When I was kept from serving as HOI at Mwisho wa Lami Comprehensive School for the better part of last year, I knew it was because of my three-month absence while recovering from the effects of the ill-fated religious sojourn I took to Nakuru with Apostle Elkana, the Revered Spiritual Superintendent of The Holiest of All Ghosts (THOAG) Tabernacle Assembly.
If you remember, upon my return, I had to spend months in the hospital and at home healing. It was not a recovery to be rushed—as it included a generous mix of bed rest, Fiolina’s constant nagging, Apostle Elkana’s prayers and anointing oil, and different herbs and concoctions from many relatives – especially Senje Albina.
When we reopened school last term, I wasn’t allowed anywhere near the school: the HOI offices, school books, official documents, or even the bank account. Every time I tried to engage anyone senior enough to reinstate me, my words fell on deaf ears, or worse—ears that pretended to hear but were already mentally out on lunch break.
It’s only in the last few days that I’ve discovered why I was being kept out. Apparently, it all has to do with Junior School money. When Junior School (JS) was introduced, Mwisho wa Lami Primary School, as it was known then, lacked the classrooms to accommodate the extra students.
Like many other schools, we threw together some rickety structures that barely passed for classrooms while we looked for funds. I personally wrote proposal after proposal to the area MCA, area MP and the ministry. The replies? Vague promises that funding would be available "soon". I never tired; I kept asking and writing reminders.
Little did I know, some people had already smelled the money. There were indications that the funds would come last term, and that explains the concerted efforts to keep me out. I recently came to learn that Kuya, along with some officials, had registered a company that was supposedly going to build the classrooms.
However, it turns out, Kuya went behind their backs to register another company solely in his name to bag the tenders and pocket the funds. This, as you can imagine, this didn’t sit well with the others. They engineered his transfer to a smaller school that only goes up to Grade 5—as far from any funds as they could send him.
That’s how I was suddenly remembered and reinstated. But no sooner had I resumed my role than the vultures—I mean officials—began circling. One of them, whom I met at Kasuku Bar and Restaurant (Mwisho wa Lami’s only five star hotel), casually mentioned that both the CDF and the ministry were about to release funds.
“You’re so lucky,” he said. “Looks like you’ll get funds from both sources. You need to kujipanga.”
“Eh? Kujipanga how?” I asked. He leaned in like he was sharing state secrets. “The rules for procuring contractors are there, but don’t let someone else benefit when you’re the one in charge. I can help you.”
“We can get friendly contactors, or if you are afraid, I know a good hardware that we can use. That one is very clean, no trace,” he offered. I didn’t respond.
The next day, Bensouda visited me. Now, Bensouda and I have a relationship as unpredictable as the weather—one minute, we’re not talking; the next, we’re best friends. She settled in with a knowing look.
“I was HM at the wrong time,” she began. “Back then, there were no Junior School capitation funds or classrooms to build.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, channeling my inner preacher. “The Bible says there’s a time for everything. I believe your time was right, you also had advantages.”
“You don’t understand, Dre,” she said, rolling her eyes. “With the influx of students joining Junior School, Mwisho wa Lami will receive significant capitation funds.”
“Yes, but that money is for the school, not for me,” I replied.
“Yes! I’ll ensure the classrooms are built to the highest standards. Any leftover money will go back to the sponsors,” I said.
“You can’t be helped, Dre,” she sighed. “But let me tell you something—construction is tough because everyone, from the ministry to the county, wants a piece of the pie. But capitation? That’s where you can make things happen. I can show you how.”
I hesitated. “I have a few questions Dre,” she said. I asked her to proceed and ask. “Have you completed your house? Do you have enough land? Don’t you want to build some houses for rent? What of a car – you never want to drive?” She asked.
“My friend even if you get promoted, the TSC salary is nothing, you will not get those things,” she said, “Utakufa masikini.”
She explained how we could play with the returns of the number of students we have to get more capitation.
“How may JS teachers do you have?” she asked. I told her that I only had two. She wondered how I expected two teachers to handle three classes.
“It is what it is dear, some schools are worse. They have one or even none,” I said.
Use more capitation money to hire BOM teachers. Hapo is where you can make something. I can help you go about it in a clean way,” she offered.
She only left when a senior county education officer arrived. I needed no calculator to know what his interest was. For he started asking questions like how we were going to tender for the classrooms and how many BOM teachers we would be hiring. He already has some names.
To everyone who is trying to make some money from Mwisho wa Lami Comprehensive School, I am sorry; I am a truthful man and will do everything to protect public resources. Go to another school please!
