The Tooth Chronicles: My Whimsical Journey Through Childhood Dental Drama

Teeth. Those little calcified treasures hold stories of childhood, innocence, and the never-ending drama that seems to follow them. My dental escapades have been nothing short of entertaining, from wobbly incisors to clandestine tooth fairies. If I ever become a detective, I'd probably remove teeth as a form of evil punishment because without them, you wouldn't be able to smile, and you'd go around saying "thatha" or "thmokie." But that’s just an intrusive thought talking. I hope I have your attention by now. Let me take you on a whimsical journey through my toothy adventures.

I vividly recall the day my first tooth decided to loosen its grip. It was like a tiny earthquake in my mouth, and I braced myself for the impending pain. You see, I had an irrational fear of injections (and still do), so any dental discomfort felt like impending doom. My dad, the unwitting accomplice, assured me he was merely checking how loose the tooth was. Innocently, I believed him. Little did I know that this seemingly harmless “toothshake” would mark the end of my tooth’s tenure. Off it went, leaving me both toothless and bewildered. As I walked to school, I pondered my gullibility. But hey, Dad’s word was gospel—I felt safe in his hands.

Fast forward to my second tooth—a pivotal moment in my dental saga. I found myself at my grandmother’s (Mom’s Mother) house in Kimathi. She lived just a five-minute walk away from our home in Eastleigh. Now, my grandmother was our family’s designated tooth fairy. Her terms were simple: surrender the lost tooth, and in return, receive a modest sum of money. A fair trade, I thought. But there was a catch. My grandmother had heard about my newfound reluctance to let anyone touch my teeth post-toothquake.” She was determined to break this barrier. So, as I sat down to sip her infamous sugarless porridge (a concoction I still avoid), she casually said, “Wambui, let me feel your tooth for a minute.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. My defenses crumbled—I couldn’t say no to my grandmother. And just like that, my second tooth joined its predecessor in the tooth fairy’s collection. I left her house, not only toothless but also slightly miffed about the porridge situation.

My dad’s mom, my grandmother, a frequent visitor to our home, made a solemn promise: she would be the one to extract my next loose tooth. Now, let’s rewind a bit. After the trauma of losing my first two teeth, I declared a tooth-touching embargo (an official ban). No one, I vowed, would ever lay a finger on my dental treasures again. But fate had other plans. This particular tooth was exceptionally wobbly—I could nudge it forward and backward with my tongue, like a tiny swing. My grandmother’s promise hung in the air, but life intervened.  Days later she fell ill and eventually passed away. And there I was, tooth still dangling, attending her funeral. But fate, it seems, has a sense of humor.

Githeri—a Kenyan dish of maize and beans—is my favorite comfort food. After the funeral, I sat down to eat a hearty plate of githeri. Perhaps it was the mix of emotions or the comforting warmth of the meal, but my loose tooth decided it was time for its grand exit. As I sipped tea I started pushing the tooth with my tongue, only to discover that it had slipped from my gum and took a fateful journey down my throat. Panic ensued—I ran to my mother, exclaiming, “Mummy, mummy, nimemeza meno!” (Mom, Mom, I swallowed my tooth!). Laughter erupted around me, I was told that I would (pass it )later but I never checked or cared to do so, but I clung to a comforting thought: my grandmother had kept her promise—she had taken my tooth.

Living in Eastleigh, we encountered a man who left his mkokoteni (handcart) in our plot. One day, fueled by youthful bravado, I made a bold claim to my friends: I could carry them on the mkokoteni. They eagerly climbed aboard, and little Samson Ivy (Samson from the Bible) assumed the role of tour guide. Determined, I leaped onto the cart, intending to pull down the handle as I’d seen others do. But here’s the twist—I’m vertically challenged, a fancy way of saying I am short, with hands the size of walnut shells. Instead of lowering the handle, I executed a full 360-degree spin, crashing into the mkokoteni handle. My upper incisor bore the brunt of the impact, with blood and wobbliness ensuing.

My mother, bless her heart, insisted that I simply shake my loose tooth until it surrendered. But I stood my ground—I had sworn an oath to my dental fortress. No one, I declared, would lay a finger on my precious enamel. Then came the ultimatums. Mom warned me that a new tooth would sprout in place of the old one. My mother’s pleas fell on deaf enamel, When that failed to sway me, she brandished the ultimate threat: the dentist’s chair. “Fine,” I thought, “better a dentist than a tooth-tugger.” Little did I know what awaited me.

On a fateful Saturday, our family embarked on a toothy pilgrimage. Breakfast consumed, Aunt Eva (my godmother) in tow, we arrived at the dentist’s office. The place seemed innocuous—a waiting room adorned with outdated magazines and a fish tank. I should have sensed impending doom. Inside, my mother explained our mission. The dentist, a man of clinical precision, delivered the verdict: an injection to numb my gum, followed by teeth extraction. My mind spun. Injection? Syringe? Teeth instead of teeth? Panic set in—I had a history with needles, involving decibel-breaking screams (a tale for another day). But there I sat, resolute, awaiting my fate.

As the needle approached, my primal instincts kicked in. I screamed for my dad, bolted from the chair, and sprinted toward freedom. Determination fueled my escape, but alas, my short legs failed me I was apprehended before reaching the exit. Back in the dentist’s lair, I found myself surrounded—my mother, Aunt Eva, nurses, and curious patients forming a tooth-removal task force. I flexed my mental muscles but I was outnumbered, I surrendered. And so, it happened: the dentist extracted not one, but two teeth. I entered with a single wobbly Upper incisor and emerged toothless. As for the dentist, he earned my reluctant respect—I survived the needle, after all.

Picture this: a determined child, cheeks flushed with frustration, storming home after a dental showdown enters my dad, armed with a brilliant idea. He summoned one of those roving photographers—the ones who captured your picture and got it back to you after three to five business days. I stood for the portrait; smiling like nothing had happened. The resulting picture, now etched in memory, shows a blissfully ignorant child. You’d never guess the toothy turmoil that unfolded behind that grin. "The photo attached, which was used in my previous blog, is better suited for this particular story since it was taken afterward."

With my teeth immortalized in glossy print, our house manager assumed the role of tooth extractor. She became the unsung hero of my dental saga, deftly handling wobbly incisors and canines until boarding school beckoned, where I dealt with my molars. There, in the sterile confines of my dorm room and classrooms, I faced my final challenge: self-extraction. Armed with determination (and perhaps a touch of fear), as I bid farewell to my last set of baby teeth.

Life’s milestones often arrive unannounced—a loose tooth, a family conspiracy, or a candid photograph. And so, my tooth tales continue, each chapter revealing resilience, laughter, and the enduring magic of childhood.