Had he not made for the direction
I was in, I would have continued in my circling of the ET1 theatre block trying
to squeeze myself an entrance in. Still quite fresh around campus, phone lacking
charge (okay enough with the doubting, airtime issues) I could not make up my
mind whether the timetable read ET1 or ET2. My roommate (and course mate) with
whom we were to be lost in this confusion was nowhere to be seen, I had left
the room quite late. It would later emerge that at the time the brother was
comfortably tucked beside one Pency Were, just a few meters from where I was,
going in circles. The two would make an item later on in our campus years,
quite an adorable one.
I also made for the same
direction and we met halfway. It was his bloodshot eyes that first struck me
when we finally faced each other. A faded grayish shirt but with the sic donec lion badge still visibly elaborate
just slightly below his left shoulder. Had a blue phone strap loosely around
his neck that led down to his shirt pocket, a grey trouser to complete the
rather usual look, but in his hands, a felt-tip pen. This was no casual laborer.
So we still stood there wondering who should
give way to the other, I did. But instead he spoke,
‘’ Which of these is ET1?’’.
His voice coarse enough to match
his looks but his English, no.
Mastering all the grammar I could,
I responded,
‘’ I should be attending a
literature class in ET1 but as it looks, it is closed’’, then suddenly realized
I had not answered his question when he just stared back.
‘’ ET1 is this one over here, it
is currently closed….,’’,
I would have rambled on and on at
how such confusion only bears negatively on the image of a world class
university had he not made way past and headed straight where I was coming from.
I decided to check ET2 then head back to my room in the event I failed to locate
my classmates. They were there, murmurs as would characterize a freshmen literature
class eager to have their first class in the university. It was those days I was
still in the litt class, before the much hyped-for inter faculty procedure came
and lured one too many a students. Having just completed orientation few days
before, the super-sweetened rhetoric from the various deans made a B-student
believe he or she could still secure a chance in the Space Science class.
Bearing the brunt of being the
last to enter class, I felt million eyes pierce through me as I made for the
top back seats, it was a theatre hall remember. I had not made any new friends
yet and I found myself in the middle of one Dennis who would later become the
class representative and another Micah Michubu, one of the very few benevolent
souls still keeping the faith in Modern Theatre.
The course registration form read
Mr. Gakuo Kariuki, that was the face we were waiting for. He finally showed up,
and yes your guess is as good as mine, it was my friend from the outside, the
hall went silent. As the class would continue, the words of Richard Ntiru in ‘Introduction’
haunted me, echoed in the outskirts of my subconscious…,
‘’perhaps it was his ugil shirt…..,
his unassertive collar..,
knotty hair..,
missing button..,
or maybe it was his usualness.., ‘’
That was Mr. Gakuo Kariuki, my
first litt lecturer in campus.
‘’kuna class ya Gaks saa hii FASS’’,
a text message read a couple of days later.
This was from Micah, now Mr.
Gakuo’s class had fast become a favorite among my classmates, normal classes or
make-ups. I was idling around student’s centre by this time and this looked
like a make-up class as all our week’s classes had been exhausted, it was a Friday
evening. I rushed to my room and picked up my book. In five minutes I was
already strolling down the FASS school pavement headed for the literature wing.
On Friday evenings school was usually quite deserted and I noted this, save for
a few souls that were either headed to or from the nearby FASS library, to
increase their sorrows of course.
‘’ panda juu kwa ofisi ya Gakuo’’
, that was weird.
A second text from Micah
supposedly giving me directions as this day’s class would happen right inside
Mr. Gakuo’s office. For the few days I had been in campus never had I stepped
into a lecturer’s office, though there had been this picture in my mind, a tiny
room with a desk and probably a swivel chair. All this changed the moment I stepped
in. the room was large enough to hold a masters class of no less than twenty,
complete with chairs. I found students in. Micah was obviously one of them,
then there was Dennis the class rep, Zainabu, Vivian and a Terry Abuya. Mr.
Gakuo himself was seated in his chair so that he faced whoever entered.
I took a seat but could not
resist going over the wall posters around his office, one particularly spoke of
a travelling theatre group of the 80’s. I queried him but later on regretted why
I had in the first place done that. His face seemed to lighten up as he went on
about their varsity days at the University of Nairobi and how travelling
theatre was the in thing those days. He was an actor himself, this he had
proved a couple of times during his classes. We were three males and three
females and he had us pair up and from his desk pulled out a copy of ‘’When
bullets begin to flower’’ a poetry anthology by Margaret Dickinson and placed
it on his desk. I paired with Terry, Micah with Zainabu and Dennis with Vivian.
He spoke of the forthcoming Lord Egerton day that was an annual event to
remember the founder of this institution, reminded us that it is usually a big
event that needed entertainment pieces. He would later ask if any of us could
avail a piece for performance to which I affirmed. Now ‘’ when bullets begin to
flower’’ is a text with poetry covering the pre-colonial struggle for independence
in most African countries to the south. Prominent among the poems were those written
by soldiers to their lovers. The good old man picked Antonio Jacinto’s ‘’letter
from a contract worker’’ and asked us males to recite a paragraph each to our
partners. That was Mr. Gakuo, could pay anything for live entertainment. Terry still
laughs about it whenever we encounter, jokes that had the lines been actually
mine, maybe she would have fallen for them.
Soon I transferred from this
class, something only my frail remaining pieces right now can say was a mistake
if they were to be pieced back together. The last time I saw him as my own
teacher was the very same day he called me by name. It was uncommon for him,
and for that reason most of my mates believed he did not know them by name, I included.
He had given out an assignment but never specified when it was to be due. So this
day saw half the class ready to collect and half not ready to collect. An argument
ensued. I had been silent the moment he called my name and I wondered what to
say. I had done the work myself but was to say bye to the class anyway. I said
the work should not be collected as the due date had not been agreed upon. They
were not submitted.
Two years forward and I’m seated
at the pavilion, a bit early for my handball training. No one has shown up yet.
My message tone beeps,
‘’Mr. Gakuo is no more.’’
Rest in Paradise, Mentor.
It all begun with a committee having several sittings to plan for the big day, and, they surely did a great job. At first, I thought there was a visiting choir for the Sunday service but after taking a closer look at the African thematic designed clothing, I convinced my eyes that that could not be a choir.........they were stunning beautiful and handsome men and women of God who've kept the Faith and walked in unison for the Body of Christ is ONE.
