As a headmaster (acting ni wewe) who is keen to make an impact on the school and transform learners, I was looking forward to a very busy last week until my brother Pius called me last Saturday.
“You need to be on TV this coming week,” he said. I wondered why he wanted to be glued to TV.
“They will be interviewing Cabinet nominees”, he said, “and it is important that you watch.”
I asked him why.
“Since you are keen on being appointed to a big position, some of the positions may need to be vetted and therefore you need to know some of the questions that you may be asked. You will also know how rich some Kenyans are,” he said.
As you know, when I returned the TV to the staffroom, I drew clear rules of usage. It was to be used mainly for educational purposes and no teacher should be found watching during class time, particularly when they had a lesson.
When I inquired from Pius when the interviews would be conducted, he shared with me the list and timings on WhatsApp. There were some bigwigs on Monday — people whose interviews I could not miss.
Interestingly, later in the evening, Lena shared the same interview programme on the teachers’ WhatsApp group.
“Kesho hapo Bunge itakuwa fireworks,” replied Alex.
Many teachers responded with some funny WhatsApp signs whose meanings I did not understand.
“This is a must-watch for all public officials, teachers included. I hope we will not be stopped from watching,” Alex added.
I arrived in school early Monday morning before the teacher on duty, Mrs Atika. I supervised morning menial work and punished the late comers. On parade, I emphasised on the need for everyone – students, teachers and non-teaching staff – to always keep time or else they would have a bleak future.
Mrs Atika was not happy with this, later on complaining in the staffroom. She said it was wrong for me to criticise teachers before students.
“What do you want students to think of us when you start saying before them that we arrived late?” She asked.
“I hear you, but the question remains: did you arrive at school on time?” I asked.
“That is not the point, Dre,” said Alex, adding that as HM, I was just a first among equals “You are just a teacher with additional administration responsibilities. You are not special.”
Kuya, who had just arrived, also added that I wasn’t even a HM: “You are just an acting HM, but you behave like a principal.” Unknown to my colleagues, this was what I wanted. I wanted to be angry so that I could ban watching TV that day. If we had been laughing and happy, it would have been difficult for me to restrict TV usage.
“Can I request that we all avoid sideshows and only focus on our jobs,” I said. “I also need to make it clear that I need to see everyone in class today. TV will only be switched on during teatime and lunch time.”
Kuya reminded me that there was an important national exercise on TV, and it was important that all teachers watch TV. Since I also wanted to watch, I gave a go-ahead for the TV to be switched on, and a decision to be made after observing teacher behaviour on Day 1.
“I do not expect anyone to be in the staffroom when they have a lesson. If you misbehave today, there will be no TV tomorrow,” I said.
We were all glued to TV by 8.30am when Musalia Mudavadi arrived.
“Surely, how can one interview for a position he held over 30 years ago?” asked Sella. “I was in nursery school when Musalia was a minister. Kwani hachoki?”
“He should leave it for others,” added Madam Ruth.
We all stopped to listen when he was asked about his net worth.
Everyone was shocked when he said he was worth Sh4 billion.
“Did he say million or billion?” Asked Mrs Atika.
“How do you even count Sh4 billion? How much time will you take? Is there space in any bank for Sh4 billion?”
“The way I know Musalia, he cannot have such a huge amount of money,” said Kuya. “First of all, he is very mean. A man with that much money cannot be that mean,” he said.
“Maybe that is why he is rich, unlike some people here who, when they have just Sh3,000, they can’t be calm and the entire Mwisho wa Lami must know,” said Mrs Atika.
“Only Cosmas Bar and Hitler can explain how such money disappears in hours,” he said.
I would be lying to say we heard anything else that Musalia said or even the other candidates after him, all we discussed was each candidate’s net worth.
“You men are just arguing here as other men are out there making money,” said Madam Ruth. “What is your net worth?”
The question was a sobering one for me.
“And, remember, the land on which you have built your house is still in your grandfather’s name. So, do not count it,” added Sella. Other than the two motorcycles I own, I have little else.
The rest of the candidates did seem to have a lot, though it was nothing when compared with Musalia Mudavadi’s worth, but it was still a lot of money. No one noticed that so many teachers had not gone to class at all. I did not even ask them to go. The realisation that I was worth very little when others had billions disturbed me.
The only consolation I had was the position by Kuya that the candidates were exaggerating their net worth.
“These people are likely to steal. What they are declaring is their net worth plus their theft target so that no one asks questions in future,” he said.
Alex had a different view: “If you say you have a lot of money, you have to explain how you got it. So, many are just declaring about half of what they actually own.”
This was not helping me at all as I had nothing to show yet some of them, almost my agemates, had millions to declare.
On Wednesday evening, I decided to sit down and calculate my net worth: land, motorcycles, bicycle, cattle, house. It wasn’t so bad, but once I added the Sacco loan I have as a liability, it seemed as though I own nothing.
“You cannot be rich from your salary,” Kuya had said earlier that day. “You either steal, start a business, or join politics.”
Since I want to be wealthy, I will either start a business or join politics. If I continue with this toiling with TSC, I will still be talking about my worthlessness when people are talking about their net worth! BY DAILY NATION