The city kid

The city kid is John Ouma, who has just got great results in his final school exams.  He sees his African village as backward and lacking a future.  He can't wait to put his family and the village behind him, and to get to the bright lights of the city.  His uncle has pulled some strings, and he has a great new job waiting for him.  He dreams of an independent life with lots of money and all it can buy.

He's determined to aim for the top, and he is confident that he will get there.  His friend warns him that, 'There's a lovely view at the top, but if you fall off, you'll hit the bottom very hard!'  Will The city kid make it, or should he have heeded that warning?

This is an exciting story, which is also very thought provoking.

Age guideline:  Young adults

Here are some extracts from Chapter One of  The city kid:

“Independence!”

The word itself seemed to have the magic of a spell conjuring up a brilliant future.  John Ouma spoke the word aloud and the syllables sounded sweet in his ears.  He wasn’t thinking of his country’s Independence Day, due to be celebrated later in the month; this was something far more personal.

“My independence,” he whispered to himself, as he strolled down the narrow main street of his village, keeping to the shade of the acacia trees that edged the murram track.  He began whistling softly between his teeth.  Today was a day to savour: the day he had received the results of his A Level examinations – three good passes with an A grade in Maths. It was what he needed to fulfil his ambitions.

He stopped at the local store where one could buy the basics of life – millet flour, maize, beans, fresh fruit such as oranges and mangoes, soap, washing powder and a few extras .....

Despite the presence of this shop, Mkandu presented, in John’s mind, a depressing picture: progress and development had largely passed by this place.  It was like being on another planet compared to the buzz and excitement of Kamobi, the capital city.  The village was in a time warp, stuck in the middle of the twentieth century – or perhaps an earlier time when the British ruled the country, dependent on subsistence agriculture and lacking any prospects for young people with ambition. Even the road, with its trickle of traffic, led to nowhere important.  The village seemed like a dusty dead end.

On the other side of the road, behind a screen of mvule trees, John could see the long classroom block of the local primary school and the uneven, grassless football pitch where he had so often played in the past.  The school building was beginning to crumble and the corrugated iron roof was rusted with age.  Close by was the local chief’s compound, the only building in the area that had a tiled roof.  Beyond that John could make out a small cluster of circular thatched huts, shimmering in the late afternoon heat.  My home, thought John – my home for all 19 years of my life.

It seemed amazing to John that he had spent so much of his life in that small compound, treading the same pathways, sheltering under the same mango tree, sleeping in the same cramped hut which he shared with his younger brothers.  Going away to boarding school for his secondary education had given him a taste of independence, and now, with three good A Level passes under his belt, he felt ready for a complete break from the restrictions of village life.

John ..... wandered across the road to the Mobile Phone shop, which sold lottery tickets as well as phone accessories.  One side of the building had been painted in the vivid green-and-purple colours of Mob-Tel, one of the main telephone networks in the country, and the front had a banner stretched across the wall above a solitary window, announcing the company’s slogan:  “Join the Crowd.  Join Mob-Tel.”  Next to the slogan was an image of smiling African faces, all young and lively, obviously enjoying life.  Such an image seemed strangely out of place in this village, thought John, but even the older generation had learnt the value of mobile phones.  Even his mother, who had never progressed beyond the third year at primary school and who spoke no English, loved her mobile phone.

Peering through the open door into a haze of cigarette smoke, John greeted the middle-aged man behind the counter.  “Hi! How’s business?”  The man snorted in response:  “Business? In this place?  It’s like trying to revive a dead body!  I’m leaving at the end of the month – let someone else waste his time here.”

John smiled in sympathy.  “You’re not the only one leaving here.”

“Who else is going?”

“Me of course!  I’m heading for the bright city lights of Kamobi!”

“Good for you – although I wonder how you’ll make a living there.  Kamobi is bursting at the seams with people from the country trying to find work.”

John couldn’t stop himself grinning with delight.  “I don’t have to find it.  I’ve got a job lined up.  All I needed was some good A Level grades.”  He fished in his back pocket for a carefully folded document, which he waved briefly in front of the shopkeeper.  “And this piece of paper, from the examinations board, is my passport to success!” .....

Did it prove to be his passport to success?  Read the rest of The city kid to find out.