I’ve been wondering what the craze is with kids, these days. You’ll have noticed that wherever you stand, here in Kigali or in the villages upcountry, if there are any school children passing, they’ll invariably run to you to ask you the time.

I can understand it when they ask for empty, plastic water bottles, but why the time? Unhealthy as they are, the water bottles can be used by the school children to carry water. The water can be from home or, in the case of children from the village, from water wells.

As for time, why ask? Everywhere you look, these days there is a device of some sort, telling time. In fact, you don’t have to look! Wherever you are, there’ll be a radio blaring, and announcing the time of the day or night every few minutes. Also, any kid can pick a time-device toy anywhere, for a song.

A long, long time ago when I was a kid, you didn’t just run to a watch-wearer and blurt out: "Ni isaha zingahe?”(What time is it?) This was because anybody wearing a watch was not just a person: he/she was a personage.

And a personage was somebody of such high standing in our community that even mature men did not dare go near them, unless they were asked.

In fact, in our community at the slopes of Mount Muhabura in the 1950s, there existed only three personages: two white, one black.

There was Rwanwa Rutuku, the be-robed, long-bearded white priest; Vanduruwera Gasutamo, the youthful white customs officer; and Bwana Surushefu, the local sub-chief, father to yours truly. These were the only proud owners of ‘chronometers’ in our area.

Being rather elderly, my old man did not exhibit the typical ‘symptoms’ of a watch-owner, but I used to see them aplenty on his fellow local sub-chiefs, especially those who were still young, whenever they came visiting.

These were young men who had been to Astrida (today’s Butare), which meant that they had been to the highest institution of learning.

That highest institution of learning was three years after the six-year primary education, of course, but that is neither here nor there.

Suffice it to say that they belonged to a distinguished class called ‘Les Evolué’, a class of higher species of humans who had evolved from primitive beings. An évolué was a personage of high distinction.

He walked bent to the left side, weighed down by his watch. His hair pointed to the right side at the front, with a parting in the hair, on the left side of the head, and he moved as if there were springs in the heels of his feet.

He wore ‘merisereza’ or ‘teregari’ trousers and a white nylon shirt, with a scarf around his neck to keep the sweat from the collar.

In parting their hair on the left side, the évolués were trying to look like their ‘civilized’ white masters, without knowing that whites were not blessed with hair that could resist being blown about by the wind.

Moreover, our dear black brothers were ordered never to part their hair on the right side. Whoever tried, they were warned, would face death, because it was the preserve of the Belgian royalty.

However, mine is to talk about watches and I should not veer onto the foreign terrain of lifestyles in the 1950s when those who lived them are here and can tackle the topic with more confidence.

They are hardy sages who have weathered many a storm and are worse for wear, for sure, but they are still going strong and can tell a story better than the best bard.

In their time, you did not wear a watch as a simple timekeeping device. You wore a wristwatch to denote your class as an évolué, which is why it always had to be prominently displayed on your wrist.

An évolué therefore had a metal ring around his left bicep to hoist up his shirt sleeve, so that the watch could be seen by all and sundry.

If the watch risked not being seen, an évolué repeatedly made as if to check the time but, in doing so, he swept his whole arm up around his head with a lot of ceremony, then peered at its dial for long as if he was short-sighted.

After that, he moved it to a distance and looked at it as if he was long-sighted! As he walked, he swung his arm back and forth in a wide semi-circle, such that the watch sparkled in the sun.

Lucky for our évolué, the watches of the time went cheap. The most commonly worn watch then was an Oris, which you could get at the princely price of Frw15. Remember, of course, that the money of the time had more value than our money today, and that only the men of means could afford a Timex at Frw25.

At more than Frw 100, an Omega could only be bought by the economic heavy-weights of the time! One such heavy-weight has left one such Omega as a heritage, and it can be espied on the proud wrist of one Canisius, a ‘grandmaster-crafter’ of languages here in Kigali.

Of course, our dear language crafter here is blissfully oblivious of the fact that, in comparison with some watches, an Omega was a toy!

In the world of watches at the time, the Rolex was king. That is why it was known by the royal moniker of ‘oyster marine-air synchronising chronometer’, and not by the peasant name of ‘watch’.

It could be got for as much as Frw1,000 of the time, a mega colossal sum by any standards! Oh, that the pride of these time pieces should die with technology!

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