Form 1 West was in the first block, right next to the staff room. It was the very first classroom right after the toilets. This is many years ago and I am yet to start calling them washrooms. The only washing that happened in those rooms was when you were being punished for some adolescent delinquency. Adolescent delinquency was another phenomenon I was yet to experience, seeing that I was still quite pious and had joined the Christian Union to ensure I was trending the straight line. I am only 13 years old at this time and my innocence has not yet been robbed by the world. I just entered teenage hood, and being a late bloomer, the anxieties of adolescence have not yet caught up with me. I still walk the earth with child-like wonder and playfulness.

In Form 1 West, I am a member of the upper backbenchers. Yes, I made that word up. I sit at the fourth row from the back. I don’t remember how I ended up sitting there, but it was a sweet spot. A vantage point. I was on the first column, right next to the door, and this meant that a teacher or ‘cop’ coming in would see the other end of the wall first. Perfect spot for a pious noisemaker. Noise making is a perfect pastime when all you are reading is the Oxford Dictionary and logbooks. Besides, it is an exciting time because I am finally a high schooler, and everyone else shares this excitement. And what better way to share in this excitement other than storytelling.

In these early weeks of term one, I am seated one day, listening keenly to Bi. Kuria in a Swahili class. The topic of discussion is of high interest to me; shairi. I am deeply engrossed in this class. I am enjoying it. It reminds me of a fond memory from primary school when I and other two colleagues performed a shairi on a prayer day. The very stern Mr. Wachira, our Swahili teacher had taught us this shairi. Going to extra lengths to coach us in performing it in dramatic fashion. It was glorious. I am brought back from my daydreaming by a call out from Bi Kuria for anyone willing to share a shairi. I jump at the opportunity. I stand up and walk to the front, starting my performance mid journey before I get to the front.

“Ni kidodaaaaaaaa” I start off, limping while holding my knee.

“Doda suguuu…

Tena zeee…

Lililoja usaha…

Nakirabaaaaaaa

Wakirabaaaaaaa

Soooooote…

Twakirabaaaaaa”

I am in full character at this point. Holding my knee, licking it as I go on with the theatrics of my performance. My audience is engaged, and from their laughs, I know I am killing this performance. This encourages me further and I go even deeper, enriching the performance. I am on top of the world. High school is a new world that I can’t wait to conquer. Getting here was no mean achievement, and with the look of things, I am making the people of Karatina proud. I wrap up my performance and start walking back to my desk, head held up high.

The walk back to my desk is euphoric. I am easing back out of character and adrenaline is still high. I feel very proud of myself, until I sit and reality starts dawning on what actually happened. My world comes tumbling down when I realize that my engaged audience was entertained, but not for the reasons I thought. The audience was in fact, laughing at me. My desk mate confirms my fears and I feel my heart sink to my stomach, and a bottomless pit form in my stomach. Big enough to swallow me. The laughter has not yet downed down, and I am feeling smaller and smaller each passing second. Bi Kuria is shushing the class for the lesson to resume but her voice is a distant background noise that I can barely hear.

The succeeding days are full of taunting from my classmates. It is a topic of discussion when I walk into the dorm. My walk into class towards the upper backbench feels longer. This is the first time I become aware of my otherness. My peculiarities that are laughable. My accent which is a source of entertainment. My roots which are not cool enough to belong in some spaces. I become smaller. Quieter. Cautious. I learn to edit myself. To listen to my words as I speak, lest I embarrass myself again. I don’t realize it then, but I start to lose my playfulness. My confidence withers and never fully recovers.

I live through high school with tense shoulders. Struggling to fit in but finding some solace in religion. When I pray, I cry. I can’t explain why but those private moments offer a channel of expression I cannot find elsewhere. A moment of vulnerability that is unlaughable because that would be blasphemous. Most times, I walk with my head down, not wanting to cause trouble . Or to be too visible and pronounced. I speak quietly, except when noise making with a small circle of friends. I stay out of trouble. I am involved in sports, but I am not exceptional. Neither am I in the popular sports of the school. I stick to the familiar and don’t experiment.

In Form 1 West, I learnt shame, took it to heart, and resigned to a lowly life. Without realizing it, I built a belief that I was not exceptional. Just good enough. No more than that. By editing myself, I lost my authenticity and spent my life walking in shadows. Afraid to be seen. Embarrassed. Ashamed. I lived through life on auto pilot. Having lost my authenticity, nothing was motivating enough to exert myself. I scrambled to do just enough to stay out of trouble.

I carry fragments, souvenirs, from this period. Chunks of embarrassment and shame here and there. Shame that has held me back from my greatness.