It’s one of those very rare moments that I, your father, decide to write a letter to you my boy. You come from a good stock of quick and wise thinkers and I’m sure you already know that it must be something emotional that makes me to write this piece to you. It is quite important to me that I write this short letter to you because I hate to imagine you getting this information from another source other than me, your father.
You know that you are a Kenyan and I want to advise you, as a really good father should, to enable you navigate the life’s labyrinth in this East African nation whose map looks like a dead cow’s skin. I want you to be a good student to your good teacher but promise me one thing son; you won’t be a teacher, will you?
How can you be a teacher? How can you? Do you really want to spend your entire lifetime wiping dirt from other people’s children? If you ignore my warning you will start by wiping their wet and dirty bottoms at the kindergarten and their slimy noses and unnecessary tears without realizing how much you will be filling their tabula rasa empty slates with your inherited wisdom.
Can you imagine, son, that majority of these kids do not even know the difference between their names and the images that surround them in their palatial homes? If you make a mistake of becoming a teacher, it will be your duty to teach them to identify themselves because you will have to teach them that their names sound exactly like the characters they see daily on their huge TV sets.continue