Kaimenyi, The Legend!

Nkubu High School in Meru, my alma mater, was a melting pot of all kinds of students—academically speaking. If grades were colors, we had the whole rainbow. January, however, was the crème de la crème of the school calendar, the time when the KCSE results were unveiled on the noticeboard. This wasn't just a ritual; it was an event, a spectacle that turned the otherwise drab school noticeboard into the Times Square of Nkubu. Everyone gathered, not just to pass time but to hunt for familiar names and, of course, gossip.

There were the usual suspects—the brainiacs—whose names you’d spot effortlessly at the top of the list. But then, there were those names that made you squint, scratch your head, and double-check. These were the names that carried tales, legends even.

Nkubu High was as Meru as miraa and bananas, with 99% of students hailing from the region. English and Swahili were optional accessories. In our world, waiya (agemate) was the lingua franca. But a word of caution: call someone from a higher class waiya at your own peril. Such insolence would guarantee you a meet-and-greet with the student disciplinary militia—our unofficial SWAT team. The hierarchy was gospel truth. A form one fetching water? Perfect! You’d push the bucket aside just to remind them they had years ahead to enjoy that privilege, while you were on the verge of graduation glory. The higher your class, the more godlike your powers.

Now back to the KCSE results. This particular year, my mission was clear: locate one name—Ezra Kaimenyi, index number 297. Kaimenyi wasn’t just a student; he was a whole vibe. The man had a reputation that preceded him. I don’t recall ever seeing him in proper shoes—his worn-out slippers were iconic. Shopping? What shopping? Kaimenyi reported back to school like he was on a survival reality show, and yet, somehow, he always made it through the term.

Despite his minimalistic lifestyle, Kaimenyi was a hero on the pitch, our school’s goalkeeper extraordinaire. But every game left him with injuries—a twisted wrist one week, a bruised leg the next. His uniform, though? Always immaculate. And the variety! It was as if he had a secret wardrobe somewhere. Where he got those clothes, only the Almighty knows.

Academically, Kaimenyi wasn’t what you’d call a bookworm. His slogan was legendary: "Mkifika campus, msalimiane" (When you get to campus, greet each other). Translation: I won’t be joining you there. He had a knack for Ds, turning them into his signature grade.

So, there I was at the noticeboard, starting from the bottom (where I thought Kaimenyi’s name would surely be). I scanned the pages like a detective but found nothing. Panic set in. Had he skipped the exam? I restarted the search, this time more methodical. Still nothing. Out of sheer desperation, I decided to glance at the first sheet, just for laughs. And there it was. Ezra Kaimenyi. Position 17. Grade B.

I blinked. I squinted. I even rubbed my eyes. How did Kaimenyi—slipper-wearing, no-shopping, D-embracing Kaimenyi—pull this off? To this day, it remains one of life’s great mysteries.

That day, Kaimenyi taught me two things: how to survive and, most importantly, how to thrive.