousand midnights, said in substance: Starehe Boys’ Centre sponsored boys who were academically gifted, but financially famished. I had the hope to join that pantheon of all-time greats: The Ivy League School started by Dr. Geoffrey Griffin in 1959.
Unfortunately, when I sat for the Kenya Certificate of Primary Education (KCPE), my attempts were foiled, hopes shattered, and dreams dashed. Dreams crumbled like egg shells. Son of the Lake, with a frail frame, short like a traditional stool, scored 339 out of 500 marks. It was sad. It was bad. I missed the highly-coveted chance to join Starehe because the beneficiaries of the merit-based scholarship had to score 400 out of 500 marks. I felt crest-fallen.
Fortunately, I got a cordial invitation to join the high-end Siaya-based extra county school started in 1927 by the Mill Hill Fathers – St. Mary’s School-Yala. Albeit, when I took that invitation missive to my grizzled grandpa, the man, now old like Ramogi Hills, looked at me and said in substance, “Ochieng’, I think this is the end of your education. In fact, I have hatched a plausible plan. I have a brother who bought lush land in Kisumu. I want you to join him there, and become his herd’s boy.” But I responded, “Grandpa, I don’t want to become a herd’s boy. I want to go to school quite well, and in case God permits, one glad day I become a professor.”
As I told grandpa that I longed to become a polymath in future, of course I knew it quite well that he did not have the wherewithal to bankroll my studies. We were struggling to make ends meet. Most of the time, we just ate ugali with wild vegetables that granny laced with sour milk. Life in that remote village was replete with chilling challenges. Affording a meal was like asking for a blood donation from a mosquito. But in these miseries and misfortunes, the grace and goodness of God preserved and prepared us for the thrills and hills ahead.
I lost mom when I was 7, and because I was born outside wedlock, I did not have the chance to meet my biological dad. Up to date, this man born and brought up at the sultry shores of the large lake, has never set his two egg-like oval eyes on the man of means who sired him. People just tell me that dad used to rear long closely-cropped hair on the head as I do. I would love to meet him and know whether he is also bald at the crown of his hefty head. Before mom went silent and absent. Before that dreary day death dared at twilight before night, I used to ask mom to show me dad, but she only quoted for me Psalms 68:5: God is the father to the fatherless and judge to the widows.
Therefore, when I nearly missed high school, when it seemed like I was walking away from my dreams, it is the church that came to my rescue. The late Fred Tombo Moyi had just been transferred from Ulumbi to Nyamninia Secondary School. He was going to be the Deputy Principal of a school. We were fellowshipping together at Christian Outreach Church. When you find time to visit Yala Town, in the Gem of Siaya, this church is a spit-throw distance from Yala Sub-County Hospital.
The late Fred Tombo Moyi, a man with a well-fed frame together with other benign brethren in the church like Fred Komwonyo, James Otieno Ayoo and Oscar Odhiambo Oyowo fast-tracked my humble entry into high school. But they did not manage to take me to Starehe Boys’ Centre or St. Mary’s School-Yala. They took me to a decimal day school with a moniker that sounded like a tongue twister – Nyamninia Secondary School. Now as I pen this piece, this school has grown in leaps and bounds.
The day I arrived in Nyamninia, I did not have proper school uniform. I had borrowed an old pair of trousers from an alumnus, Peter Otieno Lisasia. Joining secondary school without proper school uniform bruised my self-esteem. Most of the time, I felt low and lacked a sense of self-worth.
Only one thing helped me. I knew God. Therefore, He is the one that helped me know that places don’t make people, but people make places. I toiled and moiled, and when we sat for Term One exam, I emerged as position 3. In addition to that, I scored 100% in History and Government and Christian Religious Education. This stupendous start of attaining peak performance impressed my magnanimous teacher – Mrs. Martha Moyi. She went out of her way, and bought me a full set of school uniform.
This gesture of empathy propped up my self-esteem which was frail and fallible. I started looking at things using different lenses. I walked head held high. I continued to put my best foot forward. In terms two and three I became position two in class.
Then, in Form Two term one, I toppled the gentle academic giant – Daniel Juma – the soft-spoken boy who knew Math like the back of his mortal hands. At Form Four level, we passed with flying colours, and matriculated into universities to find new paths and trace true norths. Juma chose to pursue Food Science at JKUAT, as I headed to Kikuyu to wrestle with English language and Literature.
The writer is an orator, editor and author.
