I wondered why their parents bothered to bring them. My eyes wandered around, watching a few chew on their pens nervously, while others twisted their hair. I looked at their cracked bare feet, tapping nervously on the dusty floor. My stomach suddenly grumbled. Instinctively, I reached down and felt it, patting it gently, willing it to stop grumbling. I was broke and I had gone to sleep on an empty stomach and hadn’t eaten that morning.

“Look at the them fidgeting”, I laughed sarcastically, maybe a bit too loudly, as a few sitting in the front, looked up at me nervously.

I needed money badly. Looking at these bare feet imbeciles didn’t give me any hope nor ideas. My empty stomach grumbled again. I looked outside and saw food sellers preparing to sell under the shades of a mango tree, waiting eagerly for the bell to ring. The chattering women were unloading from their heads baskets, buckets and trays ladden with food. I watched as Mama Maandazi, as she was called by the children, lifted the lid off a red bucket filled with maandazi. The smell of the doughnut-like sweet bread with cardomons wifted through the naked casement windows, which hung by the hinges.

As if on a conspirancy to torture me, Mama Aisha lifted the kawa that was covering her basket full of vitumbua, the smell of rice cakes wifted through the windows and attacked me.

“No! Stop!” I screamed as Maria was about to lift the lid of her bucket with sambusa. Realizing what I had done, I turned to the clearly bewildered uniformed group infront of me, cleared my throat and said in a voice laced with authority, “no cheating! I catch anybody cheating you will be sorry!”

Later I left the old building with my arm full of tests to mark. The broken clasp of my hands-me-down folder made it difficult for me to carry the hundred plus test papers and a few books. The air was thick, dry, full of flies and was stenched. I felt light-headed from the heat and hunger. I tried to suppress my frustration as happy faces passed by me smiling.

I stopped at Mama Joyce’s kibanda, which was already crowded with hungry men, many wolfing down her famous wali wa maharagwe. Mama Joyce hesitantly walked towards me, with her hands on her thick waist.

“I hope you are here to pay me,” she told in her high pitched voice. Wagging her equally thick finger she went on, “this is a business, not a church.”

“Mama Joyce, you know I’ll pay you once I get paid. Are you gong to let a brother die from hunger now? How will you live with yourself knowing that my blood will be In your hands?” I pleaded, with my stomand now thundering.

I looked at the pots with food, then licked my lips hungrily as I smelt the coconut cream in the rice and beans. I then looked up at Mama Joyce pleading, whose gazes was still fixed on me. Without saying anything, slowly she turned around, grabbed a plastic plate from a bucket and dished me a portion. I ate ravenously, undisturbed by the fact that I had become a beggar.

“God bless you, Mama Joyce,” I said when I was done, “I promise you I will pay you.”

“Right now I’m just too worried about Joyce,” Mama Joyce started, ignoring my probably empty promises. With her hand on her thick waist she stopped stared at the pile pf papers in my folder, “she can’t come this far and fail. I really hope the paper wasn’t that tough.”

“Don’t worry Mama Joyce, you have been really good to me,” I said without thinking, “I won’t let you down.”

The next day as I passed by the stall, contemplating whether I should stop or not, I heard someone calling me admist the cluttering of dishes, as well as noisy and chattering eaters. My stomach was grumbling to loudly to hear properly. I stood confused. I turned and stumbled sideways.

“You work so hard and you don’t eat,” a familiar voice said, “come and eat.”

The combination of the heat and hunger was just too much for me. When I got up, I staggered and tripped on folds of a khanga. When I looked up I saw Mama Joyce standing over me. Slowly she led me to a chair. I watched her as she spooned a big serving of ice onto a plastic plate - more than the usual portion she usually serves me. My eyes bulged out as she spooned one, two, three, four, my goodnees five chunks of meat, aside from the beans.

I looked up in wonder. “Pole Mwalimu. It must be tiring marking all those papers. I really hope my Joyce does well,” she said in a quiet voice, “would you like some soda with that? It’s all on the house.”

Soon the heat was bearable. I expanded my palate - Abu, the fisherman always put aside for me the biggest and best changu and nguru fillet before taking his catch to the market to sell. Mzee Buka, the butcher gave a nice share of cuts whenever he slayed an animal, while bibi Dina gave me eggs fresh from her poultry farm. I didn’t buy on credit at Chide’s shop anymore, instead regularly he would give me milk, sugar, cooking oil and salt. Sheikh Abwabwa gave me charms against enemies and ointments for my skin rash. “The government is really concerned about the pass rate,” I always lied to the nervous parents. “These kids are just so slow. They might close down all the schools with low pass rates.” I smiled as I thought of how those imbeciles have made my life so bearable. Maybe next I should ask for a house.

© Sandra Mushi Author of Sahara Soul Food, Sandra’s Den as well as the poetry collection book titled Rhythm of my Rhyme.