You never choose where you live or go to school when you are the height of your mother’s petticoat.
So, the nonsense of teasing people depending on where they grew up when they were knee high in height is a retardation indicative of those who should have their school fee refunded. At that age, you have no choice.
And we didn’t have much choice either when schools closed as the paterfamilias spirited us from the dusty cotton soils of Eastlands to shags where we were meant to, among others; know our relatives, learn how to plant a hoe in the soil grandpa was buried, and more importantly, to sandpaper our mother tongue and learn to differentiate dogs from goats.
When you went shags, social learning comprised of not deviating from the beaten path. When the petroleum jelly was over, going to church after smearing yourself with what remained of Kimbo or Kapa cooking oil was fine thank you, even by standards of the Old Testament.
Now picture shining foreheads smelling like food!
Kapa made red dust to gather around the ankles after bathroom slippers flip flapped on the murram road, but when it kwishad, rubbing Omo with water and soaking the lather on your legs didn’t raise eyebrows. Never mind when it rained, the legs really got to foam!
Then there was kujipaka mafuta ya Nguno, the cow. Arimis, for that is the name, when applied on Nguno’s nyosh made milking easier, but when smeared on your hands led strangers into asking: “Nani huyo ametoka kukamua mobe?” It took a while to know mobe was ng’ombe!