Rickety Roadster: Back to School Memories.

The sight of teenage boys and girls in  different shades and patterns of  uniform reporting to school evoked in me deep memories of times in the past where I have found myself in the same predicament: unwillingly being towed back to school after quite a short holiday.
 I must admit I was one of those people who, as the opening dates drew near, and all the Supermarkets went into a crazy frenzy advertising for back to school offers, silently hoped something would come up, say a Teachers' strike or a Presidential decree that would see the seemingly short holidays extended by a week or two, perhaps even a month.
Going back to school was painful ,I hated it and I had a reason  to.
See, Boarding school for me came at a time when everything about you was under the scrutiny of your peers. Everyone else but me seemed to come from Nairobi, Mombasa and other big towns.
 I was the girl from the village. Actually my home was and still is a few minutes drive from the school and my dad didn't own a car to drive me to school, like most of the other kids.
 Suprisingly, even the other children from the village pretended to be town dwellers.
When I was growing up, to be a village kid was a crime.
Every opening day, as my school mates travelled to school by car or bus, I would hitch a ride on my dad's old bicycle, my bag on my back and start the long ride to school.
I would say a thousand prayers along the way, hoping that the  mean girls and boys in the cars ,matatus and buses that sped past that painfully slow,rickety bike would never recognize me.
My dad never seemed bothered by it. He really loved that bicycle of his,much to my chagrin.
That dear old bicycle must have been nine or even ten years older than I was, with scratched paint , dented fenders and a greasy old chain, caked with layers and layers of oil from the numerous times it had been oiled, to keep the paddling smooth and easy.
 How can I forget the dynamo and the huge headlight that would make us spot dad from far when he came home late.
Infact,the only thing that seemed perfect on that bike was the braking system.
My mode of transportation to school was a top secret and it  seemed to work out perfectly until one day my GHC teacher had a slip of the tounge and mentioned my dad's bike during a Lesson about the Colonial Era,where apparently all bicycles had to have a Tag.
As the class bellowed in fits of laughter, I sat on my desk, embarassed and seething inside with fury, asking myself a million questions on why it had to me, who had to endure all that humiliation.
Fortunately, the humiliating Bicycle rides ceased the moment my kid brother joined me in boarding school.
It was not a smooth transition though. It took me days of protesting, tears and endless pouts to change my dad's mind. His arguement : he did not see anything wrong with me sitting at the passenger seat at the back carrying our bagpacks, and my brother,sitting at the front on the stem between the handle bars and the seat.
Fast forward to today.
Its been Fourteen years since my last bicycle ride to school.
 I am alot wiser and all grown up now.
I take pride in the fact that I was raised in the village, and thats where my heart and home will always be.
I miss that dear old rickety bicycle.It now hangs somewhere in my dad's barn at home, old, rusty and battered by the countless rides it has taken, dearly loved by its owner ,and the people it has ferried to different places.
Its a symbol of the sacrifices made,memories created of where we came from amd who we are.
A resonating reminder of our humble beginnings.
I have forgiven myself for being embarassed of my dad's bicycle,and forgiven that GHC teacher for making fun of it.
 The realization that he could have easily afforded a car if he wanted to,but didn't,so that we could get the best education he could afford makes me respect my old man even the more.
And Perhaps one of this days, when I get home, I will bully my brother into taking that dear old rickety roadster down and take it for one last ride.