British Boys' School Blues

Yank Go Home!

Kenya, 1967

“Look, over there, that’s our name!” My family had just cleared customs at the Nairobi airport and among the group in the waiting room was an African man wearing a gray uniform and a purple fez. He was tall and thin, smiled broadly, and held a sign with “Hedin” printed in capital letters. I waved wildly.

“I am Nicholas,” the man said, “I am your driver.” I had never heard an accent like his. He pronounced his name “Nee-ko-lass” and said he was our “der-eye-vah.” His skin was a very deep brown and he had three thick horizontal scars on each cheek. I didn’t understand why, but I could see it was intentional.

Nicholas attempted to carry all the luggage, but when this proved impossible, he allowed my father and I to each carry something. The waiting car was a big Mercedes limo, and I got to sit in the front seat as my parents spread out in the back. As we left the airport, we were immediately surrounded by miles of grassland—quite a contrast to the urban congestion around JFK. We could see giraffes and herds of antelope from the car windows. I was stunned. It was better than Daktari combined with Kimba the White Lion! (Later I learned that giraffes were everywhere. They were like squirrels.)

I peppered Nicholas with questions about animals.

“Is this your first time in Africa?” he asked me.

“This is my first time anywhere!” I said. “Where are we going now?”

“To the New Stanley Hotel,” he said expansively, “the finest hotel in all of Kenya!”

The New Stanley Hotel

was a relic from a bygone era; genteel but a little worn at the heels. The doorman was dressed in a wool greatcoat and top hat, despite the heat, and opened the door with a flourish.

“Welcome Bwana, welcome Memsahib!” he said, as my parents exited the limo. “And welcome to you too, Bwana Kidogo!” That became one of my nicknames going forward, loosely translated as “little boss.”

We checked in, and the clerk handed my father an envelope containing a message from his new boss. The boss would be sending a car around at five o’clock, to take us to his home for dinner. My mother groaned. It was already three, and she was worn out from the trip, but there was no choice.

We spruced up, and Nicholas was there for us at five. We drove through a neighborhood on the outskirts of Nairobi, where the roads were dirt and houses were made of flattened tin, cardboard, and plywood, then into an area called Westlands, where we passed one beautiful home after another. We pulled up to a sprawling stone ranch house surrounded by a manicured lawn, tropical flowers, and trees. I looked around for the monkeys I hoped were hiding in the greenery.

As we approached the house,

the door was opened by an African man wearing a white Nehru-style jacket, black trousers, and a purple fez. I noticed his bare feet. He swept his arm, welcoming us in and motioning to enter. We walked into a cavernous room and could hear people talking on the porch, which I learned was called a veranda. I could sense that my parents were a little intimidated by the grandeur from the way they looked wide-eyed at each other.

A big man with a sweeping white mustache and white owlish eyebrows walked over. “Charles! Ellen!” he effused, in a British accent. “And who have we here?”

“Eric,” I squeaked.

“You’re the lad we’ve set up at Cavina Boys School—an excellent choice as you’ll see. The Lavington School is closer, but they have started to let Africans in.”

My parents just nodded at this.

“I’m Neville Stoneham,” he continued. “I answer to Stony, but I’m also called Big Fish, because of this.” He pointed to his opulent mustache.

“Join us, please.”

Stony led us out to the veranda, where five other adults were seated. I was then encouraged to entertain myself by exploring the estate, so I went outside to look for monkeys. I don’t remember what we ate but I do remember extra forks and spoons, and being given a drink called orange squash. And I saw my father behaving in a subdued manner, for the first time in my life.

We left that dinner with a rental house being chosen, a club being decided upon, a car being delivered, (“A gold Vauxhall, very smart!” according to Stony) a school being figured out, and three servants hired: a houseboy, a shamba boy and an askari.

My mother protested, stating she could take care of everything, but was dismissed out of hand. Stony’s wife explained to her that the “houseboy,” (a grown man) would do the housework, and that the family he had been with previously said he was a wonderful cook. The “shamba boy” (another grown man) would take care of the property—he was a wonderful gardener, but didn’t speak English. The “askari,” or guard, would patrol the property from dusk ’til dawn, keeping us safe. From what? my mother wondered aloud, when we were on our way home.

Our house would not be ready

for a couple of weeks, so until then we would remain at the hotel. We brought our cat, Sven, with us to Africa, and he was in quarantine to determine if he’d brought any dangerous cat viruses to endanger the lion population. We were still living at the hotel when Sven was given the all-clear. There was a general consternation about a cat staying in our suite. Cat litter did not exist in Nairobi, and my mother was encouraging Sven to “go” on newspaper, with poor results. I thought I would solve the problem by taking him out on a leash. I buckled him into his collar and stepped into the elevator.

“I say, what have you there?” asked the other passenger, an Englishman in a safari suit.

“This is my cat, Sven. I’m going to take him for a walk.”

“That will never do—one of the strays will attack him! You need to give him a sandbox. I am Dr. Leakey, and you are…?”

“I’m Eric Hedin, from New York.”

“Follow me, Eric.”

At that point Dr. Richard Leakey, the famous paleontologist, took charge. I actually knew of him from National Geographic, and was starstruck! He went to the kitchen, got a wooden beer crate, and then he and I went to the lot behind the hotel and scooped sand into the box.

The sandbox worked for Sven, and I continued to run into Dr. Leakey during our stay at the New Stanley, which was a hub for the expat community. I later learned he got divorced after an affair with his assistant and sparked a scandal like his father Louis Leakey did in the 1930s. Maybe they both used the New Stanley for their trysts.

On moving day,

my dad drove us in our new gold Vauxhall to a tree-shaded suburb. Our new house was made of stone, single-story, five bedrooms with windows all around, and a veranda in the back. The large yard was all tropical gardens with banana trees, papaya plants, and even a grenadine tree. Things rustled in the greenery, and in one of the towering baobabs I saw what I was sure was a monkey. We met our houseboy, Jackson, who was a kind man with a quick smile. His English was impeccable. Jackson was from the Luo tribe and was Bahai.

There was a compound at the edge of the property that was the servant’s quarters: three cement rooms and a toilet. Our shamba boy was named Jesro. He was from the Meru tribe and spoke little English. Jesro would become my bestie, and soon I would be speaking Swahili with him like a real local.

The evening of the first day, we met Emmanuel, our askari, or guard, from the Kikuyu tribe. He wore a dark blue long coat with big brass buttons, and a white police-style cap. He carried a bow, arrows, and a long club with a knob at the end. Emmanuel knew enough English to introduce himself, and to assure my parents that he had the scene under control.

Our house was the third house from the neighboring Kikuyu village. From the edge of our driveway you could see the thatched roofs of the huts, and smoke curling up from cook fires. On our first night, the drums started at full dark, first slow, then building to a crescendo.

I knew what was going to happen: every cowboy movie ever made has drumming as a prelude to an attack. I’d seen those movies.

From inside the house, we could see Emmanuel patrolling with an arrow nocked as if preparing for a skirmish. Jackson was already in his quarters, and my father was not home. My mother was upset and trying to hide it. I knew she was scared, so I was scared. We stood close together looking in the direction of the village and breathing shallowly. About an hour in, the drumming stopped. By the end of the week we were used to the drums, and the sound induced our wind-down for the evening.

Soon after moving to the house,

we visited Cavina Boys School, which was already in session. All the boys were in uniform: blue blazer, white shirt, striped tie, blue cap, khaki shorts, gray knee socks with attached flags, and black shoes. The cap and blazer featured the school crest: a child being tortured. I was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a peacoat. The boys stared at me like I’d just stepped out of a flying saucer.

We were shown around the school and introduced to the teachers, all Englishmen, who were referred to as “Masters.” The headmistress was very sweet, but she was not really in charge. Master Williams was the true power behind the school. He and his henchman, Master Etheridge, ruled Cavina Boys School with an iron fist.

I was excited to go shopping for my new duds and to finally retire my hushpuppies for a pair of black lace-ups. My clothes were ironed by Jackson, and laid out in preparation for my first day of school.

There was no bus, so my father drove me to school. My father was always running late, and he dropped me outside the gate ten minutes after the bell. I ran to the classroom as fast as I could. I entered the classroom, a cement building with jalousie windows all around. Master Williams said, “You’re late. We do not run except during PT. You will return to the gate and walk back.”

“Okay.” I shrugged.

“That’s yes sir!” he barked.

I walked back to the gate, down a very long driveway, in full view of two classrooms. I returned walking slowly, seeing some of the boys smirking.

“We don’t wear our hats askew. Return to the gate with your hat on straight.”

I shifted my hat so it was centered. “Okay, I mean yes sir.” I stammered.

I walked back to the gate, pivoted, and turned back. I walked carefully, being sure not to jostle my hat, or anything else that may have earned me another round trip.

The Gates of Hell: Cavina Boys School

“Boys, this is Hedin,”

Master Williams said. “He is the first American here at Cavina. Hedin, tell the class what the capital of America is.”

I was sure I had it. “New York City!” I proclaimed.

He smiled broadly. Some of the boys actually tittered.

“Anyone else?”

A boy I came to know as Woods stated. “The capital of the United States is Washington, DC.”

He turned to me, smirking, “Yank.”

Going forward I was mainly called Yank, in a very derisive tone. Since we were all going by our surnames, brothers had it bad. There were three Mottershead boys, and they were known as Major, Minor and Minimus. I was friends with Minimus. I never did learn his first name.

Later that day I learned about the tacky. Since I’d been late to school, I was to be given “five with the tacky.” “Tacky” was British torture-speak for a sneaker. After the first lesson, which was probably Latin, I was escorted to a storeroom. I was told to bend over, and a grown-ass man, Master Williams himself, administered five staunch hits on my rear end with a “tacky.” I was more astonished that this was happening to me than anything else. It was a week or so before I received “six of the best,” with a bamboo cane.

The caning came about

after I was told to read the Bible aloud during Bible-Aloud class. I was reading about building something, cubits and whatnot, but the thing that got me caned was the bit about shittim wood. At the age of ten, saying shittim wood, which was pronounced shit-him, was pretty funny. Back in Queens, Phil, Ernie, Frankie, and I said “shit” in front of each other all the time, but saying it in a classroom sent me into paroxysms of mirth. After my third episode of whinnying, I was told “ENOUGH!” and I closed the Bible.

I was then frogmarched to the storage room by Master Williams and given “six of the best” with a thin bamboo cane. I was pretty stoic during the caning, but it hurt and I cried afterwards.

In retrospect, I feel that Master Williams, who, I have to add, looked and sounded exactly like Dr. Smith from Lost in Space, assigned me this particular scripture on purpose. Masters Williams and Etheridge were unrelenting in my persecution, as were a number of the other boys, especially the prefects who were narcs for the Masters. But I did manage to make a few friends—Minimus and two Indian kids who got it as bad as me, especially the unfortunately named Mudfahrti.

I told my parents about my treatment but they just shrugged it off. Their attitude was, if that’s how things were done in this country, I would just need to behave. The tackying continued, as did the bullying by the prefects.

Practicing in my Cavina School uniform. Thankfully, Sid Vicious later inspired me to ditch piano and take up bass

PT, or physical torture,

was a daily event. Primarily we lined up in rows and did calisthenics, jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups—pretty standard stuff. Other days we would play soccer, but they called it football; I sucked at it. We also played cricket; I sucked worse. The real trauma-treat was swimming. There was a pool locker room, where we were to change into our trunks. My first time in the locker room, I looked around in horror, seeing that everyone’s penis was different from mine. They all had long covers over their wieners, while I was sporting a polished knob. I rushed to get into my trunks, hoping nobody would notice my deformity.

Thereafter on Thursdays, swimming day, I did my best to appear sick so that I would not have to risk public ridicule. After the third Thursday in a row, my father asked what was going on. I was embarrassed and scared, and started to cry. I pointed to my crotch and said, “Everyone is different than me, they’ve all got an extra thing on the end.”

My father started to laugh. Once he was done, he said, “Follow me.”

We went into the bathroom and he unzipped his pants and brought out his penis.

It looked like everyone else’s.

“You are circumcised. When you were born we decided to have your foreskin removed. It’s easier for you.”

I was horrified that I had been mutilated for ease of some kind. I was the original othered kid. My dad assured me that in America it was unusual for a boy to be uncircumcised. I was forced back to school on Thursdays, but did my best to change with my back to everyone.

At Cavina, problems between

the boys were to be worked out man-to-man. I got into some kind of row with an older, bigger boy by the name of Rogers. He was a ruddy-faced blonde, a full head taller than me, and at least two years older. One of the Masters decided we would settle our beef in the boxing ring. A few years earlier, my dad had set up a punching bag in the attic and got us both gloves, so I had the basics down. I was a little panicked as we approached each other to bump gloves, and I sucker-punched Rogers in the face. He went down, and when he sat up he was crying. Score one for the Yank.

A few days later we were reading aloud from a book of poems. Master Williams told me to turn to page 68 and read to the class. I opened the book and found that a number of pages were missing, including page 68.

Master Williams repeated, “Read aloud, page 68.”

I riffled the pages, shook the book and he approached my desk.

“Page 68,” he said louder.

“There is no page 68,” I stammered, “It’s missing.”

“You defaced our book!” he yelled, as he slapped me in the back of the head. My head hit the desk and left two indentations where my front teeth bounced off the surface. There was a hush as the other boys all looked at me. Master Williams was flushed and looked as if he could not believe what he had done.

He took the book from me and turned to another boy and bellowed, “Page 68.”

The boy recited the poem while I sniffled silently.⁜

Coming Next:

My dad goes all “North Dakota farm boy” on Master Williams

AND, If you missed Part One of my Kenya series, read it here:

Thanks for reading or listening.

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Feel free to share your own school traumas in the comments! I’d love to hear from you.

Until next time,

Eric