You arrive at the hallowed grounds of the University, dead tired but upbeat nonetheless. You have worked your way here by honest hardwork. You have been grilled by the toughest of surprise cats and survived. You have sat weeks of KCSE and wrote your answers and secured an admission to the university. You stand at the gate and say to yourself, ‘Salem boy, here at last in the University. You are now a campus boy!’ You don’t believe yourself. ‘Somebody pinch me, Somebody pinch me’ you mutter, this time a little louder. You have conquered all the village academic tyrants and now you bestraddle the university grounds like a colossus. Too good to be true.
A guard comes to you and asks, ‘Kijana, iko nini. Wee umepotea?’ You shake your head and answer, ‘Hii ni university hee?’ The guard responds, ‘Kijana soma pale unafanya nini hapa?’ You tell the guard that you are from a long, long journey from a place called West Pokot. He remembers something, ‘Ooooho, nyinyi ndio wale wezi wa ng’ombe’ You feel insulted but you realize that he still is the guard so you smile through your teeth. After explaining that you are a new student, he shows you around and as a parting shot he says, ‘ Kijana, huku hakuna ng’ombe so hatuna wasiwasi’. You walk away bearing the collective shame of a branded society.
Then on the next day, you are called for orientation. You are introduced to the University’s who’s who. There’s the Chancellor, the Vice, The DVC Academic, The DVC Administration, the Chaplain, the Dean of Students, the Financial Administrator and Heads of Departments. You are told to use your common sense. The chaplain invites you to ‘edit’ your life by attending the mass services. You are in a big hall with big people and having big dream. Then you dine at the Cafeteria and reassure yourself that your hardwork is now paying off.
Then the honeymoon is over.
There is no assembly, no teacher on duty, no one following you around. Then you tell yourself, ‘This is the place to be, I am free at last’. But you are terribly wrong. You are not free yet. You have master the names of buildings, to know where Tzadua is, Rugambwa Hall, Otunga Hall, Jubilee Hall, Missio Hall. They are all confusing as their names. Even after putting in heart the names and locations of the halls, half of your mystery is solved. You have to locate the lecture room number. You climb stairs like a mad bull to beat the 8 O’clock deadline. You sit in wrong halls and wrong lecture rooms being introduced to thermodynamics when you are a First year Law student. You secretly wonder, ‘But does this Physics thing follow people even in law?’ You realize your foible and walk out as miraculously as you had come in. You leave the room occupants in stitches. You miss your classes for a whole week before finding your right place.
And when you think you are now home, you are reminded that you are still a stranger. The lecturer asks, ‘What is your name?’ and a disciplined boy you are you stand up straight as a flag post and say, ‘Lomertapem, Sir, I am Lomertapem’. The class laughs and you are bitter. What is so funny about a man’s introduction. For all you care, you were the sharpest English boy in your village. ‘What a mouthful, Lomer-somebody,’ and almost as quickly , the lecturer adds, ‘and don’t stand next time. This is not High school.’ In High school, it would be sacrilege for a teacher to say that.
For the next three weeks, your classmates find delight in calling you Lomer-somebody. You don’t know whether they are kidding you or they just love you. Especially the ladies. They will mutilate your name and call you Loma-sumbady, Lomateypeym. You realize your name has been butchered and before you cry murder they are hugging you and teaching you how to rub your right (or was it left?) palm on their soft backs.
Your lecturers come and go with their different set of challenges. A lady lecturer caps it all. The staccato sound of her high-heels announces her presence. Then she dictates to you foreign notes in a foreign pronunciation . She pronounces your as yo and how are you as how you doin. It is fast so for hours you keep writing your own set of mis-spelled and mis-contrued words. It is only in second year that you look at your notes again and say to yourself, ‘Who was this? By God I must have been green, green as an algae can be’
No comments:
Post a Comment