I was born at Wundanyi, a small agricultural town in Kenyas coastal Taita Hills.

My mother left an abusive marriage in 1966 with her three children, my elder brother Goddy, my younger sister Vayo and I, then a little boy of three called Don Bosco. I never saw my dad, nay, father again until 1991 at my sisters funeral, when my Mums elder brother pulled me aside and whispered there was someone he wanted me to meet. I honestly cannot remember a thing we spoke about, as in my mind the words of Kenny Rogers song; Stranger must have overshadowed the mournful dirges coming from outside Uncle Venants house where my father was waiting for me. I started nursery school at the nearby Bahati Community Centre, which was ran by the Presbyterian Church of East Africa, although at home I was reminded that we were Catholic. In fact, my name Don Bosco , I was told was given to me in honour of a saint. I also heard Mum named me after a musician by that name (and I remember her humming melodiously some oldies from Don Bosco Mwendwa's era as I grew up) My name remained a non-issue, however, until I joined standard one at Morrison Primary School across the road in 1969 and my class teacher, also from Taita Hills, vehemently refused to accept my name was "Don" and rewrote my name as "John" instead of Don, and for the many years, I now answered to the name John Bosco. Another peculiar childhood memory that has refused to go revolves around sex. It was my second year at Morrison. I had caught a big moth, the ones with eye designs on their wings and was curiously studying its posterior with a classmate when I thought my new female class teacher had overheard my comment that the moth was producing sperms. I remember my horror that she was reporting me when I saw her talking with the headmaster, the feared Mr. Mbatia, who had dropped by the classroom. Days later, Mr. Mbatia had not thundered the question Why? and soon I realised my class teacher had not overheard me. Everybody in Bahati estate spoke Kikuyu and it was not long before we were speaking the language at home, despite the fact that we were Taita and should have been speaking our mother tongue, Dawida. Most of our neighbours were equally poor with semi-educated parents. Mum dropped out of school at standard two due to lack of fees and a jealous step mother. She told us her suffering under the step mother again and again but said very little about dad, except that he had moved to Tanzania where he had remarried. Despite the poverty though, mum was committed to us and always extolled us to work hard in school. Mum worked as a bar maid in town and would swop for cash the drinks bought by revellers to augment her meagre wages. She would also bring us roast meat and sometimes chicken bought for her by some randy customer, which she would warm for us and watch us adoringly as we gobbled the delicacies down. I remember having my first library card signed and stamped at school before taking it to the Eastlands Library ran by the City Council of Nairobi in 1970 and sitting in the childrens section reading hard cover books with large type and pictures of children with equally big heads and eyes. From there on, I was hooked to reading. The library was near Our Lady of Visitation Catholic Church along Jogoo Road, a kilometre or so from home. That year I was baptised and the name John was now official after paying ten shillings. I even had a stint as an altar boy and even sneaked into the church hall where there was a boogie attended by bigger boys and girls. That day I danced my first blues with a girl I remember we called ka-beauty (small beauty). I even remember the song, Let it Be by the Beatles! Once bitten by the word-bug, I now walked to the library every other evening from school to soak up the stories and wonders from other worlds. Years later I was now allowed in the older childrens section of the library. Morrison primary too had a library where I read David Copperfield, and Grace Ogot and other writers to supplement my craving for written material. As if the heavens had conspired, each classroom had a library, teachers cupboard and the Bahati

Community Centre had a library too, where I gladly chewed book, as we say in Kenya. Outside the classroom, I was a regular boy who kept pigeons, raised rabbits, and a dog, Jack, bought by a neighbour but was virtually mine, and tried keeping a cat which mum expressly consigned to past tense. Years later, she admitted doing the cat in because she did not see why she should struggle to feed the three of us, and a flipping cat! I remember being referred to in Kikuyu as that little brown Taita boy, a mark I grudgingly carried because it made me so easy to describe, especially after I had broken a window pane or indulged in any other mischief. I lived in perpetual fear that a knock would be heard at the door and a neighbour or even a girl I had pinched, would step in and point a finger at me. Those were the days mum used to declare herself The Major, and with belt in hand unleash countless strokes at her offending child. I guess she took up that title in admiration of President Kenyatta Aide de Camp, Maj. Marsden Madoka, who had offered her a job as a cook at the Kenya Breweries Limited. Ironically, she stopped drinking when she started working at the breweries, saying she was doing so to ensure we got a good education each. Yet I was a bit confused; while I detested my lighter complexion, it seemed to be the envy of many especially my elder brothers classmate, Muthoni, whose adoration seemed a tad too intense. Arent you lucky that youre so brown!I clearly remember her asking me. But the biggest effect that my childhood pet peeve was to have on me, arguably, is my preference for darker girls when I started dating. While many African women will do anything to lighten their skins, I always said the darker the better! I remember in 1975, the excitement of when my brother, sister and I accompanied mums sisters husband, Uncle Christopher, for a visit to the place I was born, for the first time since we came to the city nine years earlier. We were surprised to hear everybody speaking in Taita and were inwardly ashamed that we had taken to speaking the strange Kikuyu at home. Without saying a word to each other the three of us never uttered a single Kikuyu word to each other again and instead spoke Swahili, since our Taita was so wobbly. In 1977, I joined form one at Starehe Boys Centre, a charitable institution which was known for academic excellence, where I had white teachers for the first time. By then I had added my Taita name, Mwadime (without an H). I remember my maths teacher, Mr. John Kirkwood, a Welshman I think with a thick beard and an accent that I could not understand. Kirkwood has the unfortunate distinction of being the man who hammered the final nail in my mathematical coffin. That same year I, visited Taita Hills a second time during December. Every December twelve is a national holiday and I visited Wundanyi town to see the celebrations. A few days later, a letter was delivered to me through the nearby Catholic Church post address. I excitedly opened it, wondering whoever knew I was in shags, that is up country in Sheng (Sheng is the parlance that grew out of Nairobis Eastlands, a mish mash of Swahili, English and other local languages). Anyhow, I settled somewhere to read my letter and lo! It was not meant for me. And it was steamy! This girl or woman was reliving her romping scene with some John Mwadime on December twelve! Embarrassed, I destroyed the letter and vowed to do something about my name to spare me such future identity confusion. When I reported back to school in 1978, my second name Mwadime had acquired an H at the end. During my sixteenth year, a short Indian who always wore platform shoes, taught us Biology at school. I loved Mr. Madreles lessons so much that I even dreamed of being a doctor after school. But he also affected me in another way; he could not pronounce my name Mwadime phonetically and instead called me Mwadaim. Soon my classmates also started calling me that jokingly. Hey, wait a minute, I thought to myself, that sounds good, and I adopted the nickname Dime, pronounced as in the American coin. I had found a shortened version of my name to sign off my cartoons and paintings. I still answer to that name up to this day and even mum took to calling me that. Whenever she calls me the full name Mwadimeh these days, I brace for a lecture.

When I was seventeen, the second generation identity card was introduced in Kenya and the registration people visited our school. By then I had decided to do away with my middle name Bosco and add a surname. But there was no way I was going to use my 'strange' fathers name, and so I took mums name Wakesho and added an apostrophe between the A and K to read Wakesho since it was supposed to be read "wa Wakesho" meaning "son of". Meanwhile, I added the H to Mwadime to read Mwadimeh. And then I smiled for the camera. Around 1982, I stopped using the name John unless it is strictly official. I actually dont turn around when someone calls me that and some of my colleagues of more than twenty years do not even know the name is in my identity card. I will only agree to being called John the day I bump into a non-African called Mwadimeh. I have attempted to drop the name officially but that means I have to cough up close to KES 40,000 ($500)! Meanwhile, I dread looking down from the ethereal and reading that name on my obituary when I am past tense!