You who is reading may even have seen that Instagram post of your icon and boom! You start comparing yourself to them. I’m no different so I’ll tell you this; As a student I was worried that nothing extraordinary was going for me like the other kids. This is probably the effect of being a teenager facing identity crisis. I wasn’t blind to see how other kids my age did what they loved and loved what they did.

School closed for the holidays and this was the cue I longed for, to temporarily free myself from the ‘loser’ school label.

I’d like to defend myself by saying, I had a normal school life. Although you might discredit me after you learn that I had a conscious for a best friend and a mind for a journal. I was not anti-social, but I trusted no one. I didn’t think I could survive,say a rumor about me lands on such an inhabitable ground. These were the perks of studying in my infamous school. What if I could change it?

I don’t remember a time when I imagined myself in a theatre. My mind was probably too crowded for that; I pity my brain cells; they probably were half fried due to the overload I put my mind through. My school was located opposite a hall like structure. Most of the time as I walked home alone, my ears would capture echoes eluding from the room. I was sure that was an acting ground. My conscious convinced me into visiting the place. The thought alone awakened my long-buried curiosity.

I cycled to those familiar grounds. Couldn’t believe I turned a blind eye to the church accompanying my structure of interest. I met the familiar noises from a distance, so I let my ears lead me. Immediately I forcefully opened the door, all attention was on me.

My hunch was right. Somebody was kind enough to usher me in and I met Okumu, the director as indicated on his tag. The team continued rehearsing as I exchanged words with their director. He was good with words and he convinced me to join the ensemble. Something charmed him. It’s never been easy getting anything in my god forsaken life. Anyway, I whole heartedly accepted the offer.

My first audition was a bliss. In my opinion I was a proficient actress. I bet my prowess came from those ‘skewed’ television shows, as my parents loved to say. African parents are fond of instilling a sense of self independence regardless of age. They shoved me off from the visual device one, two, three, many times so I’d go read. Apparently during their time, there was a scheduled time for entertainment, if you were poor, a radio served the same purpose. Besides, there was nothing exhilarating about owning a television set. How many of you can stand monochrome images, no sports channel, no cartoon network, no nickelodeon, no wildlife documentaries, no movies, no soap operas? I presume it was better seeing nothing at all. Then, the part where they’d say how disciplined, hardworking and patriotic they were because they never had time to idle around watching soap operas. For me, those explanations drove to one defined theme, “Soma ununue tv yako.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon orienting and mingling with my group mates. I totally lost track of time, yet I had a thirty-minute cycle home. I couldn’t arrive earlier than the speculated time no matter how much I hastened my legs. You know typical African mothers don’t do grounding, right? From a distance, I could spot a familiar person in front of the gate. Who else but my mom! Her fingers clenched to that legendary disciplinarian. I’ll give you credit, for whatever you’re thinking is what happened.
They didn’t snatch my freedom away from me. However, to save my precious skin and to see him again gave me more reason to make those Cinderella exits.

“The Judge, Jury and Executioner”, was a play worth more the excitement lads get over a pot of weed on those secretive joints. Again, that is entirely my opinion. My role was that of an ingénue chief’s daughter set to marry a powerful extortionist. Wow! a concise suit. Without the ‘loser’ label, my best friend mocked me. Lapeshi, the chief’s daughter elopes with Simon to escape a forceful marriage. Simon is the son of the extortionist, Juma Anderson. It was coincidental that him, Erick played as Simon.

Without much confession, it is true I had a massive crush on Erick. I’m not going to bore you with exaggerated Bollywood films imaginations about his physique. On the contrary, he was nothing like that. It’s difficult for me to disclose his physical characteristics, I’m certain your imagination will create room for unnecessary scrutiny.

Times have changed, I see girls have the guts to profess intimate emotions to dudes they like, and the pick-up lines do crack me up. The guys will then be busy on memes saying something like, ‘Did she die?’ Anyway, I wasn’t going to shoot my shot, no way. That would be an insult to my reserved feminine nature.

The script coxswained a somewhat undiscovered chemistry. Ladies, what happens with crushes really? On countless occasions my mind teased me with unfruitful imagination. Regardless, we worked on our scene together maintaining a strictly professional relationship. He never ceased to invite me for spicy “smokie pasua” in the evening after rehearsals. That was more than enough for me.

The fleeting days sparked Okumu’s dark side. Being a director was a certified excuse for being hyper. The technical rehearsal peaked to abnormality. Flying kicks and chairs were Okumu’s remedy for fluffing. The numerous call backs greatly injured self-confidence. There was no controlling the formed beast. The dress rehearsal fueled his passive mood, as you know, the modern African woman is more than fond of makeup. The price to pay for a beautifully sculptured face is time. He couldn’t compromise what he didn’t have.On Christmas eve, the hall was full of all manner of people.

Nervousness struck me once I witnessed the large numbers. The mise-en scene was a sight to behold. We made fun to get rid of the tension as the director introduced the play. Immediately the soundtrack gloriously ushered the mime, there was no turning back. In a few, perfect paced dictions filled the hall with echoes, bodies moving rhythmically to express fictional emotion. Facial expressions blended with the mood. It was our duty to grant that play justice. I stood backstage with Erick waiting for our cue.

I suddenly slipped into sheer unrest. It was almost time and I was freaking out.
“Are you still stage frightened?” he questioned.
“Of course not.” I denied. My trembling body betrayed me, and he noticed my shaky hands.
“The least you could do is be honest. It’s just you and me here.” How I wish it were as confessed moments later. He pulled me in for a tight embrace. “It’s time,” He whispered. We hit our mark center stage and gave the audience the intended output.

After two hours, the hall was full of cheer and ululations as the audience applauded. A job magnificently done. I could draw castles in the air, picturing my celebrity entrance for I was sure the play would hit every Tom, Dick and Harry screens. I was the heroine of my own conquest.

After the final word, I made my way backstage to get my bag and belongings. So overwhelmed with joy, I could feel my adrenaline kick in; the gait turned into small hops as I charged backstage. I bumped into Erick unceremoniously causing his fall. Of course, I lay on top of him. Curse the charm that rendered me immobile on top of his body, curse his seductive eyes. What was the smirk on his face supposed to mean? I was supposed to get off him minutes ago, but my heart beat my mind to a standstill. A very conceited move to enjoy flattery eh. I imagine the exchanged gestures were not acting scenes, curtains closed so long ago. Aaaw, this was the perfect storm over paradise scene, sad to say there was no beach.

“You look more beautiful from a close range,” he coughed. Eyes sparkling in the dim light. I shook my head to save myself from the wild imaginations racing in my mind as he slowly lifted his head to meet mine leaning slightly above his. It was not until his lips touched mine, that the shutter clicks snapping us back to reality to face the ‘paparazzi’. Immediately my eyes met Candy, I jerked off Erick utterly shocked. Her laughter filling the room. Erick looked puzzled but there was no time for explanations.

“So, the ‘loser’ is no saint after all.” She said whilst tapping her phone.
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” I responded sotto voce. The last thing I needed was a scene.
“Don’t tell it to me, tell it to them.”

The symphony of chiming phones tormented my ears. I tried to remain calm until it crossed my mind that I had parents apart from a whole school to face. Was it worth the trouble? Quit self-comparing and feel blessed you got what you have. When hit with such a crisis, hold up and count your blessings. You’ll enjoy life more by valuing and savoring what you have now.

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Secrecy was an unwritten rule. Nobody wanted to carry that cross. Not even your ‘spouse’ who would brave the raging sea waves and oceans for you! That’s just how absurd teen love was. Modern technology gradually nurtured this kind of love and now a teenager melts at old clichés from the opposite gender.

My parents to date brag about how much letters meant the world to them in their school days. Somebody’s son somewhere would eye a girl, artistically express her beauty (as if she didn’t know), empty every drop of love they felt in words, offer the sacred promises of a stable life and a future together. Mind you, all writing with respect to grammar in a blushed leaflet. Yet, some of you belittle formal education. Don’t you think you should respect what may have contributed to your very existence? Imagine how risky that was, say the girl turns you down and decides to make you suffer by informing her parents. That type of thing makes you question, ‘Was it really worth shooting my shot?’ Ladies of that age were an innocent lot and the only way you know you have a chance is if she writes back to you. If no word comes, brace yourself for the latter.

In modern times, we talk of a partially tarnished writing culture. I can’t say it stopped, it didn’t, well at least not for Baraka primary school. Adolescence symbolized a ripe age for courtship. Many at times, boys would write love letters to their soulmates, if you were a lucky girl someone might serenade you (outside the school gates of course), walk you home after a long day, buy you snacks from the school canteen or gladly carry your books after class. This was what dating meant and love for that matter.

She was a chubby sport at the time, nobody bothered sending her anything. She could barely secure a friend zone. Regardless, there was one thing that gave her hope – She matured faster than the other girls. This is legitimate if rumors are true, of course lawyers know very well hearsay is inadmissible. In her eyes she was a fearfully made creation; It’s totally the opposite of that famous Bible verse Psalms 139:14. She desperately craved for attention. Chebet never knew she’d spend her entire primary school life alone until she did.

Years went by, and in class eight Chebet stood as the school’s head girl. Yes, she was a disciplined and diligent girl those being the main virtues teachers looked for in a leader. Had a change in the administrative set up in school and one Mr. Sifa came for teaching practice at their school. He loved drama, and for the first time Baraka primary school embraced music, him being the patron. Apart from that he was a subject teacher and on numerous occasions, gave them counselling and life skills.

One blue moon, she opened her locker to find something like a note which read, and I quote
‘I feel that both you and I can create beautiful music
One that never grows old, its ever green
Break away from the chorus, try this duet
Music that unites the young and the old’
-your secret admirer
That note alone broke her peace. Her mind constantly examined all possibilities of lads from her music class. It was the only class that she didn’t feel alienated. Maybe Cervantes was right ‘He who sings scares away his woes.’ The girl was talented in playing the piano. Furthermore, her voice was a Mariah Carey in the making. Music is therapeutic. It provides emotional healing, relieves stress, gives a positive vibe to anyone’s being. I don’t get the type of magic behind that melody that can cure a heart break, brighten a dark mood, make you feel in love haha. Don’t you guys sing in the shower sometime? A friend with black and white keys drained all her fears and insecurities. The keys that led to her inner self. With time, the cold treatment from the opposite sex quit stinging her. Chebet was content being the black sheep amongst the plastics, provided she wasn’t parting with music. Entertaining this anonymous person would only make me slip out of that comfortable zone, she thought.

For those of you who’ve had secret admirers may understand when I talk of their persistent nature. My God, these people resemble soldiers, they don’t walk out of a battle. They are like a Taurus zodiac, very stubborn, uncompromising, adamant. I don’t know you name it. Those notes continued to slide in her locker like those annoying ad subscriptions but anyway she liked them. When the notes stopped being about her and turned into letters about himself, it was almost like re-living a long-shut era. Sad though, she couldn’t reply to the anonymous sender.

February is the month of love. Of course, one day branded the whole month. Some people somewhere decided on a common date, that people celebrate love. How was it for Chebet really? This is a day when people dress to impress. I don’t know who is supposed to be impressed, is it the people who ‘own’ that day, or the others who lay around, probably shabbily dressed in don’t touch my knees, robber hoodies to hide bad hair days, and a pair of crocks for the finishing touch? Seriously if they did want to impress their spouses alone, what would be the essence of dressing up to go out? Anyway, back to the story; This was the last year for her to witness the tradition she grew out of the past years. The first time this girl received a rose at a time like this was at her life bed, after a tough four-hour battle in the ‘slaughter-house’. It was sentimental; guys remembered after doing the final exam, (K.C.P.E) their other half may no longer be with them. Again, Chebet had no partner but a note from her secret admirer asking her to meet him after school at a place I won’t disclose. Too bad, Mr. Sifa ended the class late that day. She’d rather beat curfew than meet him. The secret admirer probably took that gesture as a turn down and never again drained his thoughts on a pink leaflet.
Later after K.C.P.E, she attended the class eight party organized as a final reunion. She had a premonition her secret admirer would turn up. It was only for that sole reason that she attended the party. After food and fun, she watched the clock tick, timing him to reveal himself to her. The floor now full of teenagers moving to the beat of ‘riddims’. After torturing herself for a considerable amount of time, she decides to get some air.

Mr. Sifa spots her and sends her to tend to the teachers. For as long as she can remember, she always served them. It was part of her duty as the school president, at least that’s how he made it seem to be. She gathers the plates and takes them to the kitchen after having an exchange with the cooks. Her day is gloomy, and she isn’t in the vibe for a party anymore. As the sun slowly retired, she knew she was no different from a naïve, catfished teenager. At least they were lucky, they had an opportunity to respond and have a mutual connection. Even though it eventually ends in tears. In that feeling of disappointment, Mr. Sifa beckons her. This man is set on wearing me out today, she thinks.

“I’d like to have a word with you”
Puzzled she responds,” ok”. He must know something about me. She felt the need to brace thyself for a long sermon or at its least, pull a defensive fit.

He takes out his phone and types something,” Could you fill in the blanks please?” She leans to look at the screen.

Most of you are familiar with blurry eyes usually after sitting too long in the sun. She couldn’t read the inscriptions, so she says, “I can’t guess”
He looks up to her and says “Nakupenda” in disbelief she looks back at the screen, forcing her eyes to read as tears pop out due to intense rubbing. The ‘magic’ code engraved on the screen gradually became visible. Her mind slipped into freeze mode, eyes widened in amazement as memories charged in, no, punched in as he whispered those final words, “This is you and me, the perfect duet.”

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