There are memories so traumatic that I would give my left arm to forget them. One such memory is about how I earned the nickname kamuceeri (ka-rice). It’s hard to shake this memory off because I earned it during a period of time that comes around every year- Ramadan.

My school was founded by missionaries who subscribed to the Anglican church. Thus, when admitting new students, it was common practice to give preferential treatment to Anglicans. However, girls from all religious sects were welcome to join the school and they were even given freedom of worship.

Okay, not everyone was welcome; those who subscribed to the African Traditional Society, the ones who worshipped nyabingyi (small gods) were highly unwelcome. Their ancestors were fond of visiting them at school and causing chaos in their wake. For instance, a story was told of a girl whose dead grandmother marched or swam or walked (or whatever ghosts do) into her body in the middle of the night and caused her to beat up her roommates. Well, at least that was the girl’s defense during a disciplinary committee hearing on the matter. No one wanted to sleep next to her afterwards and she was compelled to find another school.

Catholics and moslems were welcome to the school. While catholics weren’t allowed to wear rosaries with school uniform, they could hold services on Sundays. Moslems were not allowed to skip class on Friday, but they were allowed to observe other religious rituals, one of them being Ramadan (the fasting period). During Ramadan, Moslems were given daku (the morning meal); rice and beans or rice and meat at 5:00 am. So the rest of us looked on as Moslems munched on this special meal, our stomachs growling and our mouths watering, knowing it would be unfair to ask them to share.

Needless to say, Ramadan was filled with psychological trauma for non-Moslems. However, girls whose names sounded Moslem took advantage of the situation, registered as Moslems and got food. The rest of us continued to eat posho and weevils with a few beans. It was common for people to dream of lying in fields of rice, at least I did, and l refuse to believe that I’m the only one.

Some mornings during Ramadan when I woke up with biting hunger, I cursed my name. The aroma of rice went straight to my brain and caused me to think it was possible that my parents hated me. They could have named me Sara or Natasha or Amina. Instead, they gave me a name so common, so obvious. It was possible that when I was born, they said to me: "You really shouldn’t have come. Oh well. We have to give you a name, don’t we? Ummmm...Elizabeth will do.”

One morning, I felt too tantalised by the smell of rice to resist the temptation of acquiring it. I paid my Moslem roommate Fatuma to get me a plate. I kept it under my bed with the intention of eating it during lunch time.

The school matron found it during inspection. She asked around, making use of threats to find out which human being was uncivilised enough to keep food under the bed. It didn’t take long for Fatuma to crack and tell her. The school matron then marched to my classroom, poured the rice on my desk and asked me to eat it. I was nicknamed kamuceeri. Every year during Ramadan, my former classmates say to me: "Happy Ramadan, kamuceeri.” They won’t let me forget. Life is hard.