The thing about having studied in a near-perfect high school is that it automatically makes you the weirdo in every “high school stories” conversation. Trust me, I’ve tried. But every time someone mentions “Hamkumaliza syllabus?” or “Waaah, tulikula githeri kila siku”, I find myself wondering: Did I go to school in heaven? We even had occasional chapatis and buffets,I mean.
Let’s start with the syllabus thing. I genuinely can’t relate. At Kisima, everything ran like a well-oiled machine. Teachers knew their work, students knew their goals, and there wasn’t a single corner to cut. Discipline? Sorted. Academics? On point. Even our math teacher would walk into class smiling, and by the end of the term, he’d still be smiling—because we’d covered everything without having to skip PE.
And don’t get me started on the punishments. People say they were spanked or chased around with sticks, and I’m sitting there like, excuse me, that’s legal? At Kisima, discipline wasn’t some traumatizing event. There were rules, yes, but you followed them because it was understood—you’re here to grow, not to be tortured. Everything was smooth because we all knew what was expected of us and the consequences of breaking the rules.
Then there’s the language policy. Apparently, in some schools, English only was more of “a suggestion” than an actual policy? At Kisima, no such chaos. We communicated clearly, we worked together, and the diversity in the student body made it even better. Speaking of diversity, Kisima was a mini Kenya. We had students from every corner of the country—Kikuyus, Luos, Luhyas, Rendille, Pokot, Samburu, Turkana, Kamba, and even Amharas. This mix of cultures made life interesting, from shared stories to learning unique traditions. And when we hosted guests from Europe, they’d share their own culture with us, making it feel like we had a little piece of the world right there in school.
And about the food. Listen, let’s just say there was plenty. Enough to make people’s horror stories about skipping meals or fighting for portions sound like fairy tales. Add to that the fact that Kisima was free. Yes, free. You paid a one-time entry fee to cover things like uniforms and blankets, and after that? The school handled the rest. All you had to do was study, follow the rules, show up for meals and sleep on time.
We also had time to play, a lot of it. From darts and cards to puzzles and ball games, there was always something to keep you active and entertained. The clubs? Absolute fun. I was in so many, scouting, Red Cross, journalism, science and maths, agriculture, you name it. Every club had its own charm, and they made our lives fuller and more vibrant.
Sundays were particularly special. The director would preach during service, but it never felt like a lecture. It was more of a conversation, so inclusive that everyone left feeling they’d learned something meaningful. It was one of my favorite moments of the week, a calm yet powerful way to reset and reflect.
And then there was the library. Oh, the library! It had so many books, and I devoured them all. From fiction to science journals, that space became my sanctuary. I loved reading so much, I practically lived in there.
At the end of every year, as we closed for Christmas, the school made it extra special. They’d buy us presents, usually books we needed. Imagine that: thoughtful gifts from a school that truly wanted us to succeed.
Finally, I have to mention the alumni network, because it’s still a huge part of why Kisima remains so special. Alumni are always ready to mentor and guide recent graduates and current students. From career advice to supporting school projects, this network spans all the way back to the first graduating class of 2008. Every year, we have an alumni weekend to catch up, reconnect, and support the school. The bond we had at Kisima hasn’t just lasted, it’s grown stronger.
Would I trade this experience for anything? Absolutely not. Kisima molded us into giants, not just academically (we ranked top 3 nationally in my year and continue to dominate) but also as people. Our motto, "Empowered to transform", wasn’t just a phrase we slapped on banners. It was lived, every single day. It is still lived.
So yes, I may be the odd one out in high school story sessions. I don’t know what it’s like to run away from a cane, fear a teacher, or wonder if we’ll cover a whole syllabus. But I do know what it’s like to learn, thrive, and grow in a place that truly feels like home, with a family that stretches far beyond graduation.
I guess I’ll just keep being the weirdo. And you know what? I’m fine with that.
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