We arrived breathless and quickly proceeded to our daily chores before assembling for morning prayers, thereafter to classes. I was really looking forward to our first class of the day – English. I enjoyed the English lessons so much. With English I would be able to blend with the city girls easily – in my red floral dress and red high-heeled shoes.
Our school had been there forever, Mama had told me. She went there and so did her sisters, and their mother, and their grandmother. It had been there since colonial times, she had told me. But now the government owned it. Though it was a government school, our parents always had to part with some money to buy chalks, books, pens and other things for the school. They called the money we parted with school fees - but we never saw the books or pens. One of the parents had once suggested that we bought nails to fix the broken windows and desks, but such had never been done.
The school was one of the few buildings that were built from bricks. It had wooden casement windows, which hung by the hinges like us. The school had four buildings, each with two classrooms. One of the classrooms was used as a staff room. It was the only classroom with proper windows, a door that looked and desks.
Though we spoke Chagga at home, at school we were taught in Swahili as nobody in the city spoke Chagga, we were told. We always had a good laugh listening to each other’s heavy tongues when we spoke Swahili – compared to the city people.
We had twelve teachers, one being the Headmaster. The Headmaster was very strict. He always walked around carrying a cane, which he used to punish us whenever we did something wrong. We always ran and hid whenever we saw him.
The teachers all lived at the school compound. The colonists were very smart, Mama had said, to build houses for teachers right next to the school. All the classes took turns to fetch firewood and water for the teachers. We also took turns in making the teachers tea and lunch.
Four years back, during the elections, a politician replaced the windows as part of his campaign to win the villagers votes. He had also put in the classrooms blackboards, donated some books and desks for the standard seven classes. The rest of us sit on bricks. It has been a while now and the books are now old and some torn and some of the desks are broken.
Important people did not visit us much as our village was rather small. But Mama said she was sure they would during the coming elections. Maybe we would get running water and a bigger dispensary. There was talk that the church wanted to build a bigger and better school. We all had our fingers crossed, waiting and hoping anxiously.
It was during the first period, when the pain struck. My hands shook violently as I doubled up in pain. I laid my head on the desk for a few moments and felt the coolness of the table on my forehead. The vise in my stomach eased. But just as instantly, a spasm of pain ripped through my stomach again, and I brought my knees upward and cradled myself.
“Are you okay,” Makicha asked after she saw me writhing in pain.
“I don’t know,” I cried, “my stomach!”
“Mwalimu, mwalimu,” Makicha called out for our teacher’s attention, “Manka is not well. It’s her stomach.”
“Are you okay, Manka?” Mwalimu Temu, our class teacher walked towards me, “have you had breakfast?’
“Yes, mwalimu,” I whimpered and tears flowed from my large, round, charcoal eyes. “Just porridge and avocados, mwalimu.”
“When did the pain start?”
“Just now, mwalimu.”
“Go have some water, then we will see.”
“Thank you, mwalimu,” I then rose with the aid of Makicha at my side. Just then I heard the whole class gasping and the boys whistling.
“Quiet! Quiet! Why are you behaving like a pack of hyenas?” Mwalimu Temu marched to the back of the class to see what had caused the uproar.
Mwalimu Temu turned back looking serious, she then went to her seat and got a khanga that she had with her. She came back with it and wrapped it around my waist and quickly led me outside.
“You have dirtied your skirt,” she whispered.
I looked at her confused. I couldn’t understand how I could have gotten my skirt dirty while I was so careful when sweeping the schoolyard with the other students. Besides how could I have not noticed while we were just inspected for cleaning ness at assembly? I then turned around to look at my skirt. Quickly I lifted the khanga and found my blue skirt with the biggest bloody blotch ever!
“Uwiii!” I screamed with my hands on my head, “I have hurt myself!”
“Hush! Hush, Manka!” Mwalimu Temu tried to hush me, “You haven’t hurt yourself! Go home, your mother will explain. Take the khanga with you, make sure you cover yourself.”
With that Mwalimu Temu went back inside. I was scared to go home. Was I going to die? What’s happening? Could I have hurt myself internally? Why did Mama have to explain to me? Why couldn’t Mwalimu Temu just tell me what was going on? I then started crying again. Or maybe I was bewitched! With that I cried even louder and started running home. I didn’t wait for Makicha to pack my books and bring my school bag outside; I just started running back home.
I then remembered Makicha’s threat about Mangi getting me! “Uwiiii! He has bewitched me!” I screamed, running even faster, “He is out to get me! He is out to get me!”
One of our neighbours had one morning woken up in a pool of blood. The bleeding could not stop. She had lost so much blood that she died. There had been a lot of rumours, but there was one that just went on – though the lady was single, it was said that she had lost a baby that she had been carrying whom she had fathered with someone’s husband. The rumour was the man’s wife could not have babies so she went to a mganga to claim the baby that was supposed to be rightfully hers. Did Mangi put a baby inside me when I refused to talk to him, I wondered.
I was out of the schoolyard and in the shambas. Stalks of coffee trees were lashing my face and snagging in my short hair, my bony hands shielding my face. The khanga seemed to slow me down, as I hadn’t bothered to tie it properly. I needed both hands to cover my face as I run, but the khanga needed to be held up as well. Every now and then I fell, and I whimpered not in defeat.
Was I supposed to be rightfully Mangi’s? Is that why I was bleeding? Had he gone to claim me? Or did he put a baby? Could Mwalimu Temu have known that I was going to die that’s why she suggested I went home – so I died in my mother’s arms? I had forgotten about the pangs and ran as fast as my bony legs could carry me.
When I reached our kichumi, my long bony legs were trembling so much that I thought they would give me away. Mama was pounding sun-dried cassava in a wooden mortar while talking to Bibi. Mama always pounded to a rhythm that could be danced to, with her big bosom heaving and massive shoulders shaking as she pounded away. Every now and then she would stop and use the hem of her khanga to wipe the sweat of her brow.
I was too terrified to go in but I was afraid that if I hide longer they might find me already dead. Blood was now dripping down my bare legs, with the now soggy khanga I attempted to wipe. I sneaked through the coffee plantation to the latrine at the back of the house. I grabbed a rag, wet it and quickly cleaned up my already sticky legs. What was happening to me? I had so many questions but not a single answer. Maybe someone had injured me when I was sleeping last night and I was now beginning to bleed inside.
“Aah, that explains the tummy ache I had this morning! It must be it!” I thought out loud, but I was still not convinced.
Scared that Mama might find me in the latrine, I ran back to the front where I could monitor her movements. I was relieved that the bleeding had stopped. I could just hide here now that I had stopped bleeding until the students started coming back from school, I thought. Quietly I looked for a coffee bush that had the biggest shade and thickest branches to hide behind. I cut some plantain branches an arranged them under the shade into a crude rug to sleep on. With the warm sun, in no time I dozed off.
The sound of my stomach grumbling woke me up. I was so hungry I could have eaten a whole cow. It must have been past lunchtime as I could see the older students going for their afternoon classes. I smacked my lips thinking of the ugali and beans my school mates had had for lunch. I moved the thick branches to check if Mama and Bibi were still outside. Yes, they were but this time they were seated on the mkeka under the avocado tree eating. My hungry stomach grumbled even louder this time.
I looked around the shamba for some nice ripe fruits – oranges; paw paws or maybe some bananas – anything to stop this stomach from rumbling so much. As I was gathering my borrowed khanga, I saw the trail of ants around me. They were so many that I nearly jumped out of my skin. I couldn’t understand what had attracted them to me. Having failed to wad the off, I quickly got up.
“Uwiii!! Oh sweet Jesus!” I screamed. There was blood on the plantain branches I had laid on the ground. I’m bleeding again, I screamed inside. The thought of my bleeding to death made me think of the choices I had twice and I ran to Mama, completely forgetting about my hunger.
“Mama please don’t beat me,” I started crying, running wildly to Mama, with my soiled skirt and loose khanga clutched tightly, “I have never talked to a boy as you told me! I didn’t do anything wrong!”
Both Mama and Bibi looked up from their plates startled, with surprised looks on their faces.
“I’m so sorry, Mama! Please forgive me! I don’t know what happened!” I was then down on my knees crying and begging for forgiveness. “I swear to God, Mama, I never talked to a boy!”
“What are you talking about Manka? Stop being so hysterical!”
“Mwalimu Temu told me to come back,” I sobbed hysterically, “she said you’ll know why I’m bleeding internally … I think I have been cursed … I swear to God, Mama, I do listen to you – I never talked to a boy! Never! I swear to God, Mama!”
“Don’t swear, Manka,” Mama told me calmly, “I have taught you better than that. You never use the Lord’s name in vain. Now come here. Lets see.”
I hesitated, not knowing what would follow next. But when I saw Bibi smile, that’s when I moved towards Mama slowly and carefully.
“You have just become a woman,” Mama explained, “You don’t have to cry about it. Go wash yourself. Make sure your brother and sister don’t see those soiled clothes.”
“A woman?” I asked between sobs.
“Yes! Congratulations, you have become a woman now. If you are careful, you might end up like your sister.”
I did not get it. Hadn’t I been a woman all the time? Okay I am a girl, ain’t I? How would I end up like my sister? And how comes Mama didn’t look so happy about this new discovery? I didn’t move. I looked down at the trail of blood down my skinny legs.
“But I’m dying, Mama,” I whispered. Couldn’t she see?
“You are not dying, Manka! Go wash yourself,” with that she shushed me away, “I’ve a lot to do. Go wash yourself then I’ll be with you.”
Ooh no, what if I bleed to death in the bathroom. I didn’t move. I refused to move. I had never argued with Mama. She always had the final word. She was strict woman and very short tempered. Her temper got even worse with Baba’s passing on and having been left with three children to take care of. She would often thrash us with Baba’s old belt if we disobeyed her. But that day I had to argue. I was confused and scared.
“Go wash yourself I said!” Mama instructed me sternly when she realized that I was still there, “I’ll be with you shortly.”
“But Mama, I’m bleeding internally! I’m dying!”
“Manka, do you want me to come thrash you now? I said you are not dying!”
“Go easy, Keku, she is just scared.” Bibi told my mother with a grin on her face. Turning to me she said, “go clean up, Manka. That is just apart of being a woman.”
With Bibi’s calming smile, I went inside, got a khanga then went to the back to the latrine. I opened the rusty aluminium door, which like everything else was hanging on a nail. Thank goodness, there was still some water left in the small metal basin we used for washing and laundry. I couldn’t imagine going to the stream for water with my internal bleeding.
