It was an incident that, thinking more about it now, would
be the hallmark of tremendous disconnect between the education system and
reality. I had been sent to buy nails, and as you know, nails – just like
certain influential male organs – come in inches. Not millimeters. And
certainly not centimeters. That would be grossly demeaning to nails and the
organ, who may write nasty comments if you do so.
I was in high school at the time (and on holiday) and seeing
that I didn’t have much to do except loaf time, it was deemed that I was fit to
run the small errand to Flax Centre to purchase nails. There was a little construction
project going on, and as constructions are wont, certain materials suddenly
become sparse or are suddenly needed.
“Three inches,” they said even though I had heard the fundi
say it. I hauled my juvenile self, neither with ambitions nor hurry. It seemed
a minor inconvenience, but the prospect of keeping change acted as the only
motivator. Also, the project had stalled because of the slight. The nails were
needed in a hurry.
After three kilometres (where did those who use miles learn
it from? Movies?) of walking, I was at the hardware. I asked for a kilo of
three inch nails. The attendant weighed them, handed them to me, I paid and
began the long walk back home. Even if they were not needed that day, I still
would have gone back regardless, because there were no suave ways of idling
back them. There were, but I was not good at them.
I got home and delivered them to the fundis. One quickly
rummaged through and announced grimly, ‘it’s a girl.’ Just kidding. He said
that I got the wrong nails…not the wrong nails actually – it’s not that there
are yellow nails or nails za kienyeji – but the wrong inches. The inches were
nearly double than they ones they wanted.
I think that must have been the only time I felt good when
one of them acknowledged our ignorance in a way that detached responsibility
from my actions. “These young people do not know anything,” they said as though
distinguishing three and five inches required the same intellectual depth as
neurosurgery. As far as they fundis were concerned my knowledge of important
things such as inches competed favourably with mucus.
Even then, I was perfectly willing to correct the anomaly by
trekking back three kilometres. However, the fundis showed tremendous fortitude
by improvising. They were in a hurry to get the project done, hit a drinking
den, and probably brag about how people like me were clueless about inches.
“I thought he was intelligent, but he brought six inches
instead of three,” one will say amid an uproar of laughter.
“How can one not distinguish between an inch and two
inches?” a fellow drunkard, well versed with matters inches, will as ask.
I am not ashamed to say that they answer to that question is
me, and I have plenty of reasons to back it up. We never learnt about inches in
primary school. I have no memory attached to inches back in primary. This is
special because I spent most of my last years in primary school pensive and a
nervous wreck converting milimetres to centimetres and to metres. And vice
versa. At no point in my life did inches feature. I do not remember being
whacked because I could not correctly convert from inches to any of those
aforementioned metric terms.
Even then, if the guy who had sold me the nails knew what
inches were, he could have given me the correct ones. I guess he was as
clueless as me. Either that or he was desperate to make a sale. It is not
really a one man’s blame. It is two.
If you think like I do, then you must be wondering why what
is taught in school cannot be applied in real life. Even metric system yawa. You can excuse learning about the
hypotenuse or trapezium, but not something as vital and life-giving – if you
get my drift - as inches. Another stupid one is foot. I haven’t got the hang of
it. and miles too.
Every time someone uses metric terms I did not learn in
school I feel like smacking them in the face to atone for the beatings I
endured back in school. Trust me, there is nothing as torturous as the thought
that all your years of schooling were up to nothing. It is even much worse if
you spent a few years getting so scared of being wrong – a small wrong would
earn you an unforgettable beating. It does not do justice to the moments spent
tucking your hands between your legs, trembling and your teeth clattering every
time you were in class. All that and you were not taught about inches?!!?
Gerrarahia!!
