Survival for the fittest…I learnt this lesson the hard way by the end of my first week in boarding school.  For the first few days, I had felt too conceited to run towards the dining hall at the sound of the bell. You see, my mother had taught me that the sight of food should never make me behave like a vulture; I knew I had to sit down on the dining table, give thanks to the man upstairs and then eat my food like civilized human being. Either that or my behind would get decorated with the marks of a cain which she was often kind enough to let me pick out.

For the first two days, I walked while almost everyone else zoomed past me and by the time I would arrive, there would be no more food left. So I resigned myself to depending on the junk food that I had carried from home.  Needless to say, within a week, I was out of stock and I instantly threw my mother’s virtues out of the window.

The day was Monday, the time was 7a.m, it was biting cold and my stomach was grumbling. I had to eat. It didn’t matter if I shed my last drop of blood; I was determined to get my hands on a cup of porridge. "The race is for the swift, the race is for the strong, the race is for those who are willing to fight with all their might to win the prize.” These thoughts rushed through my head as I ran like the wind with the rest of the herd.

John Rucaca, the boy who was standing right behind me, was one of those who had studied and thus truly understood the concept of survival. They hadn’t nicknamed him ‘Igikoma’ (porridge) for nothing. I finally reached the front of the line and my cup was filled but as fate would have it, someone made a push that sent most of us falling to the ground. When I sat up, I saw Igikoma right next to me. He was holding my cup of porridge. He had grabbed it from me right before I hit the ground…he was now drinking it.