I joined Gitithia Primary School when its classrooms were still made of wood, back when the walls were so thin that one could easily slip through the spaces in the partition walls. I remember sitting in Miss Paul's class, my small legs barely touching the ground, and how, if one was daring enough, they could crawl through the gap in the wall to Mrs. Alice Wakibiriru’s classroom next door. It was a world where rules were bent, and the lines between classrooms blurred as easily as the pencil marks on our wooden desks.
The school was a bustling place back then, with more than a thousand pupils filling the compound. Some classes had four streams, each bursting with over 40 pupils. It was a time of noise and laughter, of children running through the fields, and of teachers who somehow managed to keep order amid the chaos. The classrooms, though humble, were alive with the energy of young minds eager to learn.
As I grew older, so did the school. The parents, with their sweat and determination, began to replace the wooden structures with stone. I remember watching the men and women of the village mixing cement and laying bricks under the hot sun. Their hands were rough and calloused, but their spirits were unyielding. They knew that education was the key to a better future, and they were willing to build that future, one class at a time.
Only two classrooms were built with funds from the Constituency Development Fund (CDF) during the Kimathi era. The rest remains as parents handwork whose resources were stretched thin. Still, the school stood strong, a testament to the villagers' commitment to their children’s education.
Yet, as the years passed, something began to change. The vibrant energy that once filled Gitithia Primary School started to fade. The population of the school declined, and with it, the spirit that had once made the place so special. The classrooms that had once echoed with the sounds of learning now felt empty and cold. The school's performance slipped, and the once-proud institution became a shadow of its former self.
Despite all this, the villagers clung to a stubborn belief: githomo ti thuruari. Education had not turned into mere underwear, they said, inculcating the idea that its value had diminished to learners. But deep down, we all knew that something had gone wrong. The school that had once been the heart of our community was now in decline, and no one seemed to know how to reverse the trend.
The story of Gitithia Primary School is a tale of a dream built with bare hands and then slowly crumbling away. It’s a story of a community that believed in the power of education but somehow lost its way. And as I stand now, looking at the old stone classrooms, I can't help but wonder what will become of the next generation, and whether they will find a way to rebuild what we have lost.
The school was a bustling place back then, with more than a thousand pupils filling the compound. Some classes had four streams, each bursting with over 40 pupils. It was a time of noise and laughter, of children running through the fields, and of teachers who somehow managed to keep order amid the chaos. The classrooms, though humble, were alive with the energy of young minds eager to learn.
As I grew older, so did the school. The parents, with their sweat and determination, began to replace the wooden structures with stone. I remember watching the men and women of the village mixing cement and laying bricks under the hot sun. Their hands were rough and calloused, but their spirits were unyielding. They knew that education was the key to a better future, and they were willing to build that future, one class at a time.
Only two classrooms were built with funds from the Constituency Development Fund (CDF) during the Kimathi era. The rest remains as parents handwork whose resources were stretched thin. Still, the school stood strong, a testament to the villagers' commitment to their children’s education.
Yet, as the years passed, something began to change. The vibrant energy that once filled Gitithia Primary School started to fade. The population of the school declined, and with it, the spirit that had once made the place so special. The classrooms that had once echoed with the sounds of learning now felt empty and cold. The school's performance slipped, and the once-proud institution became a shadow of its former self.
Despite all this, the villagers clung to a stubborn belief: githomo ti thuruari. Education had not turned into mere underwear, they said, inculcating the idea that its value had diminished to learners. But deep down, we all knew that something had gone wrong. The school that had once been the heart of our community was now in decline, and no one seemed to know how to reverse the trend.
The story of Gitithia Primary School is a tale of a dream built with bare hands and then slowly crumbling away. It’s a story of a community that believed in the power of education but somehow lost its way. And as I stand now, looking at the old stone classrooms, I can't help but wonder what will become of the next generation, and whether they will find a way to rebuild what we have lost.
