All my dresses including school uniform were a length that almost touched my ankles. Ng’atho and my mother were in total agreement that I was a growing child and therefore I needed to wear the dress for a while before I outgrew it. I had no say in the matter, although I was the one going to wear the unusually long dress. My only job was to stand up straight like a soldier, chin up, looking straight ahead as my fate was decided by these two people who had zero sense of style.
I reported to school in my new uniform only to be called Mukurino by some mean kids. I braved the ankle length Mukurino uniform for two years and finally on the third year when it was faded and almost worn out, that is when it was a size and length I could be proud of. The moment I started having a spring in my step in a uniform that fitted well, mother dragged me back to Ng’atho and I was back to being a Mukurino for the next two years.
I think I only had two or three uniforms for my entire Primary education. Other classmates who had liberal parents who bought them uniforms that fitted properly while new, replaced their uniforms every year. Not mine. I grew into my uniforms and by the time I did, it was time to replace them. Economics 101 courtesy of my very budget conscience mother.
Ng’atho did not just make my school uniforms and other dresses, he also made my underwear. Yes, underwear aka panties. When fabric remained after making my dresses and my mothers, Ng’atho made me panties with those pieces of fabric. For the longest time, I wore panties with no elastic. My panties, if you can call them that, had draw strings that I tied on either side of my hip. I am an expert in tying knots and I think this is where I got my practice. While other girls went to the bathroom and slipped their underwear down and up fast, my trips to the bathroom started with untying of knots on either side of my hip. I had to be careful not to untie them completely because that would have sent my underwear to my ankles, and considering we only had pit latrines, there was the risk of my precious colorful underwear falling into the pit, meaning I would have to go through the school day without underwear. I never lost a single one, meaning I mastered the art of tying and untying my unique underwear. I never complained or asked mother why I didn’t have regular underwear. I just wore my knotted underwear for years until I went to High School and my parents had no choice but to shop for modernized underwear that had elastic.
This reminds me of some underwear I bought for my daughter. There was a globe-trotting business lady who visited our office occasionally with some imported merchandise from all over Europe and the USA. On one of her previous visits, I had bought for myself some underwear packs she brought from the U.S.A. Each pack contained 8 underwear and they were the famous Hanes brand. I knew they must be superior quality because Michael Jordan, the basketball king of our day advertised for the brand. How could they not be good and classy? They turned out to be perfect and I loved everything about them. I promised myself to purchase more if the lady ever brought some more around. She did bring some and I was ready to make my purchase while stocks lasted. I bought myself two packs and I picked up one pack for my daughter. I knew she would love them as much as I loved mine.
I had a spring in my step when I went home that evening because I ‘knew’ I had something my daughter would absolutely adore. I pictured myself being smothered with hugs and kisses (kungu Maitu na hunyu wake). With an ear to ear smile and my face glistening with anticipation, I gave my daughter her beautifully packaged, imported underwear. She opened the pack and immediately gave me “the” side look. That is never good. A side look from a young person spells trouble. I ignored the side look and cheerfully tried marketing the underwear to my daughter, telling her how the fabric feels so smooth and soft to the touch, wonderful breathable cotton, perfect fit, and such beautif……….. She did not let me finish my sales pitch. As she held up one pair in front of her, she declared “these are for old people, I can’t wear them”. At that moment, when I had just turned 40 and was feeling young, vibrant, and classy in imported underwear, I was called OLD in not so many words. My mind went to the knotted underwear Ng’atho made for me from left over fabric and at that moment, I wished I could get some of those for my daughter made from Khaki fabric. But then, you would all still be fundraising to hire me the toughest lawyer in the country to get me out of Kamiti Maximum Prison.
