Midday. Children played in the barter ground, now empty of traders. Muthomi dozed in the heat of Wangima’s shop. He awoke to the sounds of sudden excitement in the village. He stepped out of the shop, looking for the source of the distraction, and froze.
A white van pulled into Kiama Village, its large blue Clarence University logo branded onto its sides. Muthomi ducked back into the shop and shut the door. Six months, he cried, six months to make Kiama my home, and now I must leave again—
“What is your problem?” cackled Wangima. “Why have you shut the door?”
Muthomi could barely speak.
“That van… Why is it here?”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Wangima, opening the door and peering blindly towards the gathering crowd.
A passerby shouted, “The big school is here! They have come again!”
Wangima clicked her tongue at her ignorant watchman. “The big school in the mountains comes every year. You say you are from Kanyiri, how can you not know this? They go to all the villages in our plains. Now get up. Stop this foolishness.”
Muthomi hid behind the door and watched men in sharp suits step from the van. Mr. Omondi was here, too. Muthomi nearly screamed. Waves and waves of tremors racked his body, making him shiver in the heat. He forced himself to watch the unfolding scene in horror.
Two other younger men set up a small tent, a table and some chairs, while a recording blasted from the vehicle’s speakers, first in English that few understood, then in Native, which was met with a cheer. The message welcomed the villagers to the tent, roused them to bring their cleverest young men and women forward, because who knows, this might be the year that their village would shine in the most prestigious school in Kirimara, Clarence University.
Two elderly teachers, one more than most villages in the plains, shuffled forward on behalf of their learners. Muthomi envisioned his grandmother, head held high, adjusting her shawl around her shoulders, walking towards Mr. Omondi, proudly surrendering her grandson’s name and ruining his life.
Parents stood tall, some beaming with pride in their children, others humbled by the generosity of the Big School. The children stood solemnly beside their parents, and only spoke when spoken to. They had practiced this, prepared for the day when the van would come. Muthomi had seen them, heard them rehearse their answers under threat of beatings from their parents. None of them would ever admit their fear, that they truly did not want to be sent off, to stop learning their trades or be removed from their friends and future mates, for many of them already had their spouses chosen, or at least had set their sights on someone. They could never say that they envied the rebels that had defied learning altogether, refused to succumb to the village teachers with their chalks and sticks, those who were out there, earning their living under the open sky, free of their overbearing, backward parents.
Neither parent nor teenager noticed the sneers and yawns of the young men from CU, teaching aides like Muthomi had encountered, who droned out the obligatory questions and keyed in answers into their Silvertouch tablets, wishing that they would rather be anywhere than among the dirty, useless vibarua.
“Imbeciles,” said Wangima, startling Muthomi.
She balanced her small, bent body on a round stool at the front of her shop. She...