MACHARA PRIMARY SCHOOL
Chapter 4
At Machara Primary, there was one day feared more than exam day — School Farm Digging Day. The mere announcement was enough to make your spine ache. The headteacher's booming voice would echo across the assembly:
"Tomorrow, everyone brings a jembe! Class Six — pangas and slashers for the fence!"
And just like that, our humble school transformed into Machara Agricultural Company Ltd.
During lunch, pupils ate like condemned prisoners — double ugali, triple beans, and enough porridge to power a tractor. By afternoon, the classroom looked like an armory of rusty weapons — jembes that survived the Mau Mau war, pangas without handles, and slashers bending like chapati. Still, we marched proudly to the farm like prisoners reporting for duty.
The farm was massive, stretching beyond the horizon, yet none of the maize or beans ever reached our mouths. Teachers and the watchman feasted while we sipped porridge and dreams. The head boy, self-appointed supervisor, shouted orders like a military general:
"Dig deeper! Make it straight!"
By sunset, we were blistered, bent, and broken — but at least excused from evening lessons. Years later, many classmates became agriculture experts. After all, Machara trained us early — free of charge. We weren't just students; we were unpaid farm interns of the education system.
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