These people hate us, I swear. I think it is because we are few in this nation. Why should they award us such grades for our efforts? One hundred and eighty of us labored in vain after four years in school? Hundreds of thousands of shillings paid by our parents! Thousands of books bought: the set books, dictionaries, Higher Flier Series, geometrical sets and many other requirements. Oh God, here I am, no result slip or barua as my parents call it.
My illiterate parents sent me this morning to collect barua. I am on the way back home. When I arrive, the first thing father will ask is, “Let me see barua!” My father is illiterate but he knows the magic a good certificate can perform to transform the life of a child. As I sit on this bus, I am so downcast. I am overwhelmed by feelings of hopelessness and despair. I do not know what I will tell him.
It is hot, pally. As I gaze through the windscreen, I see vibrations of radiations; I can see the whirlwinds carry the sand hither and thither. Seated next to me is Ahmed Derrow of Alfukuran Sec. School. He too got a Y. Of the one hundred and forty seven candidates in the school, only one got the results. The government claims that there was cheating in our schools, an allegation I strongly dismiss. I Qamar Nurrow did not cheat. I only tried to solve a problem according to the principles of survival. As Charles Darwin observed, only the fittest creatures can survive in the world. My Principal used to emphasize that the end will always justify the means. The rich will forever be honoured without questioning the means by which they acquired the wealth. We should be go-getters! Who cares how you get it? Watch one’s main chance.
Cheating is everywhere. You may judge me. But it is plain truth. Our principal told us that even university students cheat. And they become professionals. Who cares? I cannot believe that someone can memorize all that information and excel in exams. They cheat. And that is why we made a good deal. All a hundred and eighty nine of us contributed four thousand shillings with clear knowledge that our supervisors and teachers were human beings. And they say,’ One eateth where he worketh”. It was simple: two hundred at the armoury where exams are kept. Two hundred for invigilators. One hundred, for the supervisor. To see and not see. The rest was to grease the elbows of our teachers, who labour whole year round for pea nuts. They would summon us during the nights to lead us through questions. I wondered why in mathematics, for instance, all the answers were the same. Mr. Mubeyi just completed all the sums with one answer in brackets:
(Proceed to the answer).
As we all know, a student cannot be better than her teacher, especially the one at Mtukufu Girls’ Sec. School. We respect our teachers and submit to their guidance. I therefore did not miss a punctuation mark. I wrote all the workings on sheets of paper we call kocho kocho, and transferred them on the answer sheet. I had reference materials in the exam room. I called them bullets. Bullet one had brief notes on form one syllabus, bullet two, form two…all the way to form four.
My job was quite simple in the exam room: stare at the supervisor- not that his threats meant anything. But he did not want us to be so obvious. Had he not eaten his potato? But we did not have to run riot. As soon as he showed me the back, I would whip out my bullet and copy verbatim. On my left calf under my trousers (we religious girls cover our legs in pants and wear a skirt on top) was bullet one. On the right calf, bullet two, in the breast, bullet three , under the scarf (nape of the neck) bullet four and the teachers’ secrets in my underpants. Think of all this investment, just to come to this!
I bet Mr Owuor reported us. That deputy principal of ours disturbed the principal… yes madam Zuhura. He stood against the ‘deal’ and swore to report us to the authorities. Idiot. He talks of virtue, no wonder he has taught for over a decade and does not even own a bicycle. He will be shot. He hollers about integrity. To hell, who cares? If I get hold of a gun, I swear, I will kill that adhon. I now alight near my Bulla at Rhamu Dhimtu. It is still hot. I have labored four years on this hot sun and I have nothing to show for it, I swear! What will I tell my parents? I reach home. The whirl wind tosses the sand and deposits it in front of the hori. Father hates foreigners. I will use that to escape.
“Qamar, give me barua!” He asks.
“Abba, there is no barua.”
“Oh blurry fool! Foolish as your mother!” he growls in his typical way. Always insults mother.
“Adhon, the adhon Owour reported us to Kenyatta… so no Barua!”
“I will kill that adhon. They cheat, they become teachers but they come here to destroy our children!” the old man thunders. I smirk. I wait to see how Owour will roast in the fire he had himself lit.
