Solo Runaway - 1983

The preparatory boarding school I attended from the age of 8 to 13 was to say the least, not one of my favourite periods in life. Without mentioning the school itself by name, I can tell you it was in Gilgil, Kenya – figure that one out!?!

The earlier years were rife with bullying, being fed bad food and being beaten by the then headmaster on a regular basis. I think he used his swing technique in hitting us with a ‘tackie (old sports shoe)’ to practice his golf swing for the weekend. “Builds character” we were told. All it did was build resentment to the institution of the school system.

To be honest, most of time I was beaten by the headmaster it was for raiding the vegetable garden of carrots and any other raw edibles to supplement the terrible diet of the school kitchens. As we got older, we of course became wiser and enlisted the help of the juniors to instead do the hard and risky work, therefore spreading the risk of the ‘tackie’ and sharing the reward – sort of.

I digress. In my last year of school, a new headmaster had been enlisted who was a lot more modern and understanding. This did not help the fact that I was not particularly sporty and preferred the solo sports of shooting and squash than the normal school team sports. This meant that I seldom went to ‘away’ matches at other schools, and instead stayed back at school building shacks in shack land and devising ways of hiding the endless supply of tuck (candy) that mum would send me concealed in tubes of magazines in the post.

One such weekend on a Saturday, all my mates were away at a match and I was in shack land on my own, building and renovating my shack. One of my ‘tame’ juniors suddenly ran down to tell me that the English teacher, Mr. Patterson who was on weekend duty was tipping all our lockers out in the dormitory.

Apparently, the head boy had reported to him that he could hear music at night, and he ‘thought’ some of us had Walkman’s. Well yes, some of did, and to this day, I still do not know why a Walkman would be deemed so evil and dangerous that they were not allowed.

Anyway, as the only senior from that dormitory at school that day I went up to the dorm, and there was Mr. Patterson literally tipping out all our lockers on the floor in the middle of the dorm. An irate Mr. Patterson was surrounded by a pile of personal effects, some of which, had he realised, were possibly a teenage bio-hazard, he may have changed his mind on this plan of mass destruction.

On one bed was a pile of guilty Walkman’s, one being mine.

Now, I admit, that the next sentence that came out of my mouth was probably not the wisest thing to say to an already angry teacher, but it slipped out……

“Sir, you could have at least left it how you found it…..”

With that, Mr. Patterson flew into a deeper rage, grabbed me by my collar and then shook me against one of the posts in the dorm, spewing how much he detested me and all the seniors in this dorm and that we were all going to be expelled.

Whilst I was perhaps not the smartest to have said what I said, I did know that only the headmaster could hit us, and not in this manner, and that what he was doing was probably a little bit naughty.

So, I did not react back and when he finally let go of me having flung me onto one of the metal beds that was still upright, I asked politely if I may use the phone to call my mother and tell her what had just happened.

Well, the answer to this question was expected and I was told to go immediately his classroom and wait for him there.

This I did and, in the meantime, I missed bath time and supper. During supper I was made to write on the blackboard and on a page of A4 “I must not be insolent and impudent”. At least I learnt 2 things that day, as these wonderful new words I had never heard before.

I had time to ruminate on the matter at hand as I sat in the classroom while I now missed the weekly Saturday night movie. I thought to myself, well, if I am not allowed to call mum, Ill just go tell her.

So, I wrote a letter to the headmaster which I planned on leaving on his desk on my departure. In a short little love note, I wrote what had happened that afternoon, apologised for being 'insolent and impudent', and then stated I would see him the next day. Whilst I was upset with the situation and I wanted justice for what had happened, I was under no illusion that if I got home, I would still have to return to school in short order.

With a total of 50/- Kenya shillings and a bit of now stale bread that a friend had swiped out of the dining hall, I slipped downstairs at midnight, into the heads office where I delivered my mail and then out past the matron’s room and into the locker room. Here I dressed as any escapee would wear, a green track suit and a pair of safari boots. I was aware that I did not want to wear anything resembling a school uniform and this was the only item of clothing without the school’s emblem on.

Money and stale bread in pocket, I basically strode down the entrance road to the school, out the main gate and onto the main road. Not a dog or a nightwatchman stirred as a 12-year-old left school premises and went on a small adventure at midnight.

About 15 minutes into the walk, reality hit in, I got scared and wondered to myself if this was after all such a good idea. I could have slipped back into bed unnoticed but then this whole thing would be forgotten by the next day. That is what hit my Libran justice button, and I pushed onward.

The school is 5 km away from Gilgil town, so I had a walk of about an hour and a half in total. Going past the army barracks slowed this down as I was forced to crawl past the camp military style to avoid being seen by the gate guards, who were awake and well lit with security flood lights. After getting past the barracks, I continued into town following the road. No cars came past and there was little light as I approached the town, and I had neglected to bring a torch.

On crossing the railway lines, I failed to see a drainage ditch and fell into it and ended up to my knees in god knows what liquid. It did not smell good and neither would I now for the rest of the trip. I also had to ditch the bread in my pocket as it was somewhat soggy too.

The normal staple of any runaway from this school (and yes, there were many) was to go to the Total petrol station and buy a soda and try and get transport to wherever you needed. I knew that the petrol station attendants had become wily to white kids rocking up in the station at all hours of the night and the first thing he would do is call the school.

The same Total petrol station today in Gilgil. I slept in the office behind the forecourt on a wooden bench

I had come prepared. As I tapped on the locked door of the shop in the station, I could see the look on the fellow’s face as he came to let me in. I immediately berated him with a story that even I was impressed with.

I told him a long and tall tale about how my mum and me lived in Thompson's Falls (Nyaharuru) and that the maize crop had failed, and we had no money, so mum had sent me to Nairobi to get dad and bring him back for some time to help on the farm. I had to get to Nairobi straight away, I told him, so dad could bring some money.

Well, this lovely chap believed my story (good news) but told me that the next matatu (multi seat taxi) to Nairobi was not till 6.30 am, it being a Sunday now (bad news). I was also told that the cost to get to Nairobi was 150/- Kenya shillings, while all I had was 50/- (worse news). The story I had spun must have pulled on his heart strings as he told me he would lend me the difference if I came back and paid him on my return. He also bought me a Fanta and let me sleep on the wooden bench in the station shop to keep out of the cold.

At around 6 am the town started waking up. I was aware too that school would be too at 7 am, so my heart started racing. The station attendant walked me to the bus stop where he put me in a matatu . As we drove out of Gilgil at 6.45, having had to wait for the seats to fill I sighed a huge sigh or relief, as I knew the school would also call the petrol station as soon as they realised I was missing.

When I got back later that day, a friend told me that in the morning when they suddenly realised I had scarpered, that it was akin to the scenes in an old war movie where the POW's escaped from Colditz. Had they had a siren, search dogs and search lights they would have all been used. Big grin. Too late. I was gone!

My trip to Naivasha was event less, but what I had not realised was that I had to change buses, so again was stuck in the Naivasha terminus for longer that I had wanted, again waiting for the bus to fill up. This bus was the old style matatu that was a converted Peugeot pick-up with a metal roof with windows put over the back.

It was on a matatu similar to this that I ended up using to get to Nairobi. I was sitting in the same place as the person in the red shirt behind the drivers door.

As I was the first into the bus and getting off last, the bus slowly filled up and I ended up being pushed slowly towards the back and stuck up against the back of the drivers cab behind the driver. At least I could see through the driver’s window despite having little fresh air. In fairness, my little ‘trip’ in the drainage ditch did not make me the loveliest smelling individual in the cab anyway.

We finally got under way about an hour later and fortuitously we ended up going up the old road to Nairobi. The new road that goes over and past Kijabe had just been finished, so going on the old road through Mai Mahiu was going to certainly take more time and the metal roof of the bouncing car was rattling all our minds to pieces, so much so, no one could speak for the noise.

I say fortuitously, as I later learnt that the school had sent all available manpower up the new road and was stopping any matatu they found to check if I was aboard. Suckers!! They had also chosen not call my parents immediately, in the hope of finding me first and sweeping this whole sordid story under the carpet.

After a long and cramped trip into Nairobi I alighted in the main bus stop at around 10 am near the old stadium, admittedly not the safest place for a small white kid to find himself. I had not thought too much about what was going to happen on arrival in Nairobi, as frankly I didn’t expect to have done so well, so quickly.

Luckily in those days there were few tall buildings, and from where I was, I could see the Hilton Hotel standing proudly above the other buildings. Mum worked in a travel agents office below the Hilton and I knew there was always a duty person in the office, so off I set to try and get to Karen.

I got to the Hilton and thankfully my assumption was right and the lovely duty lady was very surprised to see me. I regaled her my tales over a nice cup of tea and biscuits. I asked her to please lend me some money so I could catch the bus to where Nairobi Academy now is, as we lived down a dirt road behind the school. She threw her arms in the air and said no way was her boss’s child going on a bus (despite me having just been on one for the last few hours) and proceeded to walk me round to the front of the Hilton.

There she found a Kenatco Mercedes taxi and told the driver to take me wherever I wanted and to come back tomorrow to be paid by the kid’s mother. The taxi driver was having none of it, until there was an explosion of female fury sent through the taxis window and he capitulated and drove me as fast as he could away from the hotel.

The luxury of the Mercedes was a welcome respite from the cramped and loud matatu, but when my mother received the bill she was not nearly as pleased. Gilgil to Nairobi is 130kms and had cost 150/-. Nairobi CBD to Karen is 18km and cost 1,000/-. You get what you pay for, I guess.

I walked from the end of the road as I was conscious of the possible cost of the Mercedes and got to the gate around noon. Again, luck was on my side and for some reason my mother had arranged for the house girl to be there that day, so I was able to get into the house, have a shower and large bowl of cornflakes.

On completing both, I heard mum’s car come into the driveway shouting at the house girl asking if I was in the house. "Of course he is", she told my mum, "and he ate a whole box of cornflakes" she added proudly. She was understandable in a state only having been told by the school an hour or so beforehand. By the time she was informed by the school, I was sitting in a hot bath at home – the first boy to have run away solo and got home – ha!

She had had to cut short a well-earned break from work to come home to find me, so realising I was safe she then asked me to tell the whole story. I told her the truth and told her I knew I would have to go back – she just needed to know the truth. In fact, I told her, I had even left a letter for the headmaster on his desk explaining the whole affair. She basically told me that if all I said was true then I would be fine, and we piled back in her car to head back to school.

On the way back we stopped off at the petrol station and mum refunded him for the loan and the Fanta with a little 'extra' for his troubles. He was not best pleased having been rousted by a kid, but mums generous offer soon had him smiling at me again.

I dreaded the trip back, not knowing what would happen on arrival, but surprisingly I had little issues. In fact, amongst the boys, I was bit of hero. The matron and Mr. Patterson did not really want to deal with me and instead verbally attacked my mother, at which point she knew all I had said was no lie. She called the headmaster, who was also trying to get away for his first long weekend break since taking over and he came back to a firestorm.

The long and the short of it is that I got a stern talking to from the headmaster for running away, but was not beaten. If I had been, my mother would have removed me from school. Mr. Patterson seemed to calm down a bit after that (wonder why?) and his contract was not renewed. Shame. And if he ever wants to chat this over one day over a beer, he is most welcome!