My A.S.K Show Story: From Dreams to Drama

All-Time Question: What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

At seven years old, I believed big buses symbolized power. Ownership wasn’t quite clear to my little mind, but ultimately, I wanted to be a bus driver. That, to me, was the dream.

(Quick shoutout to the mathree driver who got me home today cos your playlist,🔥. But kindly, maybe less of the off-road stunts and random overtaking? Life has enough turbulence already. We’re out here trying to get home not looking for stomach ulcers and heart attacks.)

Back to dreams. When I was eight, my father took us to the A.S.K. Showground. His main excitement? Grade 1 Friesian cows. Mine? The loud, booming music that filled the air. Honestly, I think it was the first time I heard music that loud and that good. There was this guy behind a "big wired table" (now I know—DJ decks), and he looked like the happiest, most carefree person on earth. Just like that, I dropped my driver ambitions and decided I wanted to be a DJ.

Quick syllabus change, just like that. 😆

Now, the A.S.K. Show thing!

That one childhood visit was probably my first and last. Every year I still see the ads and announcements, and my brain just… locks up. Don’t get me wrong—I enjoyed the experience. But there’s a story behind my detachment.

In primary school, the A.S.K. Show was the trip. Reserved for Class Eight students just before their K.C.P.E., the ultimate ‘stepping out’ moment. I still remember the aftermath of my elder sister Wambui’s trip: sweets, biscuits, sodas… boarding school gold. You only saw such treasures during the holidays.

Years later, our turn finally came. Two weeks before the trip, my father came to school to drop off some pocket money. Mind you, students weren’t allowed snacks or cash—strict policy. But for the A.S.K. trip? A one-time exception, at least in practice.

Just before lunch, I was called to the headmistress’s office. Of course, I was excited to see my dad. But there was a problem.

Sr. Wacheke was shocked to hear that parents were giving students money for the trip. She was firm: absolutely prohibited. The way she dismissed me out of that office… whew 😒😔
(Speaking of, why did we even have to remove our shoes before entering her office? What was that?)

So, tears streaming, I walked back to the hostels. My biggest ache? Knowing that most of my classmates had received money too, yet there I was, made to feel like a criminal. That feeling of being left out, punished for something I didn’t even know was a rule suffocating me. I skipped lunch. Nothing could’ve made me touch that plate of githeri.

Just then“Kimbia kimbia, hajaenda!” a classmate shouted. I don’t even remember who she was, but that girl was heaven-sent.

I ran from the hostels to catch my father before he left. He saw me, pulled out a 500 bob note and said in Kikuyu, “Take this, run back before you get in trouble and stop crying.”

Honestly? If he ever has to defend that “rule breach” in heaven, I’ll testify on his behalf with full confidence.

My sibling and i still laugh about that moment to this day.

I ran back and stuffed the note inside a tissue paper roll. Sweet, sweet relief.

Now, here is the plot twist...

Fast forward one week: the big day almost here. All Class Eight students were randomly summoned after lunch. Matrons and nuns present. We were rushed into our dorms.

“Open your lockers and step away! Don’t touch anything!”

Speechless. Shook. 😳

When I tell you the search we underwent made Orange Is the New Black look like child’s play, I’m not even exaggerating.

Being short, I often had to tiptoe to reach my locker’s top shelf. But the real kicker? Sr. Wacheke had personally seen me leave her office penniless… and here I was.

To be continued…