Mohaha

For Lilly, life was as simple as life came. Eat, breathe, sleep. For her, life was routine. She was an average student. She attended church every Sunday because it was what her family did. She did what was required of her under her parents’ roof and there were no complaints. She had three meals a day and socks on her feet. Life was modest. Life equaled eat, breathe, sleep.

Lilly took her KCPE in 2008, scored a total of 361 marks and got admitted to Kipsigis Girls High School. She found herself in the strange land of mursik drinking girls whose parents pondered when they would leave school to get husbands. Girls who wore what they wished and talked how they pleased. Girls whose windows were hit by small pebbles from boys who wanted to sneak into their rooms when it was dark. She was stunned by the wave of culture shock and she loved it. She could do as she wished here. She was alone, without the stern hand of her father or the unyielding eye of her mother.

The lies came clean from her lips as if she had thought of them all her life. Her father became a lawyer and her mother a nurse. She killed off her younger siblings and remained with an elder sister who was taking her Masters in the United States. She became Lilly, not Lilian Kang’ethe Wanjiku and like the flower, she flourished. The lies filled her with adrenaline and she worshipped the rush. She acquired a steady boyfriend at home, Kevin, who proclaimed his love for her in lengthy flowered and perfumed paper that made girls green-eyed. Everyone wanted to be her. She was the girl with the flawless life and by the time she was in Form Two, she was the impeccable girl with the picture-perfect life.

Issues arose when her mother felt it wrong that she had never seen her daughter in school. Mothers are magical beings. They can smell a running nose in us when the cold is three days away. When she asked, Lilly was quick. Her brain had acquired a year’s experience in thinking on its feet. “I told her I would have loved it if she came, but they don’t let parents see students while in session. I told her that if she came, she would be held up in the staffroom and would only talk to teachers then be asked to leave.” Lilly knew her mother was not interested in her teachers. Her grades were excellent. Why would she want to see her teachers when her grades were off the charts? What her mother really wanted was to see her, in school uniform and in the school she was breaking her back to send her Lilian to. To meet her friends. Mothers always want to know who our friends are, as if we would dare introduce them to the kush reeking blood-eyed fellas [not that I have any, Mom].

2010 was a time way before Matiangi’s crazed up Education designs. We still had food brought to us in school in the guise of Visiting Day. We clung to crippling fear that nobody would come and we miserably hung around the school gates. The relief when you saw a familiar face was eerie. We hid food up ceiling boards when teachers searched us. We took Eno on these days because you had to taste whose chapattis were to die for and whose mother made better chicken.

During such days, Lilly would sit quietly at her desk with a book because she was sure nobody would come. Not that she wanted them to come anyway. Her father was out of the country on lawyer business and her mother was swamped in hospital. Her friends understood this. After all, when you have busy parents, you make your peace with it. Back home, her people knew their Lilian stayed at a friend’s for Half-term break. It was pointless to have her travel all the way home for the few days she could spend studying.

Lilly’s cousin joined the school in 2011. By then, Lilly was in Form Three and had become somewhat a celebrity. Her way was the way. Girls cut their skirts to her length and brushed their teeth when she did. She developed her very own posse. The cousin, then in form one, was told to take care of Lilian, because Lilian was almost a finalist and she needed time to study. “She took it literally. She would come to class when preps were almost over to take my shirt and socks away to wash and leave next day clothes on my bed,” says Lilly.

She felt married. I don’t know what this feeling is because clearly, I have not tasted the fruits of matrimony before. Does that happen overnight or is it one of those feelings that needs nurturing, like an injured puppy? “She did everything for me. She queued for my food then went back for her own plate. She got me hot water to take baths with. We didn’t even have hot water to begin with!” Once, she found toilet paper cut in 6 pieces each and folded in her locker. This girl estimated that her cousin would need 6 pieces of tissue to poop! If that’s marriage, then I don’t want it. I want freedom to be able to close my eyes and run toilet paper out of my hands until my ancestors tell me it is enough. “It was too much, I know, but I felt like a queen. Everyone adored me. I did nothing yet they worshipped my breath. It was all I could ask for.”

It did not seem eccentric to give her a copy of her keys. After all, a wife needs house keys, right? The cousin began organizing. Arranging, folding, pulling this out and putting that there. She did too much, according to Lilly. But nothing ever prepared her for what came during their mock exams.

Everyone has a mock exams story if you ask me. I might tell you mine someday. “You know why they are called “Mock”, right?” I say. “They make a joke of our lives. They mark you, those mocks. They seem easy, but it’s like a rollercoaster, of your emotions, your life, your grades, your life’s choices. It marks an era about to end. It confirms to you that you are almost where you dread and leaves no room for doubt about it.” She stares at me. Maybe I have said too much.

“Anyways…” she begins. You know you screwed up when someone starts a sentence with ‘Anyways’. It’s a slap in the face, that plural anyway. No one ever goes “Anyways.., you guy, you crack me up”. It’s always something that they will go on to tell people about. “That strange girl that writes talks of weird shit, you now?” Anyway, she continues. “My cousin fucked everything I had worked for in so long. She got this notebook I had been writing everything down on. Every lie I ever told, with the truth against it, and she came to me with it. I should have just owned up to it then maybe she would have let it go. But you know what I did? Queen of Kipsigis? I yelled at her. Called her poor and uncultured. I told that poor girl that she had no business in my business and that actually made my business everyone’s business.”

Girls bruise like peaches. We hurt with words and we hurt with sticks. We are contused by thoughts of people about us and by our own thoughts. And when a lioness is injured, she wreaks havoc. The cousin, in her hurt, told the one person who could not keep a secret about the book. Every school has one. In my high school, we were lucky to have the mohaha dealer in our class (mohaha being information that you would not necessarily get hot off the press). She didn’t have to do much, the cousin. She just gave the book to their mohaha dealer and asked her to spread the news like the Gospel. Far and wide.

“How long did it take for the teachers to know?” I ask. You know it is hot mohaha when it gets to the teachers.

“Not long. They knew by the next morning. The whole school knew by supper time.” Blazing.

The saga spread like bushfire. How Lilly is the daughter of a farmer and a stay at home mother who got pregnant at 15. How they lived in a scanty two-roomed house in the interior parts of Central and how she had 7 siblings, not one of them having gone to high school, let alone taking a Master’s Degree. Also, in a shocking turn of events, Kevin did not exist. Kevin was a lie she wrote to herself every two weeks to keep her posse envious.

“Did you honestly think you would get away with all these lies?”

“At the time I did. I thought it would be one little white lie of why my parents couldn’t come to school. But people started asking questions. Why couldn’t they come? What did they do? Where we lived? And I started fabricating all these stories that quickly got away from me.” People talked about her all through the last year of high school. She braved it all. “Girls can be lethal if they want to be. People who worshipped me became better than me. They saw themselves superior.”

“Weren’t they?”

“What?”

Uh-oh. I angered the beast. “Weren’t they superior to you?” Shut up! Shut up! Shut UP! “In the sense that they owned up to their parents, whether they were selling mursik in the streets or picking tea in farms. They were true to themselves. To their lives. They never thought it necessary to tell even the one little white lie to make themselves better than the others.”

Let me tell you a little bit about Lilly. She is 25 years old. But she is one of those 25 year-old women who think they are grown simply because they can go into any night club that exists. She looks at 24 year-olds as children. She looked at me as a child. She has this air about her that tells you she is stronger, or maybe that is just her strong-smelling perfume. Scratch that. She wears cologne because it is manly. Because she is better than smelling like flowers and cotton fields. When Lilly talks to you, she lets you know that she is older than you. She wants you to believe it too. She begins conversations by asking, “And how old are you?” just so she can gauge how to belittle you into the ant that she seen you as. She is condescending and pompous. She says things like “You know I got a job a week after university” because she is Lilly, and she is better than everyone else. She wears this facade perfectly and if you don’t know any better, you will fall into the trap of her loftiness.

She stands to leave and I let her. She wears an expensive watch. But maybe it is these Moi Avenue mendacities as well. I read somewhere that when you lie, you first have to believe the lie. Then you have to have the energy to embrace the lie, to own it. And lastly you have to remember that lie, next week, next month, next year. And the thing with one lie is that it needs another lie to cover it and then another lie to cover that one. You end up in a prison of deception [Okay, you guessed it. I got that from Biko].

Moral of the story? Don’t write down your lies with the truth against it. Wahengas have spoken.

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Judy

Hilarious

Jude Victor
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Jude Victor

Life hack …. don’t put the answers where the questions are 😂😂 nice

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