I am the Captain of my Soul

32 Days of Christmas: Day 1

On the wall behind the Director’s desk at Starehe Boys is a golden plaque, fixed firmly in place. Dr. Griffin himself mounted it there when he led the school. Every boy who entered that office saw it first, gleaming on a wall crowded with the glory of the 90s.

The last time I stood in that office it wasn’t to receive an honor. It was to discuss my impeachment.

At Starehe, visiting the Director’s office was never casual. You either went there in glory or in trouble; to be counselled, commended, or condemned. The Director was what other schools called the Principal, though ours was much more.

Dr. Griffin, the founder and first director, built Starehe on discipline, charity, and excellence. After his death in 2005, the school’s leadership faltered. Between 2005 and 2018 when I joined, were “the dark ages” for the school. Starehe is a charitable institution, not a public school that runs on fees or government funding. It survives on donations, well-wishers, and sponsors from around the world—and the Directors who followed Dr. Griffin failed miserably, looting funds, neglecting students, and steering the school into decline.

Then in mid 2018, a millionaire Director was appointed by the board. And everything changed, including my fate.

When the new Director arrived, the school was in ruins: crumbling infrastructure, demoralized staff, and a corrupted student leadership. He was however a no-nonsense man, backed by a formidable right-hand we students called the OG. Together with a few veteran staff members, they began steering the school back to its former glory. It was a welcome change for most, not necessarily for me. I’ll explain why in a moment.

For context, Starehe’s “Force” (the student leadership) is modeled after the military. It is unlike anything you’d see elsewhere. Perhaps only comparable to the NYS, which Dr. Griffin also founded. The structures were almost identical. Being a military man, Dr. Griffin trained the boys at Starehe the same way he trained the NYS: disciplined, structured, and self-governing. Prefects and captains formed the ruling Force, running nearly every aspect of the school except administration and academics. Punishments, routines, and order were all managed entirely by the students, led by the Force.

Prefectorial appointments were made by the Director himself based on merit, discipline, and academics; much like the President appointing Cabinet Secretaries. Promotion to a higher rank was also solely at the Director’s discretion; the students didn’t vote.

This student leadership structure had ranks, a full hierarchy modeled like the NYS and the military.

At the very bottom, rank 008 belonged to the school cats—Dr. Griffin’s prized possessions. Sacred. Feared and adored in equal measure. They lounged behind the kitchen, soaking in the aroma of freshly baked burgers (yes, we had burgers for breakfast). Fed on high-protein minced meat, they dined just before we did. One particular cat lived near the library, cared for by the resident Catholic Sister. A furry creature often seen beside her tortoise companion. That cat had seen generations of boys: from Kenya 1s to those who only visited the library for WiFi.

Rank 007 comprised everyone else: the commoners. As long as you wore the red shirt and blue shorts, you were a 007. The greatest honor of being one was simply being at Starehe. Outside the gates, nobody knew your rank, and everyone preferred it that way. Yet even among commoners, there were the privileged few: the rich kids. The ones who joked freely with prefects, charmed teachers, unpacked mountains of snacks on opening day, and picked by TXs and V8s on closing day. They received 5,000 shillings in pocket money midterm and could buy their way out of punishment with a single packet of illegal noodles.

From 006 to 001 was The Force—the actual student leadership.

006s, or Sub-Prefects, were the local police. They supervised morning duty, evening preps, meals, and punishments, maintaining discipline across the Centre. Their uniform matched that of commoners: red shirts, blue shorts. The only difference was authority.

005s were Full Prefects, wearing the revered “fish” badge: a Greek alpha symbol stitched onto the right sleeve of their blazers. It was a mark of power. When a prefect in a blazer with that badge appeared, commoners straightened up or dropped for push-ups.

004s were Senior Prefects: the “Men in Black.” Promoted from among the best Full Prefects, they wore black trousers and blazers that made them look like officers. They led student departments, Houses (what other schools call dorms), and clubs. Promotion to Captain was almost inevitable from here, the next step up the ladder.

003s were Captains, overseeing broader student departments and enforcing school culture.

Above them were 002s, the Deputy School Captains. Two of the most disciplined and feared boys in the school, sharing equal rank but overseeing different sectors.

At the very top was 001, the School Captain—the apex of student power. During my time, there were two, though tradition favored one. The School Captain’s blazer bore two stripes and a red lion star on the fish, a mark of ultimate authority. Together, the trio of School Captains were known as the Red Lions: the highest echelon of leadership at the Centre.

Being in The Force was like ruling a small nation. When I tell my colleagues now on campus that I had absolute power as a prefect in Form Three to punish a Fourth Former, they think I’m joking. Being in The Force meant rubbing shoulders with the greats, and I had the privilege of experiencing that firsthand as a 006.

I was appointed in Form Three; thrilled, confident, and ready to serve. But just a few months later, Covid struck. School closed for months, and when we finally returned, everything had shifted. The corruption that had eaten away at the Centre and the school was gone. The new Director had used the time to imprint his mark, introducing new systems and standards that reshaped the culture.

He overhauled the student leadership to make it more efficient and effective, restoring meritocracy. During the dark ages, the Force had decayed: promotions were bought with snacks and favors, while prefects bullied commoners and exploited their privilege. Now appointments and promotions were based on academics and integrity—two things I had neglected while wallowing in absolute power.

I was corrupt, I thought I’d benefit from the old, broken system. My appointment, however, had been clean. I’d been “Most Disciplined Junior Boy” in our House twice. Yet I still assumed promotion to Captain was inevitable because of my connections.

The new Director changed all of that. The day I was summoned to his office, I already sensed what awaited me.

I remember sitting in the Director’s office, discussing my impeachment. The Director, a distinguished man from KPMG, had an aura that silenced the room. My feet pressed into the soft velvet carpet, heart pounding as he calmly signed papers and sipped tea. He was fixing the school, one student at a time. And this time, it was my turn.

Before my summon, he had promoted far fewer captains than usual, selecting only those academically sound and committed to the school’s true culture, not prefects who bullied or abused power like I had. Several prefects and captains from our lot had already been impeached for crossing the threshold of greed, and though I had survived the first wave, I sensed this meeting might change that.

I glanced at the golden plaque above his grey-haired head as he continued his work with utmost composure. A millionaire from KPMG, he commanded immense respect from the boys. A respect almost consuming. My feet shifted uneasily on the velvet mat, the lighting suddenly harsher, the distant noise of night preps louder.

When he finally lifted his gaze to meet my sweaty brow, I forced a smile, as I always do when nervous.

“Hello, Reagan.”

“Hello, sir.”

“How was preps?”

“Good, sir.”

He smiled, and for the next hour, he asked about my life: my family, ambitions, my love for journalism. I relaxed, almost forgetting why I was there. Then came the question that made my heart sink:

“So, after I promoted your colleagues, why haven’t you been performing your prefectorial duties, Reagan?”

He spoke softly, like a father:

“To fix this school, I must start with its leaders. To fix the Force, I must remove those who do not align with the transformation of the school.” I was one of them. He wanted leaders, not boys with power. Every decision, every consequence, he laid out like an equation—everything added up.

In the end, I wasn’t impeached. Neither was I promoted. I don’t know what changed his mind. I remained a 006 until my last day. That was the most humiliating fate for a prefect: to be in Form Four still wearing shorts while your peers rise to Captain. You lose both power and respect.

That fall humbled me. Once I was feared; suddenly I was invisible. Since then people have called me shy, withdrawn. Those who’ve known me since childhood know that this is how I was before Starehe—reserved, quiet, focused on my work. Power had changed me.

It was a special honor to be appointed a prefect. Most students secretly wanted it but never admitted so because it would feel like betraying the commoners. And to have that honor bestowed on a shy boy did wonders. Suddenly I held power among some of the brightest boys in the country, even from beyond the borders. I could tell my peers what to do, and they would obey not out of fear, but because my word was law. I was law.

But one can only fall so low when one has been lifted so high. Falling short of promotion was a deeper wound than never being chosen at all. It felt like rejection. Like the world had finally seen me as unworthy. And that unworthiness, in time, began to feel comfortable. I no longer wanted to be seen or heard. I only wanted to finish my KCSE and disappear.

That silence followed me long after school. Four years on, people still tell me I’ve changed. That I’ve gone quiet, that they never see me around. Sometimes even I forget how long I’ve stayed hidden indoors, away from friends, events, and life itself. Because years later that memory still haunts me: in my dreams, in conversations, in quiet moments. The office, the plaque, the suffocating sense of inadequacy.

Every December people reflect on what they’ve achieved. I reflect on what I haven’t. On how I wasn’t “good enough”, how I ended up on the wrong side of a broken system.

But this year, I promised myself that that feeling would end.

And for the first time in years, it feels like it will.

…..

In the words of William Ernest Henley:

I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

✍🏽Reagan.