MACHARA PRIMARY SCHOOL
Chapter 6
At Machara Primary, the issue of shoes was pure comedy. If you made a pie chart, 90% of us were proudly barefoot, and the remaining 10% were the "privileged class." But that privilege meant slippers that looked older than independence, or school shoes with holes big enough for toes to wave like passengers leaning from a matatu.
Socks? Mythical items. You only heard about them. The few who had some turned them into ancient relics — by week two, they were stained, saggy, and proudly multicolored.
Break time exposed everyone. Barefoot pupils looked like they had walked through Sahara — dust thick enough to plaster a house. If an oiled leg accidentally brushed you, congratulations — you now had a brown footprint tattoo.
Parents were the masterminds behind this madness. Even those who could afford shoes looked around, saw everyone else barefoot, and said, "Why make my child proud alone? Let him suffer equally." So we all marched to school like professional marathoners in training.
Breaks doubled as medical camps. Pupils operated on each other's feet, removing jiggers and thorns with rusty needles, no anesthesia — just courage and the phrase, "Kaza kidogo, iko karibu kutoka."
Looking back, it's funny and sad. Our toes became bulldozers, our soles turned to leather — yet we never complained. Machara taught us one thing: shoes don't make students strong — suffering together does.
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