OF SCHOOL AND THE HUNGRY NIGHTS...

SCHOOL. I mean the place where kids and adults go to gain extra knowledge (and to fool around for quite a bunch). Well, the definition of school is heavily dependent on who you are.
To a parent, its months of relaxation  in a beach side condo in Hawaii, complete with fully paid expenses, a chauffeur driven limousine with occasional visits to Vegas.
To the teacher its a sheep farm. A very desolate place full of slow-to-understand mammals who seem to have heads specially forged from steel. Worse, every single one of these woollies is seemingly intent on accomplishing all tasks, apart from those for which they were called.
Its quite a different picture for the student. Imagine Guantanamo bay, liquid diets fed through the veins, punctuated with solitary confinement every week.

Back in the day, in primary school I was sent to boarding school. Grand mama cried herself to sleep that night because according to her, the child who was barely weaned was being sent 'overseas'. It was not overseas, it was just the next district, Kanungu. You note that am born in the land of rolling hills where kids learn to wield the hand hoe when they are still breast feeding. Anyway I was sent packing to this boarding school. Mama filled my head with hideous stories, if I ever dared to step foot out of my humble abode, she said, I would make make a delicious stew in Congolese pots for supper. I prayed the full rosary that night.

Not all was thorns and vinegar though. The new chapter came with a wide assortment of luxuries. After all I would finally get to wear shoes for a whooping five days a week and for mass on Sunday with the exception of Saturday. It is at school that I found the strange ritual of breakfast at 6.30 am, break tea (or was it break porridge?) at 10.30 am, lunch and supper.

The hardest part of school was hunger. Somewhere in the middle of the school term was a period, a terrible episode custom forged with Lucifer's own specifications. Pockets were dry, meal times took a tad too long to approach, stomachs got so empty you would wonder whether you even have intestines in there. As if that was not enough, appetites seemed to be artificially heightened. For one reason or the other, one was always wondering when they last tasted anything. At this time, the usual dish, half baked maize bread and beans in water, tasted like a french recipe. Times got so bad that we would decimate our toothpaste reserves, not by brushing constantly of course.
There was a brand, ABC Dent it was, that doubled as food. It was not to be hogged down though. The victim would gently squeeze the tube's bottom, applying enough pressure to release a calculated mound of white toothpaste, then quickly and skillfully scoop it up and spread it on the tongue. An alloy of tastes came into play at the moment, a burning sensation like sulfuric acid on skin coupled with a sweet backdrop. The latter was the prize. After thirty minutes or so of these calculated moves, one would get satisfied and happily head on to the playing ground. Those were the times.

Desperate times like these surely called for desperate counter measures. On one of those lucky September nights, the mango fruit season at its peak, we would sneak out of the dormitory, armed with sharp sticks and a strong towel, which we would use to transport our produce. Woe unto him that was caught on running errand. Your backside would be whipped sore and on an unlucky day, the teacher would reveal your 'witchcraft' in a class full of young belles, ruining your chances of ever landing one of these angels. Then you would know how deep the depth of feeling low really is. Fingers would be pointed, laughter stiffed and the culprit shamed to death.

That that did not take us to the grave definitely replenished our strength. We made it out, unharmed but bruised nonetheless. That, was twelve years ago, deep in the southwest of the pearl of Africa.