Mrs Marembo, the discipline teacher, was the queen of self-righteousness. She was always hovering over us, correcting us. But it wasn’t so much correcting as it was relentless criticism; at every turn, she made it clear to us that we would never measure up to the grace and pride her generation of women held. 

We couldn’t do right by her, no matter what. I swear, you could be seated straight, neck stretched, listening to the snooze pill that she called her voice and she would still criticise the way you breathe. 

There was a day she actually sent students home for dancing. They had attended a trade fair in another town, after which the DJ invited them to the stage to dance. 

Instead of acting like the snobs we had been taught to be, they had the nerve to dance and jump and sweat in school uniform. She narrated the story with pain in her voice.

Although, in all fairness, her voice was so highly pitched and she spoke so slowly that it always seemed as though she was on the verge of bursting into uncontrollable wailing whenever she spoke. Maybe it was our inability to measure up to her unrealistic expectations that left her in a continued state of sadness. 

So I feel that I don’t need to mention the fact that we loathed her. She didn’t even have a nickname because no nickname was good enough. We wished her a life of misery. When she got pregnant, we wished she would give birth to a goat. 

Our wishes didn’t come true. She gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. So beautiful was she that she had no resemblance whatsoever to the rest of Mrs. Marembo’s children. She was fair-skinned whereas her siblings were dark as the night. 

And so rumors started to fly. That Mrs. Marembo, the epitome of condescension, had had extramarital affairs and the baby was indisputable evidence of the godless act. As for paternity, all fingers pointed to the head cook. 

We didn’t believe it. Not because of her supposed aptness but because the woman was unlovable. We couldn’t fathom how any man would get look past her irksome ways and further look past her ummm…how do I say it politely…lack of a bearable physical appearance, enough to run around with her. 

The rumor was put to rest until one night when we had just settled in for prep, we heard loud screams and quick footsteps. Naturally, we all rushed out of our classrooms for fear of missing out on a great story. 

To our amusement, Mr Marembo was running towards the kitchen, knife in hand. Mrs Marembo was behind him, begging and pleading. We joined the party.

Mr Marembo was on his way to seek revenge on the head cook who had fathered his wife’s child. The rumor had been true. We stood there gasping, lost for words. 

There was no bloodbath. As it turns out, the head cook was light on his heels. Mr Marembo ran out of breath before he could catch him. 

I must confess that our school, being an all girls’ school, was an endless parade of scandals. But to this day, no scandal holds a candle to the Mrs Marembo incident. It was the mother of all scandals.