MACHARA PRIMARY SCHOOL
Chapter 10
At Machara Primary, lunch break was not a break — it was a national marathon. The rule was sacred: one hour sharp! When the bell rang, desks flew, slippers disappeared midair, and the compound turned into a human stampede. You didn't walk home — you launched yourself.
Some pupils ran like Olympic sprinters, others collided with stones and lost toenails that ended up looking like burnt matchsticks. But pain was for the weak — a leaf wrap or dirty handkerchief was enough first aid before continuing the race.
Reaching home was a mission of survival, not luxury. You ate whatever existed. Cold ugali? Perfect. Sour porridge that smelled like expired Fanta? Even better. No food? Two sticks of raw sugarcane and a prayer did the job. Then came the return trip — full stomachs, sweaty bodies, and flying dust. Some ate while running back, clutching cassava like Olympic torches.
Being late was a death sentence — teachers waited at the gate armed like KDF soldiers. Yet unknowingly, our school was training future athletes. Today's national runners owe their stamina to that one-hour "Machara Lunch Break Marathon."
It wasn't just a meal break — it was pure chaos, discipline, and comedy rolled into sixty unforgettable minutes.
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