Coming from a school in some unpronounceable forsaken place in Mukono (the rumored home ground of witchcraft) and getting into Aga Khan Primary school was a welcome transition. Granted I felt like a fish out of water most of the time but I was just so glad to leave a life of compulsory Saturday gardening and boiled mukene (silver fish) & posho for food that I didn't mind being a bit of an odd ball.
Aga Khan is like a meal of katogo; full of all sorts of nationalities of countries ranging from Croatia to Lesotho to Iran to Korea et cetera, I could go on but you catch my drift. The cultural day alone was a spectacle with every country trying to outshine the other in traditional drab and cultural richness. But that is a story for another day.
During my primary days my Papa was the proud owner of a blue 1972 Volkswagen Beetle who we fondly christened Ojo (after a similar car in the movie Herbie goes Bananas) that he loved to show off. On the other hand my brother Ben and I did not share his sentiments. You see Ojo had never seen the gates that housed the Aga Khan Primary & High schools and it was not for lack of trying on my father’s part. Every time dad drew near school we asked him to make light of the task and leave us at the gate. His quizzical, puzzled looks as we alighted left me feeling guilty but Ben and I had made a sibling pact never to tell him, it would only hurt his feelings. Of course what Dad did not know was that on the one off days when mother took us to school, her white starlet got to have the privilege of going through the forbidden gates.
Admittedly we absolutely adored Ojo and didn't mind washing him every other weekend we preferred his existence was kept hush-hush. It was done out of the selfish fear of being ashamed. You see on every other day the school’s parking lot held Range Rovers, Mercedes Benzes, Audis and even the occasional starlet but never a Volkswagen. It took a special kind of person to appreciate old cars and unfortunately that character trait was deficient in the kids in my school. In school kids analyzed and judged everything right from what car your parents owned, your ability to have a driver at your beck and call, lunch box contents, holiday destinations (road trips to Sheema district did not count, it had to be somewhere fancy like Los Angeles) and of course what cool gadgets you smuggled in to Saturday coaching classes. Kids for all their innocence had the propensity to be cruel.
“Are your parents poor?” a Kenyan boy once asked me. Stuck between shock and laughter I spat out the juice I was in the process of swallowing, “Why would you think that “, I asked.
“Because you do not have a driver,” he replied.
There were exclamations of surprise at the lunch table for you see seated at the very same table was the daughter of an ambassador, niece to a tycoon on a Forbes’ list, son of a minister and son of the High School principal. High self esteem notwithstanding, I was embarrassed and mortified. If a no-driver comment could incite such a reaction, I could only imagine the look on their faces if they ever laid eyes on my father’s classical car. No….that car was going to remain a family secret.
But like all well laid plans, when a thread out of line finds an anchor all the seams unravel. On this auspicious day mother who usually took us back home was a no show. So there I was playing with my hair and smiling at this Afro haired boy I had a huge crush on when I had a familiar sound and there driving up in glory on Good Year tyres, all in slow motion was Ojo making his maiden voyage in the school’s driveway. Everyone saw the car and when I say everyone I mean even the high school gangs who unashamedly pointed it out and started laughing until it came to a stop at the waiting shed. I should probably tell you that at this point Ben and I were in panic mode and trying to pretend we had not seen the car until my Papa having spotted us shouted, ‘Ben, Tina lets go’. Without missing a beat I grabbed my bag pack and raced Ben to the car throwing myself in the back, head hidden hoping to lessen the uncomfortable status. My dad started the engine, revved it a little and then it died. ‘Oh no, not now,’ I groaned inwardly, eyes shut and praying against all odds it was a fluke death. Ojo was not going to have a temper tantrum on what was proving to be the worst day of my life, at least not my watch. Nevertheless no amount of coaxing, hot wiring and begging could get Ojo to start and with every method getting thrown out of the window I felt my heart sink into my butt knowing that the inevitable was coming.
Although it was a morning ritual, performed involving holding cups of porridge, buttered toast in mouth, over filled school bags, shouts of ‘push´ and running after the car before it got away from us, Ben and I had already started a silent battle of who was going to do it. My Papa noticing the tell-tale sign was having none of it, ‘Kids you know the drill, get out and push’. My heart fell even further down and sharing panicked despaired looks with my brother we got out and took the longest walk to the back of the car.
In the evening scorching sun, every eye on us and resigned to our fate Ben and I gave Ojo a mighty shove as Papa who was also out pushing from the driver’s seat tried to start him up. It seemed the Fates had connived with Ojo who needed more heaves than we normally dosed him with to start. By this time the entire school (some parents and teachers too) had witnessed the family morning shenanigans. Once Ojo had seemed to have gained some momentum, my dad gave the thumps up and we got in before the car could start to roll down the drive way. My Papa oblivious to all drama we had caused slid in a radio cassette and we made the journey homeward amidst the sounds of The 3 tenors’ 1994 concert.
Filled with dread the next day went about my morning preparations as slowly as I could possibly muster hoping to freeze time, school was the last place I wanted to go. Once again Papa took Ojo through the school gates with the difference of having no audience as it was a rush hour time. Thankfully my classroom was a bit of a distance which allowed me the time to gather sufficient courage to face the class. Everyone laughed, well at least nearly everyone when they spied my bespectacled face all except my best friend Aarohi who whispered, “You didn’t tell me your dad had such an awesome car”. I beamed a little happy that somebody didn’t think my family poor or strange for having such a classic car. Even the boy I was crushing on came over and shared anecdotes on a Cadillac his dad owned and as we laughed and compared notes on how fathers could be so obsessed with old things the dark clouds went away and day brightened.
This particular episode was the beginning of my journey to humility and acceptance of family. My Papa later bought a Mercedes Benz E Class which for all its comfort and luxury quite frankly never felt right. When he traded it in for a 1979 VW Kombi van (that green one in the picture), the world was right again. Now all grown up, the old man’s collection of classic cars is responsible for some of my impromptu marriage proposals, every man hoping that marriage to me will earn him one of the cars as a wedding gift. Maybe someone will get lucky but knowing my Papa, he is not parting with his ‘babies’.
