The Challenge!

I was having a chat with Edith today and she gave me a challenge. After exchanging the usual nitty gritties I told her that I was bored, at an 'idle state of mind.' Her response was both a challenge and a motivation. To 'write something' was her prescription for my boredom. It confirmed what I knew all along, that I can write well, at least someone thinks so! Taking on the challenge, allow me to write about me, who doesn't love selfies anyway. How about my obsession with writing.
My love for literature hasn't developed over the last fortnight. It has been there for as long as I can remember. Back in primary school my English teacher, Mrs. Nderitu (also my Headteacher) was critical in my development. A tough lady, she made us write compositions daily and the same would be marked early the next morning. By the students themselves! And the best would be read to the class as an example. Mine made it to the list almost daily. And she liked it. No, she liked me! Sure enough, my coast trip was fully sponsored by her. Or rather by the school, through her. Those August trips you make when in class 8 as a retreat prior to the KCPE. I didn't pay a penny! Not when I was a constant number one. Talking of numbers, there's a time I was toppled from my usual spot. Despite being position three, I was awarded the best price. A binoculars, best by my own standards. This is because others (positions 1&2) got exercise books and pens. She said a binoculars would help me to look at how far behind I had been left by the others and to thus worker harder. I did work hard yes! I read more.
I used to read all manner of books. Ben Carson's bestseller, Think Big, was my inspiration, a darling to me. It made me someone's darling, my dad's darling! This was however shortlived until I started reading books that seemed wierd to him, at least at my age. I remember being obsessed with John Kiriamiti's 'My life in crime'. One day  I came home reading Sinister Trophy, his other publication, to the dismay of my dad. 'Whose book is that?' He retorted. I knew what that meant. My dad was angry and one of those lightning slaps could follow any time. I could only manage to fumble words to the sound of, 'Nelson.' Nelson was my bestfriend, the owner of the book. My dad wasn't impressed as evidenced by his next question. 'Kaî endaga gûtuîka mûici?' That's French for, 'does he intend to be a thief?' Well, I can't remember finishing that book. True story by the way!