I celebrate the headmaster who moulded me into the person I am today

Come with me. I’m travelling back in time, 1970 to be precise. Venue: remote village of Kihuyo, Nyeri. Chief protagonist: my headmaster, Paul Waibochi, of Kihuyo Primary School.

Back then, headmasters were sheriffs. Their names and titles evoked deference and dread, or both, depending on circumstances.

Among 79 other things, Mr Waibochi was father (figure), counsellor, disciplinarian, government spokesman and career guide. Plus, he was the choirmaster.

He led worship songs during morning prayers, after rubbing our necks to, ostensibly, clear our clogged throats. 

AGE OF CORPORAL PUNISHMENT

Mister Waibochi had no pet. He did not hesitate to whip your backside when you spoke vernacular or when your grades dipped. Unkempt hair and poor dressing were some of the violations not tolerated in the vicinity of Kihuyo Primary School. 

“I don’t want to see the geography or history of your body,” Mr Waibochi would bellow.

As he whipped me on the calves, feet or backside, he would say “Little young girl of Wagura, you’ll appreciate this beating when you grow up. I’m not beating you, but the foolishness in your head; so that you become a better person tomorrow”.

By the time he finished the sentence, one would have received 20-plus strokes, while wailing inwardly. Foolishness was wailing audibly, because it attracted more whipping.

Corporal punishment was a communal affair. If a teacher or random villager happened at the scene while one was being whipped, they gave Mr Waibochi two thumbs up.

When one’s parent as much as suspected you had received corporal punishment, they continued from where the teacher had left. Which meant keeping one’s fingers crossed, and lips sealed.

THE STRAIGHTENING CLUB

He was fond of quoting a Kikuyu proverb, “Njuguma njega yumaga ikurirwo”, meaning, if you want your child to become a responsible adult, start disciplining him early enough.

Whenever Mr Waibochi canned you, he would explain that he was simply straightening and correcting you so that you would live up to his expectations.

The local shopping centre was out of bounds. That’s where our headmaster went for his favourite drink. If he caught you there, you would face the music.

“You can’t even give adults the space to walk in peace because you’re roaming aimlessly,” Mr Waibochi would tell the offender before the whole school, during parade.

To date, when I am having a leisurely walk, or window shopping, at some point, I find myself unconsciously looking around me furtively, as if Mr Waibochi is somewhere there, waiting to burst me. I don’t mall crawl. I must have a purpose. After I’m done, I head straight home. Old lessons die hard.

He also made sure that we spoke the Queen’s English. Even today, if I start a sentence with “And”, I go on autocorrect mode, as if I’m expecting a slap from the air above Kihuyo.

What’s more, I must proof-read even a text message before sending.

I also cannot bring myself to shorten words even while texting because I know this would make Mr Waibochi to turn in his grave.

This gentleman partly molded me into the person I am today. I use lessons from his handbook to correct my five boys. Joshua, my eight-year-old son doesn’t agree with my old-school disciplining ways, but since I’m the head, I must always have the last say, even when I’m dead wrong.

POSTHUMOUS APOLOGY

I disliked Mr Waibochi. That was then though. Now I want to publicly apologise for all the distasteful nicknames we slapped on this gentleman, who we thought was the worst human being in Nyeri. But it’s too late to apologise. At least personally.

It is one year now since he passed away, and I regret that he died before I celebrated him. Before I told him what a great man he was. The values he instilled in me are still my guiding light.