First Published on The Green Calabash.
Tonsillitis. This was the disease that introduced me to the magnificent world of reading. You see, at some point during my early childhood, I learned that this was a very serious ailment. One that could earn me an immediate ticket to the school sick room. When the rigors of Standard Four learning became too tedious for me, I would march into the School Secretary’s office and declare that I had tonsillitis. Well, actually, what I would end up saying was “I have tonsils” and after some initial bewilderment on the part of the Secretary as to why exactly this was a problem, she would quickly figure out what I meant and correct my declaration amusedly, “You have tonsillitis”.
The Secretary, Mrs. Gathithi, would then usher me into the sick room located next door to her own work space. This ‘sick room’ was, in reality, a tiny store where all the children’s books belonging to the school were kept.
A room just like this one... only smaller, and dustier.
The saintly Mrs. Gathithi would see to it that I was situated on a chair within the tiny room before leaving me with strict instructions to rest until ‘home time’. God bless that woman. As soon as the door closed behind her, I would spring from my chair and run my hand across the rows of books neatly arranged on shelves. The feeling was that of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. I remember the thrill of finally being alone in the room with my books…how I would pick up several different ones in excitement, read (and even smell) a few pages, before finally deciding on one special book for the afternoon.
After a while it became obvious to my parents (and the loving Auntie Gathithi, as she became known to me) that this mysterious recurring case of tonsillitis was in fact a ruse to get me out of class and into the fantastic world of fairy tale books. Two decisions were then made to A. Transfer me to a school where I might be motivated to stay in class and B. Sign me up for a book exchange program at a local bookstore. Both of these decisions were met with unbridled enthusiasm on my part.
I would spend countless hours engrossed in the pages of one book after another, well aware that the faster I finished one book, the sooner I could get a new one. I remember one particular standoff I had with my mother at a bookstore when she insisted on buying me a Sweet Valley Kids book when what I wanted was the more mature Sweet Valley High version of the series. At the age of nine, I argued passionately that there were only 42 pages in the Sweet Valley Kidsbook and that I would finish reading it way too soon. My pleas went unheard and the shorter book was purchased. Burning with determination to prove my point, I started reading the book on the way home and didn’t utter a word to anyone until I was done reading the entire narrative a couple of hours later.
From the fabulous adventures of the Famous Five to the thrilling escapades of the Hardy Boys (and eventually, even those sassy Sweet Valley High twins!) I remember spending numerous ‘break times’ and ‘lunch times’ reading. Yes, there have been stints in my life when I’ve strayed from this love, like during the demanding college years, but thankfully I always find my way back. Why? Because whether it’s to escape the tedium of primary school classes or the drudgery of housewifery, I know now as I knew back then, that I can always turn to a good book for refuge.
