[Paudah_Paf]

:7 Haki ya nani wewe Analyst ni mnoma, hio risto imenichekesha bana.
Ati alikuwa ashaangusha kadhaa... heh heh.

I got lucky because just before I was placed in a Gova primary, I got a place in a private school in Lang'ata.

At first niliwashwa mbele we never used to get 'maziwa ya nyayo' lakini when I found out that there was school lunch and on Friday it was chapos nilifurahi niaje.
Sasa, I came in with all sort of terrible knowledge that the poor private-school kids hawakujua.
I remember when I first unleashed my 'chuvyu' this was a simple wire catapult, you simply cut off a section from a hanger bent it into a V and tied a rubber-band to it.
The preferred ammo was a corner of paper (kwanza the 'dogs-ears' you'd get tandikwad for having coz it meant you weren't taking care of your books).
You folded the paper vizuri then bent it and loaded it.
Then locate a target (the back of the ear was particularly painful) and BOMBS AWAY!

Heh heh, kids being kids the whole class soon caught on and even the chics were in it.

What happened was when the teacher had turned and was andikaing on the board a small war would break out with papers flying everywhere and muffled cries of agony were heard wholesale.
One sadistic chic introduced 'torpedoes'.
This involved leaning beneath the desk and targeting the soft flesh behind the knee with your chuvyu. Manze that ish was painful bana.

Our wars came to an end abruptly one day. Some idiot backbencher was in so much pain after catching a direct hit between the eyes that he unleashed his return fire bila aiming...
...Straight at the back of the teacher's neck.
...who happened to be the maths teacher AND headmaster.

An immediate search was carried out for what he called 'dangerous weapons' and guess what? I had a small manufacturing industry in my desk for both the weapons and the ammo. I even had varieties, school-book paper, newspaper, carboard...

I and other offenders who were not fortunate enough to sit near windows (i.e. didn't hastily offload the 'evidence') were frog-marched to the head office.
Along the way some terrified rat blurted out that I was the mastermind of the whole scheme and I was saved for last during caning.

Chics were getting it on their hands, boys on their butts lakini I got double dose.

The jamaa was so furious he loosened his tie when I walked into the office and could hardly speak. He'd reverted to a thick Kyuk accent in the meanwhile. "MBEND HOVER!!", "TACHI YUA TOES!!".
I was frozen in terror and caught a few around the back before I complied. The beating was so bad I couldn't straighten myself afterwards. He misunderstood the grimace of pain on my face for a smile and ordered me to "STICKI HOUT YUA HANDS!!".
At least it took my mind off the pain in my butt... for a while.
And being a hard-nut, I never cried through the whole ordeal. I'd grown up being beaten by my bros, my mum, the 'first-body' of mtaani so I had a way of closing up to pain.
Of course this only made the heady madder and the beating harder.

When I walked out of that office with reddened hands and striped shorts BUT dry eyes I earned the undying respect of my classmates.