People of WordPress do anything, absolutely anything while in a Kenyan High school- slap a bitch, steal someone’s skirt off the wirelines, sneak in prohibited food, abort a fucking embryo, write the bathroom walls in shit and blood, fuck a teacher, fucking do anything people of WordPress, but don’t you DARE get pregnant while in a Kenyan high school because,
I remember my high school days with my white socks pulled so far up my hairy legs they covered my soul.
Bitch, when we got back to school after long holidays spent reading our asses off for the CATS that’d be issued on the first day back, we always got checked for pregnancy and shit.
The school thought we must have been spending our holidays fucking like little rabbits so that is what informed their monthly disgusting pregnancy check ups.
Bitch when I say it was disgusting, it was disgusting.
See, there was no way the school would know if a student got pregnant over the hols because the skirts we wore were like extra large gunias with some bulky ass sweaters that did absolutely nothing to ward off the cold. So if you were pregnant, you’d fit right the fuck in.
So these motherfuckers checked us.
I was 15 when I got my first pregnancy test involuntarily. It was 8pm in the fucking night, cold as hell and we couldn’t wear sweaters because the school fucking said so.
So I’m out here freezing my ass off in a corner in class trying to learn some fucking calculus from my very nasty classmate who was feeling some type of way because she could understand shit and I couldn’t. (Bitch I hope you’re a fucking astronaut now)
The stupid ass class prefect whose face made me want to kick something or someone called out my name and said,
I got out into the cold like my classmates had for the last 20 minutes or so and tittered on a lone path because we couldn’t walk on the fucking grass and made my way towards the sick bay.
Y’all should’ve seen me ladies and gentlemen of wordpress. My head was bent against the cold, I’d worn my sweater in protest and it was hanging off my shoulders like one of them Kanye’s Yeezy clothes, the wind was sweeping my extra large skirt and making it stick to my ass and when I met the teacher on duty round the corner, my humiliation was complete.
He told me I was indiscipline for disregarding school rules and wearing a sweater, took my sweater and told me to lie on the cold pavement to get my dosage of strokes.
That nigga caned me with a long thick stick on my ass five times while telling me that if I touched my ass, he’d start counting again.
I didn’t touch bitch. I got my share and headed right on to the sick bay.
(Nigga I hope you started a fucking fashion line with my goddamn sweater)
So there I was, a lone stick figure miles away from home walking to get a pregnancy test with my ass on fire.
At that point I wondered if the fucking government knew I couldn’t wear a sweater because the administration was skittish about the students falling asleep during prep time.
Hell, did my mom know I was getting a fucking pregnancy test at 15?
Shit, did my boyfriend at the next school know that his baby was getting checked for a baby that might be his baby?
I’m kidding WordPress. I’d never had sex. A boy was the embodiment of sin. If my mom caught me talking to a boy I’d be mince meat to be cooked for that night’s supper.
I got to the sick bay, a little room with about five beds stashed together to make one whole bed. Currently, two girls were lying on it and they looked pretty sick. (Later in my fourth year, a student would die on that same bed from Meningitis)
The school nurse tells me hi happily and I smile back. She’s usually nice to me. Not like the snotty Matron with a head shaped like Bob Marley’s nose.
This woman is called Pamela and she doesn’t have snakes on her head. Just a kitenge headwrap written “Mungu Ni Mwema” (God is good)
She tells me to remove my skirt.
I say, sorry?
“Please remove your skirt”
Motherfuckers in the fourth form had done stolen ALL my underwear so they’d wear them as thongs to impress the sports teacher who everyone was fucking.
Bitch I was commando and this “God is Good” turban wearing woman was telling me to remove my skirt.
She said those were school rules she was going to have to drag the skirt down by force.
She stood up large breasts beating her stomach.
I stepped back.
The friendly nurse gently pushed me back.
The woman’s large hand lunged for me and caught me by the collar of my wannabe -white blouse.
She loosened her hold on me.
I started crying.
I said I’m not fucking pregnant I’m a fucking virgin.
She said she has to confirm.
She told me go back to class but tomorrow my rigidity would be treated as a disciplinary issue.
I sniffled, turned around and marched towards the toilets that were rumoured to have a ghost walking around in red heels.
Fast forward to the next day in front of the Deputy Principal’s office where I’d been frog-marched by our nincompoop prefect.
Ten strokes of the cane later, my skirt was forced down by the woman from yesterday and the pimple-faced deputy who both were surprised at my naked vagina.
Yes bitches. I don’t have underwear. Your beloved form fours stole them.
I opened my legs wiiiide and told them to feast their old eyes on my beautiful genitalia covered in a mass of rough black hair.
Feast your eyes hoes.
The woman pressed her fingers on my lower stomach and confirmed that I wasn’t pregnant.
The deputy asked why I didn’t have panties on.
I said they got stolen.
She gave me a thousand shillings to go buy some at the school canteen.
I bought bread and kept the change.
My pussy had revolutionized.
When the school found out you were pregnant, your ass was fucking expelled. Like you were done.
The rest of us unpregnant folk would jump on desks to see you loading your stuff in the school van, your box, suitcases,books and everything.
Your school days were over.
Your education was over.
The school made your expulsion dramatic. They’d tell us on assembly how opening your legs for boys was unladylike and we’d look on like the wide-eyed true believers that we were and thank God that it wasn’t us that got pregnant.
Your expelled ass would be talked about for the rest of the term.
Weird speculations about who the father of your child was.
Texts would just show up egged on by people who had phones in school.
Incriminating texts of you calling someone “babe” would make rounds in the dining hall.
Teachers would use you as an example in class .
Girls, please don’t be young mothers. You’ll destroy your future.
And as unpregnant as we were, I felt like our future was already bent wrong from the dumb motivational talks we had at different intervals.
Sometimes I stayed up on my top bunk and wondered about the expelled girls. Were they okay?
Did they keep their babies?
Did they survive child birth?
Were they happy?
Did they go back to school?
Did their moms make mince meat of them?
Wherever they were, I hoped those brave fuckers were okay.
I hoped they found some sort of happy place and rose above all the backlash and judgement from their peers and most importantly, from adults who were meant to be guiding them but instead, always turned them away.
I hoped they made it.