Thursday, July 17, 2014

Through My African Eyes - Jeff Koinange




Thursday, July 17, 2014 - 00:00 -- BY JEFF KOINANGE

Standing fourth from right in the back row in Mrs Balrey's Class, Standard Three, Hospital hill in 1974
Standing fourth from right in the back row in Mrs Balrey's Class, Standard Three, Hospital hill in 1974
Sitting from Row third from right in Ms McGuire's class Stanndard Six Blue  Saint Mary's in 1977
Sitting from Row third from right in Ms McGuire's class Stanndard Six Blue Saint Mary's in 1977
Middle Colt Soccer team:Jeff squatting third from left
Middle Colt Soccer team:Jeff squatting third from left
Junior basketball team (Jeff, front centre)
Junior basketball team (Jeff, front centre)
In the third of installment of our serialisation of Jeff Koinange’s autobiography ‘Jeff Koinange: Through My African Eyes’,  read about his school days
My three siblings and I attended Hospital Hill Primary School in the heart of Parklands, at the time an upscale neighbourhood in Nairobi. Hospital Hill was an experimental school having been one of the first in post-independent Kenya to integrate Africans, Asians and Europeans. There was a good mix of all three races but initially European boys and girls were the majority. Ciru was first to attend followed by the rest of us. I began my first day of school in January 1972. I remember crying on that first day of school when Mother dropped me off in Classroom 1A before walking off back to the car.
My standard one teacher was Miss Norris, a pretty blonde who later that year married the Headmaster, Mr Cutler and thereafter changed her name to Mrs Cutler. For the longest time I simply could not understand why she changed her name. Personally, I liked the sound of Miss Norris.
Mr Cutler was a tall, handsome man who looked like a character out of an Enid Blyton novel. I remember on Fridays the entire school would gather in the auditorium and Mr Cutler would walk on the stage with his guitar in hand. Instead of giving a speech about discipline and decorum, he would break out into one song after another and encourage the students to join in by teaching us the words to the songs.
I vividly recall songs about everything, from a bull frog jumping from one bank to another in the Yangtze Kiang river in China, to living in a yellow submarine (I had no idea what a submarine was, let alone a yellow one), to leaving on a jet plane (whatever that was), and so many other songs that I later learned were classics from the sixties by groups as varied as the Beatles to the Carpenters. But all in all, the entire school of five hundred or so uniformed boys and girls would join and sing the choruses.

 My favorite song at the time still brings a smile to my face. I discovered later it was one of Harry Belafonte’s hit songs, There’s a Hole in my Bucket, about a boy and a girl having a conversation that kept going back and forth about fetching water in a bucket that had a hole. The boy’s name was Henry and the girl’s Liza. Mr Cutler would divide the hall into boys and girls and the boys would sing Henry’s lines and the Girls Liza’s. It was great because it seemed as though Henry had the upper hand for most of the song and then Liza would come back and put Henry in his place. This would go on until in the end we came back to the original line. There’s a hole in my bucket, Dear Liza, Dear Liza, a hole. We did not understand half the stuff we were singing about, but it sounded good and we had fun and looking back, I realize that was Mr Cutler’s idea of giving us a holistic education.
One teacher in the school who does not conjure up such positive memories was Mr Peckett. Everyone was terrified of him. He taught the older students in standards six and seven. Mr Peckett was a character straight out of ‘Oliver Twist’, a stern looking tough-as-nails no-nonsense teacher who parked his classic Mercedes Benz 190E under one of the school’s big old oak trees and polished it meticulously during lunch. Nobody went anywhere near Mr Peckett’s car, let alone touched it. I was glad I never took any of his classes.
One day though, someone went and scratched the entire length of Mr Peckett’s prize automobile with a metal object. All the students never heard the last of it or what Mr Pickett threatened to do if he caught the vandals. He vowed to cane them before the entire school using the dreaded horsewhip he kept in his office desk. I always wondered who had the guts to do such a thing. It was either a very brave or a very stupid pupil.
Although I cried the first day I arrived in school, the four years I spent at Hospital Hill were great because Freddie and I were natural athletes so just about every sport came easy to us. Football or Soccer to Americans was our first love and we took to it quite naturally. I would always play with the older boys in Freddie’s class but he and I always chose to be opponents. I guess it was our competitive nature. We took advantage of every spare opportunity to play, in the morning after being dropped-off, during break- time, at lunchtime and of course after school. There was only one main football pitch and it was always first come, first served. Sometimes if there were too many boys wanting to play, we would divide the pitch into two and use one half to play our game.
There are a couple of memorable incidents during those early years at Hospital Hill School. The first was when I was in Standard Two or the equivalent of Second Grade. Mother had to go into surgery to have her appendix removed. I had no idea what an appendix was, but it sounded painful despite Mother’s reassurances to the contrary. All four of us were sent to stay with my father’s half-brother and his family. Uncle Joe and Aunty Grace lived in a lovely two-storey house in a leafy suburb of Lavington with their two young children, Julie and David. Julie was a year younger than me while David was about a year old. For us, ‘country folk’, we were only too glad for the change of environment and hardly missed Mother for the week she was in hospital.
During that week one of my classmates, a Scottish boy named Danny Phillips, invited me to his house for his birthday party. I asked Mother for permission and she said it was okay as long as Uncle Joe and Aunty Grace agreed to it and I got home by 6 p.m. After school I got a ride with Danny and his parents to their home. The party was fun with plenty of entertainment from a hired clown and plenty to eat and drink. By 6 p.m. the parents began arriving to take their children home. While the pick-ups were taking place, Mr Phillips, Danny and I got into his car and off we left to drop me to my ‘temporary’ home. We drove to the Lavington neighborhood but I had simply lost my bearings. I just could not remember the street or the house number. We drove up one street and down another and nothing looked familiar to me. Mr Phillips was very polite and patient and kept saying, “Don’t worry, Geoffrey, we’ll find it.”
My mind was in full panic mode as we drove around in circles. I kept thinking to myself that Mother would kill me once she learnt what I have done. I could not even think of going to the hospital to ask her where Uncle Joe lived because I had no idea where she was admitted. I also did not know Uncle Joe’s telephone number.
By about 8 p.m., Mr Phillips made a decision. We were going back to their house and I would spend the night and the next day we would go to school and be ‘reunited’ with my family. As we walked in the door, Mrs Phillips came out to meet us in a panic. Her husband and son had left to drop me off more than two hours earlier. She had even called the police. When she saw me, her look said it all but her husband calmed her down telling her to prepare a bed as I was going to spend the night. Danny and I went to the living room, watched a bit of television, had some dinner and were finally put to bed. The next day, Danny’s mother gave me a fresh set of clothes- luckily Danny and I were about the same size- and took us to school.
When we drove into the school compound, the first car I noticed was Uncle Joe’s. He and Aunty Grace were sitting there having dropped-off my sisters and brother. The look of concern followed by relief when they saw me was evident. They had been worrying all night long not knowing what to do.
Mr Phillips was quick to apologize to Uncle Joe about the night before and how we kept trying to find their home. We left them chatting as Danny and I quickly ran to join our classmates and continued on as though nothing had happened like typical seven year olds. Later that evening, Uncle Joe sat us all down and we all agreed we would not trouble Mother with what had happened at least not while she was in hospital. Uncle Joe also made us write down his home telephone number and keep it with us at all times. He made sure I memorized it. To this day, I remember it.
When Mother was finally discharged from the hospital a week later and we were all catching up at home in Kiambaa, something told me she already knew what had happened because the first thing she asked me was, “So, Mwaura, have you been behaving?”
Everyone laughed and I recounted the whole story and despite her appendix, she laughed and was glad that, in the end, all is well that had ended well.
Danny and I remained the best of friends and would continue to hang out in each other homes for many years to come.
Another incident I vividly recall took place a year later when I was in Standard Three and our class teacher, Mrs Balrey had to leave for medical reasons which she never disclosed to us, but left me in charge. “The rest of the class listens to you, Geoffrey,” she said adding, “make sure they all behave.”
That was the first time anyone ever put me in a position of authority and I took to it like a duck takes to water. Mrs Balrey had recognized my team playing abilities then. I carried out my duties and responsibilities to the book. I made sure my classmates finished their work, assigned someone to dust off the blackboard and punished anyone who did not comply. I was like a drill sergeant in the military and loved every bit of these newfound responsibilities. When Mrs Balrey returned three weeks later, she learnt that her class had behaved better than when she was around. She later came to thank me. I remember being quite grateful that she had faith in me.
There were many more incidents that I recall from those early years that are still lodged deep in my memory bank including the first time I learned how to swim. A brand new swimming pool had just been built not far from our classroom. Swimming lessons were held early in the morning at sunrise. I was in Standard One and we were all lined up at the shallow end and the swimming teacher told us to jump in one by one. He never asked us if we could swim. As you can imagine, we were all terrified except this one boy, Nigel Rowlands, who seemed to know what he was doing. Even before the whistle blew, he dove straight in and swam the breadth of the pool.
We all stared in disbelief as Nigel surfaced at the other end, waiting for us to join him. No one dared. But I was not to be ‘one-upped’. I decided to jump in and see what would happen. Splash!!!
I was in the water and continued to do just as Nigel had done. Not quite knowing what I was doing, I kept fluffing determined to get to the other side. I splashed and spluttered my way across and eventually reached the wall right next to Nigel. I could not believe it. I was amazed despite having drunk half the water in the pool. I had not quite mastered the art of breathing while swimming but it did not matter at the time. I had achieved what I wanted to and from that day I considered myself a swimmer. I learnt to respect the power of determination.
A strange event took place during the inter-house swimming gala event in Standard Three. The entire school was gathered around the swimming pool when suddenly, a shout went out that there was a fight going on in the soccer field. We ran to the scene to find Peter Matu, a standard seven boy in Ciru’s class, beating the ‘living daylights’ out of a student from a lower class. We were all aware that Peter’s father was a Lieutenant General in the army. Mr Cutler, who was by then the Headmaster eventually made his way through the crowd, grabbed Peter by the neck and dragged him towards his office. However, Peter was not having any of this. He broke free of Mr Cutler’s grip, stood his ground and then to our amazement, took a swing at the Headmaster. The blow glanced off his face and before Mr Cutler could grab Peter again, he pushed him out of the way and ran towards the front gate and out of the school compound.
The Headmaster tried to give chase but Peter was long gone. The rest of us were too stunned to do anything except stare. I had never seen a fight in my life and moreover, a student taking on the Headmaster. The next day Peter showed up with his military officer father and we were later informed that he had been suspended for several days. After this incident, whenever I came across Peter in the school compound I would take off in the opposite direction, fearful he would come after me. Hospital Hill was never the same after that and Mother, ever the visionary, must have seen the writing on the wall. She decided to move us at the end of that year. Ciru would be done with her primary school education and Wangui would be heading to standard six while Freddie and I would be in standard five and four respectively.
Around this time, about the mid seventies, my extended family, the Koinange’s, who had acquired land in Kiambaa during my grandfather’s time as Senior Chief, decided to donate ten acres for the construction of a school . This was in keeping with the principle that charity begins at home and educating as many village children as possible.
Since there was already a primary school in Kiambaa where Mother had taught for several years, the village elders decided to dedicate the land to build a mixed girls and boys secondary or high school. Construction began in the early seventies and was inaugurated in 1974 by President Jomo Kenyatta. It was named the Senior Chief Koinange Memorial High School. Several hundred villagers had to be moved to a new location as the school literally shared a common fence or hedge with our home in Kiambaa. So, when the Hospital Hill School standard of education started to slide, many of Mother’s in-laws and close friends urged her to transfer us to the newly built school next door. It made sense in every way in terms of saving on transportation, tuition fees, uniforms and food. To my Mother, this would have meant a step down, a demotion, if you will, removing her children from a top-level education to one that did not quite meet her standards. I was eight years old at the time of the school’s opening and remember Mother having constant arguments with my uncles and aunts about why her children should be brought closer to home. They argued that she did not have the finances to educate her children at what they termed as elite schools in Nairobi and that in their words she should “swallow her pride and come down to earth.”
That was all Mother needed to hear! She dug in her heels and refused to entertain their advice, insisting on proving that despite being a widow, she was not one to succumb to undue pressure. Mother hated being reprimanded and one day vowed to us that, “none of you will ever attend this school next door as long as I live and breathe.” Of course none of us knew what that meant at the time. We were just happy to be going to school every day and just being children. Little did we know that those words, that vow that Mother made that day, the determination to make sure we had the best education at both primary and secondary level, laid the foundation for what we are today. In hindsight, nothing could have been wiser or indeed gutsier but it is also safe to say Mother spent just about every cent she had to make sure that we received the best formal education to prepare us for the outside world.
The prospect of going to boarding school was every child’s dream back then. It was considered a sort of coming-of-age when children became ‘boarders’ for their secondary school education. Ciru completed her Standard Seven class, the highest level of primary education at the time, in preparation for the first set of national examinations. She sat for the Certificate of Primary Education (CPE) exams, passed and was accepted at Limuru Girls School, a twenty-minute drive from our house and one of the most prestigious all-girls institutions in the country. Wangui was enrolled in an all-girls convent school run by Irish Nuns called Loreto Convent Valley Road, in Nairobi. She would later join Ciru at Limuru Girls School after she completed her primary education.
Freddie and I were enrolled into Saint Mary’s School or ‘Saints’ as it was more popularly known. Located in suburban Nairobi, Saints was one of the most prominent all-boys schools in the country. It was also part-boarding, part-day school and one hundred percent elitist. It was founded in 1939 by a group of Irish Holy Ghost Fathers and modeled along the lines of a similar school in Dublin, Ireland called, Black Rock College. In fact there is a road towards the back of the school called Mahiga Mairu, which loosely translates to ‘Black Rock’ in the local Kikuyu Language.
Everything about Saint Mary’s could be summarized in its motto - ‘Bonitas, Disciplina, Scientia,’ which is Latin for Goodness, Discipline and Knowledge. And it had the reputation to match. Year after year students from Saint Mary’s graduated with the highest distinctions and would go on to the top universities around the world. You could not have asked for a more rounded education. It attracted the country’s rich and powerful, everyone from the sons of the country’s President, his high-ranking members of the government, judiciary, military and captains of industry. In a word, it was the school of choice that is, if one could get in. Competition was stiff and the entrance exam just to be considered as a student was one of the most difficult and demanding.
The school itself was spread out over eighty five-acres of plush prime land. The three-tier building that housed most of the classes and science laboratories was in the shape of a square with a quadrangle in the middle, the perfect setting for ‘morning assembly’. This took place first thing every morning where a uniform inspection was done by the school prefects who would walk up and down the various streams of classes checking that our starched beige shorts and matching shirts were crisp clean and neat. The ties too, blue with white stripes and grey sweaters also with blue and white stripes along the neckline and wrists, were standard. It was the same with the socks, grey with blue and white stripes. On Fridays and other special occasions we were allowed to wear what was known as our ‘First Class Uniforms’, Blue Blazers with the same Beige shirts and Grey pants and of course the same blue and white ties. Prefects were the only ones who wore Black ties and Black Blazers to distinguish them from the other students. And yes, prefects and students in the upper and lower six form were the only ones allowed to wear trousers all year round.
Saint Mary’s was modeled after ‘public’ schools in England. The school bell was an old church bell that was rung manually by a designated student. Every time the bell rang, the scene was akin to an old colonial establishment as students moved from classrooms to either laboratories, the library or to the games fields. Every morning at 8:10 a.m. the first bell rang signaling the start of school followed by the traditional assembly gathering of all eight hundred students inside the school’s quadrangle.
The school was divided into four ‘House’ colours with unique and indigenous Irish names. They were Bede for Yellow, Campion for Red, Dunstan for Blue and Moore for Green. Each student was assigned a ‘House’ when he was accepted into the school. The House became their ‘family’ and trademark throughout their stay at Saint Mary’s.
Everything about Saint Mary’s smacked of status. It had a nine-hole golf course where the sons of rich Kenyans would enjoy a game before, between and after classes. The sports fields were immaculately manicured and maintained. There were numerous tennis courts and squash courts and even an Olympic-size swimming pool. We had one church, Saint Austin’s Church, built at the turn of the 20th century. Half a kilometer from the church was the dividing line between Saint Mary’s and its all-girls equivalent, Loreto Convent Msongari. Naturally we were not allowed to go across to Mso as it was popularly known without permission and the same applied to the girls across the fence. How many times that rule was broken would probably fill a book.
Getting into a school with such a reputation as Saint Mary’s was not easy and Mother was overjoyed when Freddie and I passed the rigorous entrance examination and were accepted in January 1976.

We enrolled in what was known as the Hilary or First Term, Freddie in standard six and me in standard five. We were both placed in Moore or Green House and we would remain there for most of our stay at Saint Mary’s. The school year was divided into three terms: Hilary was the first term, followed by Michaelmas, the second term, and Trinity, the third and final term of the year. I had no idea what the names meant but I imagined they were adapted from similar names at Black Rock College.
There were two streams of classes in the lower or junior school representing two colors, Red and Gold. I was in Standard Five - Red, the equivalent of fifth grade. I remember walking into class on that first day of school and all the new students were asked by the class teacher, Miss Houghton, who was from Houston, Texas, to introduce ourselves. When it came to my turn I opened my mouth to say my name and even before I finished, the entire class burst out laughing. I fought back tears only for Miss Houghton to ask if I had a cold. My voice was that deep. I would later come to appreciate the privilege of having a baritone.
Freddie and I were ‘day bugs’ or day students; dropped-off by Mother every morning at 7:30 a.m. and picked-up anywhere from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. depending on whether we had after school soccer, rugby or other extra-curricular activities. We were often among the first students to be dropped off and among the last to be picked-up. I have no idea how Mother managed to accommodate our busy schedules but all I remember is that she never complained. If we were not displaying our skills in the various school teams, we were either at choir practice, the debating club or taking part in the annual school opera. Perhaps Mother saw this as a good way for us to stay out of trouble. Whatever it was, she deserves much credit and gratitude for facilitating our numerous activities.
By this time Mother was working as a housing officer with the National Christian Council of Kenya (NCCK), a charitable non-governmental organization. Mother was committed to her role. Every morning we would find our school uniforms ironed and ready. Mother had been up long before dawn, as usual. After a quick breakfast of tea and toast we would gather our bags and file into the tiny Volkswagen Beetle. On the way to school, Mother would start singing songs of praise and we would chime in and sing along until we got to the school gates. The Beetle was later replaced by another Volkswagen, a Passat, registration KQL 825.
As soon as the 8:10 a.m. bell rang and the entire student community gathered for morning assembly at the ‘Quadrangle’ facing a statue of the ‘Virgin Mary’, the Headmaster would walk up a semi-circular stone staircase and address the school. If there were announcements, he would read them and if any of the various sports teams had won, this would be celebrated. Mondays and Fridays were the days when we sang the National Anthem.
- See more at: http://www.the-star.co.ke/news/article-177747/top-notch-education-brought-me-far#sthash.8e3noCLd.dpuf

No comments:

Post a Comment