Admission to High School—A Measure of Success in Kangundo, Kenya.

Kithetheesyo, my son, is starting high school this fall. His three sisters have traveled that same path. There is no fanfare. Every student from his middle school will attend high school if they so wish.

Joining high school in Kangundo, Kenya, was a childhood passage that left vivid memories only death or permanent mental lapse can erase. Seventh graders sat for the examination set by educators from three nations, Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania (former British colonies). The few hundreds of youngsters who passed the exam had an opportunity to enter high school and increase their chances of living up to their potential. Failing in that exam relegated thousands of youngsters to a pool of poorly paid manual jobs. Nothing short of a miracle could help those who failed the exam better their future life status.

Passing the exam was so rare that it took some schools many years before they could have one of their own admitted in what we called government high school. I was in my early teenage years when someone I knew, my uncle Makau—we called him Jimmy, passed the exam. His joyous screams, from about a quarter of mile from home, were what alerted the family that January afternoon in 1969.

My memory is not clear about how my uncle learned his results. Normally, the government-controlled radio would make announcement that results were out. Neighbors who had a radio and knew someone who took the exam would run to inform him/her about the announcement.

What I remember is Jimmy’s beaming face and his inability to sit still as he told the story and how the family was overwhelmed by this more than welcome circumstance. Jimmy had sat and failed to pass that exam in two previous years. Who would guess the source of joy…after three years in the same grade? What a relief! Some pupils had tried and failed that exam for seven years.

There was a social promotion that came with passing the exam. One could wear long trousers, a privilege reserved for high schoolers in those days. Those with a well-to-do dad or a family member had no struggle going through this transformation. It wasn’t so for Uncle Jimmy.

My grandfather, not yet a member of the Catholic church, was ready to capitalize on Jimmy’s dilemma. Jimmy had to purchase his first pair of trousers from his own father. Grandfather needed money for traditional beer. Jimmy, from manual labor projects, had gathered some money to buy luggage, toiletries and maybe a new shirt but not enough for a new pair of trousers.

Jimmy was admitted at Kabaa High School, a premier institution about sixty miles from home. That is where I come in. Jimmy’s young brother, Munyioki and I were naturally the ones to carry Jimmy’s luggage (with a wheelbarrow), from home to the Kangundo shopping center where he would take a bus. And that is where, three months later, we went to pick up Jimmy’s luggage after schools were closed. We too became part of Jimmy’s success—we could go to the shopping center where students with no business were prohibited.

Joining high school was not a personal achievement. It was a family affair. It wasn’t a routine thing. It was, for many communities, the first sign of a bright future when one of their own entered the world out there to learn the western education—the certificate one needed to progress.