No rest for the broke: Back to school woes in village

April holidays must’ve been cooked up by sadistic education officials at Jogoo House—probably during a power blackout and on an empty stomach. Or a hangover. I mean, who in their right bureaucratic mind lets kids close school and reopen in the same month?

Do these folks even have kids of their own in school? Or are their offspring stashed in posh International Schools? Meanwhile, ours are home for exactly 12 days and seven hours before being herded back to school shingo upande.

These are some of the questions that Kamaley is grappling with as he sits pensively under an avocado tree in the village, pondering where he will get school fees from. Every other minute, his phone vibrates with alarming urgency, like he owns someone money. When he picks, it’s one of his baby mamas threatening to drag him to the children’s office if he doesn’t send school fees promptly.

Kamaley defends himself by saying that business has been low. Which is the case since some of the illegal products he had planned to sell over Easter didn’t move as planned. “Sitaki kujua,nitakuletea watoto ulee!”,the baby mama shouts from the other end. Faced with the prospects of taking care of two spoilt brats, Kamaley pawns his phone to raise school fees.

For Giceeri, back to school marks the onset of a dry three-month period. ‘School fees is a demon,’ she grumbles, wiping the same glass for the third hour straight. What she is not saying is that she will miss the money she mints from high school students who sneak in to buy crude spirits against the wishes of their parents.

To remain afloat, she has introduced ‘Happy Hour’ for teachers-the only fellows who can afford to patronize Wakulima Bar during the term. She is also selling boiled kienyenji eggs in the bar to counter the lean times.

Resident breeder

Uncle is not exempt from the headache that comes with back to school season. Every time his kabambe rings, it’s one of his Nairobi-based grandkids asking for some bail out. ”Guka, sina fare ya kurudi shule,” they tell him, of course after being prodded by their parents.

Uncle sighs, opens the rusty tool box where he kept a stash of last coffee payout and wires some cash to the kids. He just hopes that one day, they will graduate and stop pestering him every term.

But not everyone is complaining about back to school woes. This weekend, desperate parents will be knocking at Aunty Jerusha’s door with a spool of wool at hand.

“Make the pullover warm enough to fight the July chill.” They will beg her. Aunty will brush up her crocheting skills and go at it like her life depends on it (because it kind of does).

Gicheru, our resident breeder in the village, is another unexpected beneficiary of the woes of the season. All weekend, weary parents will be lining up at his home with tall sob stories, asking for small loans. Gicheru will charge a pound of flesh on every coin borrowed and demand that the loans be secured with assorted items like motorbikes, goats and smart phones. If he had his way, Gicheru would propose that we have four school terms in a  year.