Shattered Innocence: Surviving the Realm of Misconceptions
This story is about my time in the realm of the misery merchants, a place where everything that shaped who I am today was deemed wrong or defective and therefore needed to be eradicated. The games I played, my interactions with other kids, the things we did to feed ourselves, the survival tactics we devised, the role of my parents—everything about me was considered wrong.
The Daily Torment
Everywhere around the office, graphic reminders of our supposed inadequacy loomed large. This message was prominently displayed through various graphics. It became increasingly difficult to look up from my desk, walk the hallways, or raise my eyes lest I catch a glimpse of one of the many images dotting the walls. State-of-the-art coffee machines churned out bitter brews while playing videos of African children—faces etched with hunger and despair—as if to say, “This is your reality.” It was torturous.
The Haunting Mural
But there was one mural that haunted me most—a vivid depiction of African kids, their tiny hands interlocked in a fragile circle. Why did the misery merchants choose this image? Was it a cruel jest, a reminder of our vulnerability? What did it mean to them? Was it just another thing they needed to use taxpayer dollars to destroy? One thing I am sure of—they could not identify with that photo nor understand it. I can only think of these quotes: “You meet a people that you first of all don’t recognize as good as you” by Rune Fjellheim and “Then remove the human aspect; that’s the first strategy” by Tazeen Qayyum.
A Childhood Memory
Let me tell you about the mural and one of my earliest experiences in life while in kindergarten—an experience that has stuck with me to this day.
A Tale of Innocence and Curiosity
On February 21, 2024, The Toronto Star reported that “Conservative Leader Pierre Poilievre says he believes ‘biological males’ have no place in change rooms that are labelled female.” As a boy growing up, I learned that boys were very curious about what lies under a girl’s skirt. Boys became men, and some men did not grow out of this, which is likely what Hon. Poilievre was alluding to. This curiosity became an obsession during my six years in a boys-only boarding school. It was the only thing talked about while not sleeping or during the mandatory quiet time of classroom and study schedules.
The Experiment
I remember an event while in elementary school. Some boys decided to put their newly learned science of optics to good use. They set out to conduct an experiment to fulfill one of their fantasies. For the experiment, they needed a small portable mirror (not easy to come by then) and a human target. There was a new female math teacher, Miss Kibe. She was short and always dressed nicely. Like all the other teachers, she was assigned a mud-walled house within the teachers’ quarters where she resided during the week. But on Fridays after school, she would be picked up by a GK (Government of Kenya) green Land Rover with a tarpaulin on the back. She would always sit at the front, next to the driver. Rumor had it that she was the daughter of the DC (District Commissioner), a government official that everyone feared. Miss Kibe would then be dropped back on Monday early morning.
The Plan and Its Consequences
During math lessons, Miss Kibe would teach, give students work to do, and then go around the desks marking. From this process, the wannabe experimental scientists saw an opportunity.
Their experiment was this: bring a mirror to class and place it strategically under their desk, out of sight. Then, when Miss Kibe came to mark their work, one of them would clandestinely maneuver the mirror to under her feet. This would give them an excellent view of what was under her skirt.
Everything went according to plan, almost to the end. But the experiment went horribly wrong, as sometimes happens, and Miss Kibe saw the mirror. My school system, actively supported by tax dollars to this day, was brutal. The boys were subjected to that brutality to the extreme, and they never showed up at the school ever again.
A Personal Revelation
Over the years, I never shared the same obsession with other boys about what was under a girl’s skirt. Probably because of a secret I held. Let me explain. Remember the mural in the lobby of the misery merchants’ office? The kids holding hands is a dance we did while I was in kindergarten. We would hold hands so a boy would always be between two girls and vice versa, as the teacher instructed. The teacher’s decree was a dreaded arrangement among the children, yet her will always prevailed, casting a shadow of apprehension over our youthful spirits. We would sing some words as we went back and forth. At some point, we would stop, lift our left leg, and place it on our left arm. Not being too clever, I did not know the difference between left and right. So, I would have to look at the other kids to know which leg to lift. This one time, I looked to my right, and the girl had already lifted her leg and placed it on the arm I was holding. Lifting the leg meant also lifting her skirt. And as was the norm then, she was not wearing underwear. So there I was, staring right under a girl’s skirt.
The Symbol of Innocence
This mural is a reminder of our childhood innocence, the games we played, and the simple joys we shared. It symbolizes a culture and a way of life that should be celebrated, not destroyed. It reminds me that despite the hardships and the dehumanizing efforts of the misery merchants, we can still find joy in the small things and hold on to our humanity.
