Friends who were there then.

These are the ones who were there in the beginning. Carl had a knack for sketching the image of the Christ but he couldn't colour worth a damn. That was my job. He remains my earliest memory of a friend and when they moved away, I was never the same again, friendships were never the same again. Not with Richard. Not with Victor. Not with Maxwell. That all changed when I sat next to the Saudi.

Fakhry is without a doubt the most extraordinary man I know - apart from the Soldier and the Professor. Why we became friends is less important as how we became friends. We have nothing in common, absolutely nothing. Even his appreciation of Bob Marley is tempered; it is not like mine: obsessive, nerdy, a bit unhinged. He is the epitome of charisma and good taste and when you meet his son you will understand why. His self-confidence and poise makes the ladies swoon - and they actually swoon and flap their manicured, bejewelled, long-nailed fingers in front of their faces whenever they encounter him. If I didn't love him as much as I did, I would drop him into one of those active Japanese volcanoes, though I have a feeling the volcano would disagree with me and consume me instead.

But we sat along the same line as Eric and Baddie. Eric is the soldier-pilot.  He flies combat helicopters. He is not - NOT! - a bus driver. He flies helicopters that have machine guns and require a great deal of precision flying when you are shooting at bad people with RPGs and MANPADS. He has the hard stare of a man who knows his shit, and the carriage of an officer in these defence forces. In his flight suit, man does he make Tom Cruise look less Tom Cruise-y.

Baddie, on the other hand, is the surprise. The best point guard our year ever had. That guy could place that basketball where he wanted it without even looking. He knew the court and the team on the court by some sort of alchemist instinct. When he shot from the three-point line, sometimes I think he kept his eyes open so that he didn't freak out the opposition. He was - is - that good. I wonder how he finds Mombasa these days. I wonder if he still plays basketball.

They were all there when I asked Schola to dance with me. It did not turn out to be the disaster I feared - until years later when she gave birth and got married. But on that day when I single-handedly kicked Mumbuni's butt on the debate floor, she had eyes only for me and, thanks to Tet and his art supplies, she kept them on me for the rest of the year. I always wonder what could have been if I hadn't gone into exile for six or seven years thirteen thousand kilometres away.

There was Newton who was a brilliant accountant, Tom who had a mzungu last name, was a brilliant accountant and mathematician, played football, basketball and table tennis with panache, and who was remarkably neat, Reuben who played the flute and had penpals all over the world, Joseph who was tall and thin and played football with elan but had atrocious penmanship, Mark, my namesake, who recently took over things after his dad died, who lent me cash to skip school so long as I shared with him my mum's chapatis, and who still remains as big as he was when we were there, and the other Joseph who played basketball and table tennis and was a cop and looked like he wished he had attended Saints. Jack was the glue that kept our motley crew together; he had access to the dispensary where we kept, and quaffed, the Smirnoff.

They were there, they were generous. I discovered words from them that I now regret knowing, after a fashion. They must have been as shocked as I was when it didn't all turn to shit - because I did everything in my power to screw it up. Now here I am, wondering where they are, what they are doing, how their families are, their carers, their achievements. Maybe we'll one day do an Old Boys' thing. Maybe.