When payday was an event for teachers

By Ted Malanda
By all accounts, it was safe to assume that salary for teachers — and I was one then — had landed in the bank.
To start with, there were no reports of the computer at Teachers Service Commission, then prone to frequent hiccups especially at end month, breaking down.
More telling was that a staff mate who was a certified drunk had gone missing. It could only mean the lout had picked up his loot and was holed up in some shebeen stoned to the eyelids. He would reappear a week later at a police cell; shoeless, shirtless and broke.
So that morning, I gathered the few coins in my house, picked up a plastic jerrican and made my way to the roadside to catch a matatu to town.
At the bank, I joined a long, meandering queue. Still, the atmosphere was nearly orgasmic. Teachers who were smarter took turns queuing. Four would be sipping beer at a bar adjacent to the bank while another held their position on the queue.
Shopping spreeMy magical moment arrived five hours later. I recall signing my signature with a flourish and receiving my entire salary in my sweaty palms: Sh4,200 — good stuff.
I left the bank and meandered around town, picked a second hand shirt, a green camouflage jacket — oh, how I loved that green jacket! — and a Ben E King tape from a hawker who had never heard of Ben E King. An hour later, I was in Keroka.
Here, I shopped some more and remembered to fill up my jerrican with paraffin — it would be a whole month before I made another appearance in town. I also picked up a quarter bottle of fiery spirits brewed by a bearded Russian. Those days I could only afford a drink on pay day.
Fat walletOnly one thing remained: meat. Having left the nearest butchery with this important purchase, I made my way to the bus stop and boarded the last matatu home. Now picture me sauntering arrogantly into the school compound armed with shopping, a jerrican full of paraffin, a fat wallet and my ka quarter of meat and vodka.
Where to begin? First a quick meal and because it was payday, I chose French toast, what in these parts is known as toast bandika. Once my stomach had been fortified with toast bandika, the temptation to partake of what was in the vodka bottle persisted but I said, no Ted — cook first.
But you can picture my horror when upon unwrapping my ka quarter of meat I discovered that far from t-bone steak, the good-for-nothing butcher had sold me odd bits of tendon and fat so rotten that any self-respecting mongrel would have given it a wide berth.
To this day, I still entertain creative ideas on how I should have made my way back to occasion actual bodily harm on the crooked butcher. But heck, vodka and toast bandika it was.