Water. Stomach.

Back in my day (yaani I’m elderly enough to talk about ‘back in my day’), you ate Christmas. With your stomach full of water. Then, two days after Christmas, the Hon. Peter Oloo Aringo came onto television and radio. There was only one channel in those days. So, the Hon. Peter Oloo Aringo appears. He says that KCPE results are ready. Your stomach gets full of more water. You remember how you were watching Michael Jackson documentaries two days before KCPE. You sleep overnight. But you don’t sleep. 

In the morning, you get into a matatu. Go to your school. Meet people who got there before you. As you head to the notice board (or notsbod, depending on where your tongue was manufactured), you try and read the faces of those you meet. You can’t determine whether the look on their faces is pity or envy. You fight your way to the front and scan the notice to see how you performed. You try and keep an impassive look on your face when you locate your name. (You also surreptitiously glance to see how your paramour performed. The one who you were in puppy love with but who never spoke to you. You doubt she knew you even existed). 

You chew stories for a while. People look slightly different in home clothes, you notice. You also notice that people have ever-so-subtly, even imperceptibly, separated themselves into those who performed well and those who have a bit of explaining to do. 

You get back into the matatu. Arrange your face, and your mind, to determine how to break the news back home. Remember this is just after Christmas, so all the relatives are still at home, eagerly awaiting the news. Water. Stomach. 

These days, your parents have already sent that SMS before you even know the results are out. There is no cooking up stories. There is no water in the stomach.