A Story of Fear, Rebellion, and Resilience
In those days, when the morning sun still smelled of wet soil and the laughter of children echoed freely across village paths, we were young, wild, and stubborn in our own small ways. We were pupils at Mwembe Primary, a school where knowledge was fed to us with the patience of elders but sometimes also with the sting of cane.
Among all the teachers who walked the dusty corridors of Mwembe, none stood as tall and as feared as Mr. Ouma, our mathematics teacher. He was not a tall man in stature, no. But he carried with him an aura that stretched from the staffroom to the farthest corner of the school fence. His footsteps, slow and deliberate, announced themselves before he even reached the classroom door. His spectacles clung to his nose like they feared falling, and his sharp eyes saw everything.
Each evening, without fail, he would assign us three to five sums. Simple-looking riddles to the careless eye, but inside them hid traps that would catch even the brightest pupil off-guard. Woe unto you if you brought back wrong answers. For every mistake, a stroke of his raw, peeled guava cane would find your behind with no mercy. And when he struck, his chubby cheeks would quiver like the ripples on a pond hit by a pebble. We learned, not from a place of love at first, but from a deep, creeping fear.
So one afternoon, after yet another brutal session, as we nursed our sore buttocks under the old guava tree near the toilets, we plotted something only the wild minds of children could cook up. "We should have him arrested," whispered Oti, who always got the hardest beatings for mixing up his multiplication tables. We nodded in agreement, not because we truly believed we could do it, but because the thought alone gave us courage.
We had heard of a trick, rumours carried by older boys and passed down like sacred secrets. If you applied pepper and lemon juice on your palms and then got caned, your hands would swell. Swell like boiled maize kernels. Then, we would be taken to the dispensary. The doctor would write a P3 form, and with that, we would present our case. Mr. Ouma would be arrested. That was our master plan.
Oti was to bring the pepper. Wambua would sneak in a lemon. I had no special ingredient, so I was assigned to bring the water to make the paste. On the day of the plan, we gathered near the fence behind the latrines, hearts pounding. We mixed our concoction with the solemnity of witch doctors at midnight and rubbed it on our palms. But someone, to this day still unknown, betrayed us. A Judas hidden among us.
Before the plan could unfold, we were summoned by the deputy headteacher. We walked to the staffroom unaware of our crime, only to find our secret laid bare. The betrayal stung worse than the cane. We were given leave-out chits and told to bring our parents.
I went to my motherâs office, voice trembling as I explained why I needed her. She didnât scold me. Instead, she bought me a soda and a queen cake so I wouldnât have to go home for lunch. By 1:20 p.m., we were back at school, waiting on the hard wooden bench outside the deputyâs office until 2 p.m. when he returned.
When our turn came, the deputy explained everything. My motherâs face was a mask, calm, unreadable. We received three strokes each and were released. I returned to class relieved. It could have been worse.
But evening brought its own judgment. Mum cooked supper as if nothing had happened. We ate in peace. Then she called me outside. Without a word, she brought down the fury of a mother scorned. She caned me like nobodyâs business. And for reasons only known to her and the ancestors, she also summoned my elder brother and younger sister. She reminded them of their past misdeeds, mistakes she had overlooked, and gave them their share of justice. It was as if she was clearing a backlog, caning in arrears.
Mum was tough. Her love wore boots, not slippers.
Still, something began to change in me. In trying so hard to avoid the cane, I started to understand the sums. I began to see patterns. Numbers began to speak to me like the way elders spoke in proverbs. Slowly, fear gave way to fascination. Mathematics was no longer a lion to flee from. It was a puzzle, a mystery waiting to be solved.
By the time I sat for my KCPE exams, I had made peace with numbers. And when I walked into secondary school, I carried with me the confidence of one who had tamed a beast. In those new classrooms, mathematics was not a threat. It was a friend with whom I shared silent secrets.
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