We Made History and Paid The Ultimate Price for Winning
But we never died
Umlando — in Zulu, it means history. As a verb, it could mean ‘making history’
It was 2011.
Whitney Houston had just a year for the world to marvel at her live voice and presence. We had only a year left to finish high school. And the school had a year left to witness the greatness of Form 3 East.
The previous years were abbreviated with losses. In 2010, by an unfair referee, and in 2009, by match-fixing. They saw how formidable our class was and placed us in the group of death. Still, we gave them a match they would continue talking about as the weeks drew on. It was the tournament that landed me in the school team, at form 1.
These were obstacles in our path to victory. Since we were playing a long game, we simply had to make a path. The obstacles became the way.
We had our way with the teams after two years of near wins. Not the kind of near-win that leaves a crying, wishing the tides changed. It was the kind of near-win that left our class members boiling for a rematch in the years that followed.
We wanted a win so badly, that the previous year’s struggles replayed in our minds every year before the start of the tournament.
Our thirst was soon sated. In 2011, we won the interclasses competition. In 2012, we won again. But this time around, we got inspired by our class teacher, Mr. Benard Maruti. He convinced us not to just celebrate a win but to give our competitors a convincing win — a complete thrashing of our opponents.
That’s what we did.
So in the second term of 2012, Whitney Houston had already passed on. We were months away from passing the baton to the year preceding us. And we won.
Not your typical win.
For as long as I have been in the school — only four years — there has barely been a class that won the football and the volleyball competition. These were the only categories.
Winners would have two rams — male sheep — and the first runners-up would have a single one. We won the football competition and were in the second place in volleyball. A total of three rams.
Umlando.
We made history.
We celebrated
We made a show for the books, but all great shows have to come to an end.
Our deputy principal, Mr. Olunja, ‘Man-Man’ as some would call him, made a decision we never anticipated. You see, the winners of the competition usually pick one day from a weekend to celebrate their victory. Since we won in one competition and came second in the other, we had two weekends to celebrate.
Or so we thought.
Unanimously agreed by all class members, we were to slaughter two of the rams on one weekend, a Saturday, and then the remaining ram the other weekend.
Victors were given a day off from reading according to the otherwise planned schedule for every Saturday or Sunday just so they could celebrate their win. The school would give us access to the annex kitchen, the needed cutlery and crockery, cereals, greens, and any additive it thought would be relevant for a decent meal.
After a heroic victory such as ours, nobody wanted a decent meal. We wanted a meal to stun our stomachs.
Hardened by the regular intake of boiled beans and maize, what we called ‘morale’, we needed something softer. We pictured two weekends when we would have these soft meals, prepared to our taste.
Man-man would not have it.
You cannot waste two weekends partying.
Thus, he gave a unilateral decree. Rather than a party for two straight weekends, he insisted that we slaughter two rams on Saturday, and the last ram on Sunday. Honestly, there was no difference since we still got an extra day where we would not be buried in books. But our deputy thought he had cut short our ambitions.
Thought.
So, for two straight days, we celebrated.
It has never happened in my time in the school.
Umlando.
We made history.
Everybody wanted to cook
The first mistake happened when everybody wanted to showcase their skills.
Two many cooks. Remember this bit — too many cooks.
Other class members had their specialties — slaughtering goats, cows, rams, and any edible animal. They did it by the fence, next to the same field that handed us our trophies, soon to be converted into meals independently imagined by every one of us.
Appetizing.
Mouth-watering
Lips-smacking
They slaughtered the two rams, diced the meat, and washed it. They then carried it to the annex kitchen. From afar, you could see how well-cleaned it was. But you could also see tufts of hair sticking out from several pieces.
Who cared? Our stomachs were as hardy as the school culture we were immersed in.
Or so we thought.
Everybody wanted to not just cook but to prepare at every point in the cooking process. Some were not convinced that the rams were enough. So what did they do? They went to the budding school fishing pond and fished.
Barely mature and large enough to satisfy a hungry form 4 student, they caught a couple of finger-sized fish. Others felt that fish meat might not equally satisfy their tastes, so they hunted the stray chicken they found within the teachers’ compounds. I’ll spare you the gory details of how one chicken was killed. The most important thing was that we had a wide variety of meat to sample from.
The class prefects were granted passes to go outside and get whatever else was needed to improve the taste of the meals. We would eventually have a broad array of chili, sauce, garnish, kachumbari. You name it. We needed to celebrate our win.
The day passed and evening came. Our plates were overflowing with evidence of a victory well deserved. That Saturday night was our entertainment night. Everything, it seemed, was brewing with promise.
After dancing from 4 pm until 10 pm, some shirtless and others with sweat-soaked t-shirts, and with stomachs satisfied with our preferred cuisines, we slept like kings.
The following day, we would rewind the tape. Sunday nights, however, were study nights. We therefore ensured that we made the most of the little time we had. Speakers were pulled from the entertainment office and we watched and danced to our favourite songs the whole day as we prepared our royal meal for the second consecutive day in a row.
Unknown to us, this was the second mistake.
Regardless…
Umlando.
We made history.
All hell broke loose the following morning
We stunned our stomachs too much.
It too, was planning its revenge.
Before heading to the assembly, I noticed a few souls running to the field latrines. I wondered why. Clarity would soon settle when we stood at the assembly ground. Most of my classmates were dashing to relieve themselves.
Then my stomach rumbled.
Grrrrrrggrrrrrroooororororrrrllll
That’s what it said. It’s like it was communicating with the other stomachs and they wanted to see which one would settle soonest.
Single destination. Single physiological process. But multiple trips. Repeat. That was how we spent our day that Monday.
Boy did we diarrhoea!
I would prefer if you stressed the ‘r’ part of the phrase. That would give you an idea of the stomach pains we had, the heat that surrounded our anal region, and the sound it made when we crouched down to empty our guts at the latrines.
What’s more, it wasn’t as if it was a guarantee that you could run and find an empty slot. Our class had 50+ students. The private rooms could accommodate only so many. With every trip, you would find a line and start dancing outside hoping a few drops didn’t escape the tight clutch of our rear sphincters.
Our geography teacher, whom we all nicknamed ‘Njugu-Mix’ for reasons only our school members know, was understanding. He told us that whenever the call was urgent, we could just dash to relieve ourselves.
Sadly, not every run was a guarantee that it was over. It came in waves. The ram, the chicken, the fish, the soup, and the tufts of hair, feathers, and scales competed to jet themselves out of our bodies in a single opening.
Nobody vomited.
Only diarrhoea.
Regardless…
Umlando.
We made history.
What I’m trying to say is…
We paid the price.
A painful and ‘running’ price for our victory. However, we cannot substitute the experience. The food was amazing. Our stomachs just didn’t adjust soon enough.
That year, we made history.
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