THROWBACK



You remember back when you were in High School? When you used to wear uniforms and loathe the deputy Principal as if he was the devil (I don’t know why but for some reasons the most hated teachers in High School were always deputy principalsπŸ˜‚) ? When you used to open your biscuit box from its lower end so that you may lie to those who come borrowing that you still haven’t opened it? Do you? Yeah, remember those days when if stopped randomly nine out of ten times you’d probably if not surely have a spoon in your pocket?

Those days that you had countdown to midterms and the school’s closing day? Those days that you’d probably be your cleanest on school function days when girls came around? Or may be those days in Form 1, when your feared no one bar God as much as the Prefects’ committee?πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

You’d probably even planned your post form four life, hadn’t you? Do parties, girls, flashy hairstyles and enjoying all the freedom of an adult,(though I’d love to hear*in the comments* what your parents thought about thatπŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚)sound familiar?
If you still can’t recall, may be running for entertainment sessions on weekends after classes and preps will help? Those times when you still actively engaged in some sport(for most that is😝)? When the only time you’d have new sports shoes was after form ones reporting πŸ˜‚?
`Yeah! You probably do now πŸ˜‚ .

Well for me one of the highlights of my High School (in hindsight) was infact an incident in class back in form 2. It was some time after mid-term, we had just had our classes shuffled and I somehow found myself in the same class as my best friend Elvis (You can check out his work here https://elliepoet.wordpress.com/ ). Anyone who’s been through High School will tell you that those days after mid-terms and opening days always had the noisiest preps πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚ so you can imagine those with your best friend as your desk mate. We had “due to unfortunate circumstancesπŸ˜‰” arrived late from home and found all the back bench positions had been taken, so we had to content with those some where near the front, but that was definitely not going to prevent us from sharing all those itchy tales inside.
As expected the class was noisy as ever especially so as our prefect, the kind to write down noisemakers(which apparently I never missed to be among, even when sleepingπŸ˜ͺ) had not yet arrived.
On duty was the most feared teacher some Mr. Gitari, get this right the most hated was the Deputy Principal but when it comes to respect, emanating from his renown Bunsen burner strokes, very few teachers could match to him. He was tall, hardly would you ever find him smiling and just his stare (especially when you’re in trouble) would give you a feeling of scare so deep you’d start reflecting on your life πŸ˜‚ πŸ˜‚ .

But that day we were not worried about him, I mean its right after mid-term he probably has some work to do especially with us having had our classes shuffled or may be he probably understands that its normal to talk after holidays we had to share the experiences, you know! We also were not worried probably because of the “security” measures we had put in place πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚, the door was closed and not only that but closed in such a way that it was difficult to just burst in as it had some issues opening (this was courtesy of some crook, by the name Wanjaria πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚ but that in itself is another day’s story) and it would therefore take time to open, in that time we could easily have jumped into our reading positions(those where you grab the nearest book and pretend to be deeply engrossed reading).

So there I was eyes wide open, uttering “Waaaah” and “Damn” as Elvis was telling me in detail about his holiday experiences with some girl from their place. On my desk was a dictionary and in it an exercise book, for just in case a teacher decided to drop in πŸ˜’. I was wholly engaged, listening to all the naughty stuff he had been up to in just the short span of a week holiday.

So engaged that I couldn’t here the other classes go silent. Someone from the back gave a loud shout of “Sshhhhhhhh” (a warning that a teacher was in the vicinity), we kept silent for about two minutes but on realizing no one had tried to open the classroom door, we assumed it was one of those “focused” pupils trying to make us quiet so that they may read. We hastily carried on with the never ending tales, this time I was the one telling Elvis about my adventures. The rest of the pupils also continued to talk to further cementing our belief that it was just a false alarm.

It was almost break time and so any fear of a teacher finding us was almost non-existent. On Elvis’ desk was an atlas even though he was taking History πŸ˜‚ . Some minutes went by then the whole class uniformly went quiet. We also kept quiet, waiting for someone to try opening the door but no one did and yet the people were still silent. “Aah tuendelee (go on), ” Elvis said as he clicked assuming it was another false alarm and I unhesitatingly continued. Our stories now seemed to be loud against the silent background of the class, but we couldn’t care less.

Then Elvis looked past me, at the windows behind my back and his eyes seemed to be focused on something, something on the window or behind it for all I knew. Then they slowly widened as if in disbelief or shock or rather a mix of the two.

I turned wondering what had grabbed his attention, more than my stories then I saw it, rather I saw him😱. He was standing there, by the window, watching us look at him in disbelief, fear and humility in our eyes. He had on his face that cold menacing stare, then the gravity of what we had been found doing just hit me, It was almost as if all the warnings to be quiet prior to then, flashed through my mind. Then after a second, that to me seemed like an eternity, my reflex kicked in (the one where you quickly grab a book πŸ˜‚) but all on my desk was a dictionary, and that in this situation wouldn’t be of much help. Elvis was still staring at him, as if in some form of a trance, he then jumped out of it and grabbed his atlas πŸ˜‚ but it was upside down, he had to turn it as the teacher at the window watched this drama unfold without making any reaction, just coldly staring at us probably thinking of all he was going to do to us.

“Out,” he said, with his cold deep bass. We didn’t need to be told anything else, we rushed outside, cursing, praying that he spares us. He ordered us to bend with our fingers touching our toes (this was one of the most deadly positions to be caned inπŸ˜‚), we were trying to negotiate for our forgiveness but he made us choose between two strokes or our case being forwarded to the principal. He said he wanted a “gentleman’s agreement,” between him and us, and to make you understand how good he was at caning, I was even considering the Principal’s option.

There is that millisecond, when you already in position, just waiting for the first stroke to land, muscles tensed, sweat-ridden, teeth-grinding and probably with your eyes closed (yeah, you probably doπŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚). Then it lands and at first it’s not even painful, you just feel something land on you; your tense muscles relax, you raise your neck and you even open your eyes. Boom, then it strikes you, the pain, so intense you seem confused, you start pleading with him and he tells you just one more and if you continue stalling he’ll start again. You’re easily convinced. Just one, the last one, you tell yourself and you go back to position and wait.

The last stroke is never like the first one, it lands with such might that you stand up rapidly, rubbing your ass, your cheeks puffed up with air, ready to run, get away from him before he changes his mind.

“Move,” he says after he was done with us, and we shot for our classrooms, silently processing the pain and thankful it’s all over. But we couldn’t go to class like that, not with our bottoms on fire, how would we even sit down? so we stop by the washrooms.

In there we make eye contact for the first time since we left class then we burst out laughing, not sure if it was the relief, or may be our reactions to the caning or the moment we were caught, or probably all of those that was making us laugh but we just laughed πŸ˜‚ .

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