KE Edwin Coina

THE FLICKER OF EXCELLENCE, TALES FROM A SCHOOL IN THE VILLAGE EPISODE 2...

Mbom was a man who could spill the beans without even realizing he had opened the pot. He narrated secrets the way a radio plays music—loudly, freely, and without checking who had tuned in. Asking him to “keep it between us” was like asking the ocean to respect a teacup; before you blinked, the whole village had a full briefing, complete with footnotes and unnecessary emphasis.

In fact, Mbom didn’t gossip—he broadcasted. If secrets were water, he was a municipal pipe with permanent leakage, generously supplying the public without billing anyone. And strangely enough, people never complained; his updates were simply too entertaining to miss.

It was this very “gift” that elevated him into a trusted confidant—and quite conveniently, the unofficial loudspeaker—of a rather unstable regime that lived in constant fear of the unknown. While others whispered like conspirators in a movie, Mbom spoke like a town crier with a megaphone. The regime, forever anxious and suspicious, leaned on him heavily; after all, why build a surveillance system when Mbom could unintentionally provide both raw data and commentary, free of charge and sometimes with jokes?

But Mbom was not just a broadcaster—he was also a fisherman of words. He had mastered the art of hearing what people had to say about the bad-taste regime. He would throw a rumor—usually one we all already knew—like bait into a crowded pond, then stand back with the patience of a crocodile watching goats at a riverbank. Naturally, people would bite, adding their own seasoning, unaware they were marinating themselves.

However, TA and I were not ordinary fish. We had studied Mbom like a complicated syllabus—revised him, analyzed him, and past-papersed him thoroughly. By the time he approached, we could decode his intentions from a distance.

When he appeared in the institution’s labeled shirt, walking with that slightly exaggerated official swagger, we knew—this one had come loaded. He wasn’t here to ask questions; he was here to recycle answers. That version of Mbom was like a returning exam paper—you might hear your own words, but now they carried consequences.

When he wore a lab coat, ah, that was a dangerous day. The saw did not spare—it cut in both directions. Conversations under that coat became surgical procedures without anesthesia. By the time he left, you were unsure whether you had exposed the regime, exposed yourself, or accidentally signed a confession letter in invisible ink.

We became most cautious when he wore his usual navy blue T-shirt with a yellow stripe across the chest. That was his so-called “casual mode,” but ironically, it was the most suspicious of them all. It meant he was relaxed enough to dig deeper and careless enough to leak faster.

Worst of all were the early mornings when he appeared freshly woken—dressed in his legendary combination of blue track pant and an ancient T-shirt labeled Army that looked like it had survived multiple governments. That Mbom was a wild card. His mind had not yet chosen a direction, so he collected information and distributed it at the same time, like a confused courier delivering and picking parcels simultaneously.

And yet, beyond all this, Mbom possessed another skill—one so refined it bordered on sorcery. He could distract a crowd with the elegance of a street magician while quietly rewriting reality behind the curtain. He could make people sit and stare intensely at a single bottle of milk placed on a table beside a wall scribbled with the tired handwriting of history—old notes, faded warnings, and the ghosts of conversations past—while, in truth, the real treasure lay hidden elsewhere. Somewhere in the “armoury”—a grand name for what was essentially an old box that once housed the school TV a decade ago, a television that had mysteriously grown legs and walked into legend—there would sit a full bucket of milk, safe, silent, and unbothered.

If not there, then perhaps in that stuffy hovel of an office, where air moved with permission and light entered like a visitor on appointment. One had to navigate a narrow path, squeezing past forgotten chairs and reluctant cobwebs, to reach a stubborn drawer that guarded games kits and an “executive kit” so neglected it wore spider webs like ceremonial robes. And there, hidden in plain inconvenience, Mbom’s secrets would rest comfortably, untouched by curious eyes too busy admiring the obvious.

This was not mere trickery—it was practiced illusion. Mbom had mastered misdirection the way ancient men mastered fire.

They say, “Show me your friends and I will tell you your character.” But to Mbom, that proverb was backward. He believed, “Show me your behavior first, and I will tell you your friends.” And living by that reversed wisdom, he had chosen—or perhaps attracted—his perfect counterpart.
Akandege Akaburrrr.

Akandege was a man of presence—part mystery, part menace, and part comedy. He had the peculiar habit of licking his lower inner lip repeatedly, as if trying to taste forgotten memories, each motion revealing an old scar that told stories nobody dared to ask about. When he spoke, he didn’t just give opinions—he delivered verdicts. “Baaas!” he would declare, like a judge who had already decided the case before hearing it then finalize with "Aaah waaaah"

To Mbom, Akandege was not just a friend; he was an opinion leader, a compass, and occasionally, a co-conspirator. Together, they were a dynamic duo—the kind that could organize confusion, manufacture evidence, and if rumors are to be believed, plant o***m on you and still convince you to thank them for the experience.

In their presence, truth was flexible, perception was negotiable, and silence was often the safest contribution. And so, while the regime feared the unknown, and we feared Mbom alone, there existed an even greater force—Mbom and Akandege together: a partnership where one asked the questions, the other confirmed the answers, and somehow, both already knew what you were going to say before you said it.

The flicker of Excellence, Tales from a school that Tries(episode 1)

It was one of those lazy Friday evenings that seemed to stretch forever — the kind that arrived carrying the sighs of a tired week and the dust of a hundred chalkboards. The staffroom sat in its familiar silence, thick with the smell of chalk, old paper, and unspoken fatigue. The only sounds were the hum of distant voices and the occasional clatter from the far corner.
T.A. was there — as always — hunched over his old, temperamental desktop, tapping the power button like a man trying to wake a sleeping spirit. From his small Vivo phone — the one he proudly claimed the “V” stood for value — Kenny Rogers’ Lucille drifted lazily through the stale air.
“Come on, my friend,” he muttered, half-pleading, half-threatening. “Just one more time. Don’t embarrass me on a Friday.”
The computer blinked once, coughed twice, then froze — perfectly mirroring the state of most of the school’s facilities: old, unpredictable, and functional only when it felt like performing.
I sat across from him, sipping slowly from a chipped mug as my eyes drifted to the jug of sour milk between us. It sat there like a relic — thick, suspicious, yet strangely comforting. The kind of drink that dared you to take a sip and remember home — your mother’s voice saying, “It’s still good, just a bit strong.”
In the far corner, two students were cooking sukuma wiki for us on a long-unused table pushed against the wall. A dented gas cylinder hissed softly, flames licking beneath a blackened sufuria. Behind them loomed the old blackboard — once a proud teaching tool, now covered in faded chalk graffiti and mysterious doodles. Only one message stood out clearly, written in bold white chalk:
“STAFF MEETING – MONDAY, 8:30 A.M.”
The dust around it suggested that meeting had taken place several months ago.
The smell of frying onions filled the air, blending with the scent of worn-out lesson plans and distant dreams. One student hummed a gospel tune while the other stirred the greens with the intense focus of a man being marked by heaven.
T.A. sighed, leaned back, and flashed me a tired smile.
“You see, Ombogo,” he said, “this computer has a spirit. It only works when it feels appreciated.”
I chuckled. “Maybe it’s waiting for you to apologize for shouting at it on Monday.”
He grinned. “Eh, you might be right. I should talk to it nicely — like a jealous wife.”
He gave the CPU a gentle pat. “Please, my good machine, let us work.”
We both held our breath. The desktop whirred, coughed, blinked… then died in peace.
T.A. threw his hands up. “Haki! This thing is worse than KCSE results!”
We both burst into laughter — the kind that comes from exhaustion and defiance mixed in equal measure.
The students, unfazed, served the sukuma wiki onto two extra-round plates — the kind that seemed to command quiet respect from certain quarters. No one really knew why. They were just plates — wide, heavy, and ordinary — yet they carried an air of prestige, as if they had attended every seminar on discipline and decorum.
They placed them beside the faithful jug of sour milk.
It was already 8:30 p.m., and the flickering fluorescent bulb above us painted lazy shadows on the cracked walls.
We ate quietly for a while, our conversation meandering through failed lessons, bright students, and the eternal riddle of why school tea always tasted like it had completed its master’s degree.
When the plates were finally empty and Lucille had long faded into the night, we stepped outside. The air was cool, the moon hung low, and the school slept — its silence broken only by the distant bark of a dog and the rhythmic creak of an old gate in the wind.
We walked toward what we fondly called the wisdom-adding zone — a lonely spot far from the staffroom, where you could see whoever was coming from both ends long before they saw you. It wasn’t on any map, but every seasoned soul in the compound knew it existed. It was where proponents pretending to be opposers gathered to turn grievances into jokes, gossip into philosophy, and silence into quiet truth.
It was also the one place where a man could tell another what the air was carrying for him — softly, like a secret folded in the wind.
The zone sat beside a once-condemned residence — a stubborn survivor of time and termites. Its doors were scarred with chalk scribbles from forgotten history lessons — words like “SOVIET UNION” still visible through the dust. Someone had even drawn Lenin, though decay had long upgraded him into abstract art.
It was also the same building where The Earlyman stored dung — carefully collected from the school fields, packed with pride, and guarded like currency. He said it was for his shamba, but we all suspected it was a silent act of rebellion — fertilizer for both crops and sarcasm. On closing day, he’d wheel it home with the calm dignity of a man exporting national resources.
The Earlyman was T.A.’s neighbor in their compound — a title that stretched the meaning of privacy. Their compound was simply their house - two adjacent rooms sharing one heroic wall and roof. You could confirm if one was home without knocking — just listen for the gentle creak of a bed and then, “Ujijazie ufunge mlango.”
At that moment, you knew your neighbor was safely in, communing with his mattress and dreams.
T.A. walked slowly ahead, hands buried in his pockets, each step deliberate — the slow, dignified shuffle of a man leading a peace delegation. By the time we reached the spot, he looked like he had negotiated a truce with his knees.
We stood there for a while, quiet under the heavy breath of the night. The smell of fried onions still clung faintly to our clothes, mingling with the damp scent of red earth and unspoken thoughts.
Then, as always, we closed the evening with our best quote — the one that carried us through weeks, through laughter, through life itself:
“Hata simba mkali hutiwa mimba.”
T.A. nodded, his face solemn, his eyes glinting with tired wisdom.
“Deep words, my friend.”
I laughed. “Wisdom, my brother. Pure wisdom Ombogo.”
And so we disappeared into the night — T.A. walking slowly, his steps a hymn of fatigue and quiet victory — full of sukuma wiki, sour milk, and the small peace that comes at the end of long weeks.
Above us, the moon floated like an old lantern, and the wind hummed through the acacia trees — carrying our laughter, our stories, our tired joy across the sleeping fields.
Somewhere, the condemned house creaked softly, the ghosts of chalk and history whispering to each other, and even the old computer — stubborn as it was — seemed to dream of waking again on Monday.
For now, the night was ours — calm, cracked, and beautifully alive — like the quiet page between two long chapters of the same small, endless story.

Big shout out to my newest top fans! Bellyne Six

Congratulations William Samoei Arap Ruto. Long live our President. It's time to unite the country. Love one another and keep peace. COUNTRY FIRST