Riot!

Klang! The metal pole behind me rang loudly in the quiet of the
night. Startled, I spun around to see the paving stone that had hit it
rolling off the edge of the concrete. The boy who had thrown it dashed back
into the darkness. I ran to the corner of the classroom and yelled at
him. He was gone. There was only the darkness, a light drizzle, and the
ringing of the pole.

Somewhere, just out of sight, I knew that the rest of the "O" level boys
were hiding, watching me.  I resumed my steady walk, bouncing the baseball
bat on the concrete every other step so that it made a "toik" as it hit. I
wanted them to know I was "armed." Ha ha. Did he really mean to hit me? I
wondered. Something that big would hurt, a lot.

We were having a "riot" at Muhoho High School in Ruiru, Kenya. I was the
teacher on duty, and I didn't intend to be frightened by an unruly bunch of
12 to 16 year olds. I wasn't either. I was pissed off. I was angry at the
kids who were acting up, I was angry at the headmaster who was trying to
ignore it, I was angry at the other teachers who sat quietly in their safe
little houses doing nothing. Maybe I should have been scared. It doesn't
take very many paving stones to... but I wasn't.

The reason we were having a riot was unclear to me. The whole country was in
an uproar about something. Nothing. Just a general feeling of unrest--anger,
frustration, end-of-term jitters.

Kamau Ngugi, the primary opposition politician had been brutally murdered a
few weeks earlier.  The remains of his body had been discovered by some
bushman. Why the hyenas hadn't eaten it was a surprise and a mystery. That
had obviously been the plan. Was president Kenyatta responsible?
Possibly. But no one would dare to suggest that out loud. Was that the
reason we were having riots? I don't think so, but it certainly added to the
tension at Muhoho.

I had driven down to Nairobi over the weekend on my motorbike. Outside the
teacher's college, on the way into town, I had stopped. As I adjusted my
seat, a Range Rover came careening out of the gates. Rocks rained down on it
as a small sea of students ran after it, screaming angrily. The Rover
disappeared down the highway and the students continued to yell. Some tossed
rocks down the road long after it was gone. The mob, maybe 50 students,
ignored me and went back into the compound, still yelling, jeering, breaking
into Kikuyu chants. I left immediately, my maladjusted seat irritating my
butt the rest of the way in.

Town had been uncomfortably quiet that weekend, and I was happy to leave, to
get back to my safe little school, nowheresville, up country.

That same, strange malady had infected my school, however. Everyone was
noticably jumpy, uncomfortable, and quiet. One more week of classes, then
term finals, and it was over. One month off before the next term began. All
anyone wanted to do was to finish it and get out of there. By next term,
this would all blow over...

I was a Peace Corps teacher. Taught "Maths" and Physics to both the
"Ordinary" levels (roughly US high school) and the "Advanced" levels (junior
college). The kids liked me because I made class fun, and I was extremely
devoted. At times I seemed to care more about how they did on their exams
than they did. Some nights I would come into study hall to see if anyone
needed help.  I loved working one-on-one with students. I was the only
teacher who did this and I'm not entirely certain that the students
appreciated it. Maybe they were just shy. Or maybe I was invading their
private studies. I don't know.

In my form IV class, we'd established the "Irigu" of the week. The best
student got to be the honorary "banana", and said banana was duly awarded
on Fridays, much to the amusement of the students. We laughed and goofed
off at the end of the day. I told funny stories and they taught me a few
more words in Kikuyu. They were good students and learned well, so some
silliness seemed appropriate. It was a happy class.

Were these the same, happy students, who, in large groups, under cover of
darkness, had cut off the power, smashed the classroom windows, and were
screaming in the night? Was that one of my boys who heaved a paving stone at
me? Did they mean to scare or to kill?

"Toik"

"Toik"

"Toik"

I ventured into the pitch-black "O" level dormitories. I was startled to see
one lone boy sitting on a bed. It was Njorogi, the kid with the bad leg and
crutches. He explained that the other kids had made a pact that no one would
sleep there tonight, and that he was exempted. We talked for a bit.  Or
should I say I talked for a bit. He answered in monosyllables. It seemed
that everything I said just made him more nervous. I departed.

Down the hill a bit was the "A" level dorm. The "A" levels were completely
separate from the "O" level boys, and they were not involved in the "riot"
at all. As a matter of fact, they seemed to be one of the targets! They were
horrified that I was out. "Mr. Lewis, you don't understand! These boys are
wild. They are dangerous. Look at that hole in the roof which is just
there." One of them pointed his flashlight at the roof. There was a hole the
size of a paving stone.

"You guys are twice as big as they are! What the hell are you doing, hiding
under your beds?" I was incensed. But nothing came of it. 80 "A" levels are
no match for 300 "O" levels. At least they were convinced of this. They
weren't going outside. I shouldn't either.

I left, more pissed off than before. As I emerged, several shadows vanished
before me.

The headmaster was a Holy Ghost Priest who seemed to have no worldly
cares. Better said, he didn't care about anything in the world. He ran his
school in an absent, authoritarian fashion, and that was that. He did his
job and never did anything more. I doubt he knew the name of a single
student. I pounded on his door. I yelled about what was going on and why the
hell wasn't he doing anything? "Just go home. It's being taken care of. The
police are on their way."

Calling the police to handle anything in Kenya is like sending in Attila the
Hun. There are few things the police like better than beating up small,
obnoxious boys. I told the headmaster what I thought of him, and stormed
out.

Stories of the University protests that friends had told me came to
mind. The police had suppressed those with a lot of blood, some rapes, and
several deaths. I didn't want that for my students, no matter what they
were doing.

The high school sits on top of a hill, and is surrounded on all sides by
corn fields. The farmers also rent space to students who don't live in the
dorms. The students pay the farmers a few shillings a month for a plot of
land and build their own mud huts. These off-campus students were
"officially" not involved in the riot. It was to these students I went.

Under the barbed wire fence, pushed through the high corn. At each hut, they
were startled to see me appear. Each time they assured me that they were not
involved. They were just cooking dinner.  Would I like some ugali? I sat for
a few minutes and ate a bit as we talked. "The police will be here very
soon. You know what would happen to any boy whom they caught..."

"Oh, no, Mr. Lewis. We will not go anywhere near the school. We'll be very
careful."

They, of course, didn't know anything at all about the other boys. Broken
windows? They didn't know anything about that. Would they pass the word?
Sure, but they didn't have any contact with the rioters. I felt certain that
the word would get out.

I finished my loop about an hour later and returned to campus to find the
police, in full riot gear, milling around the place. They twirled their
Billy Clubs on the leather straps, impatient for something to hit. The
headmaster was there, explaining how much damage had been done, and how
those boys would be made to pay for it.

My night was over. I went to bed.

The next morning, I saw no reason to go to class. I felt betrayed by the
very students whom I had worked so hard to help. My students! They did
nothing, not one of them, worthy to be called "men". Utterly despondent, I
left Muhoho and never came back.