Getting to Eloquent

Was it my fault?

Did I deserve the treatment?

What did I do wrong?

I remember soaking my pillow in tears that night.

“Why me?” I asked no one in particular. It only added insult to the already open wound. 

It was not a genetically inherited trait. I knew this because I had researched my family, having read a book on genetics in grade 6, and no one in my family tree had the disorder. 

Drying my tears, I reviewed what happened that day. The day before, the Religious Education teacher had asked us to memorize John 3:16. I already knew it. I never missed church and the Sabbath School. 

“Kelvin! Stand up and recite John 3:16!” Mr. Jack’s authoritative voice commanded. Confidently, I rose from my desk, which I guess was trying to win an award for being too noisy.

“For Go…o…o…d so lo…ve…d…” I began. I had not finished the final section of my recitation before everyone burst into laughter except Mr. Jack and me. 

I realized that being a new student was not going to be as much fun as I had anticipated. I guess they thought I did not know the verse because of my hesitation. So thought Mr. Jack, who stared at me with cold unblinking eyes, flexing the water pipe on his hands.

All I remember about the following few minutes that seemed to last a decade is the pain that tormented my back as Mr. Jack applied his best technique to ensure I never forgot. 

“How will you pass your High School entry exam?” he challenged as he continued to make me count the number of strokes he expertly laid on my back. 

The school had no option. Whatever it took, we had to pass, not only because of our own good but also to put the school’s name among the ‘mighty’ primary schools in Nyandarua County.

He did not understand my speech impediment. My fear of being laughed at and being misunderstood drove me to withdraw from people and triggered the next problem – making new friends in my new school. My friends at home understood me, but this was not the case at Saint Peter’s Academy. 

Getting to eloquent

It was not long before it dawned on me that if I did not face the darkness growing inside me, I was never going to be embraced for who I was.

I started reading novels aloud at the deserted soccer field rather than the mind reading I had been accustomed to. Though I took more than thrice the time I would spend normally, it was a valiant effort. I could now do a few words without a stammer. No hesitation. 

The few words became a sentence before I joined High School. Classmates would complain about my slow reading pace when I volunteered to read articles in class. I remember two students mumbling that a certain person was to fall asleep if I read a Swahili article the teacher had asked me to recite.

Though discouraged by many of my classmates in grade 9, I still began to develop eloquence as I read aloud. By grade 10, I volunteered to deliver a trip report on the assembly ground, which I did at a rather moderate pace.

Bit by bit, I improved and struggled against myself.

I was not done yet. Trip reporting became my thing for more than a dozen trips I attended thereafter. No one dared to steal that activity from me.