On Monday I sent a text to Ephantus asking him what the hell happened to the piece he was meant to send me. This was after my call went unanswered. I told him the jury wanted his head. He replied when I was just getting to bed, “Sorry about it daddy, I’ve been with mkubwa the whole day, but a story is in the pipeline. More time please?”
I said sawa. Plus he called me daddy, how do I not fall in love with that? So let’s give the man another week friends.
I’ll make this one short. Some will probably get to the end without picking up anything useful; I have nothing clear-cut for the week, just this spongy piece about school. I wanted to tell you about the time I almost took up smoking but I don’t feel like it really, it depresses me.
I’m writing this at the campus cafeteria. I like it here in the mornings, it’s quiet, and it smells like fresh pastry. The lady at the counter, she’s called Linet, she serves me coffee, and it’s always on the house. She’s a good sport. The table next to me has this girl that’s been nibbling a chocolate doughnut since last week. The only other table that’s occupied has two heavily built guys; they look like they meet at the gym on Saturdays. They’re both on tiny laptops, meaning they look like clowns. It depresses me.
I have a bucket list. When I was in that dark hole I told you about here, I put smoking on the beach as an entry. I had the whole blue print engraved in my mind of how that day would turn out. But again, I don’t feel like talking about that.
The reason I tell you about that list is because at some point a chap in slippers will come in here and buy coffee. He has a gigantic cowboy hat sitting on his head. I almost admire his disregard for image, but from his accent I don’t. See, he’s Nigerian, and he has a smirk on his face that makes me want to punch him.
Today that goes into my bucket list. Punch a Nigerian.
When I stepped out of high school I did a lot of soul searching, what I wanted to do with my life, what would make me happy, I wanted to find myself. A bunch of media stuff fell right on my path and I worked on them. I’d sit for hours on the computer and try to perfect everything. But they never earthed me enough, until I found this kuandika thing.
I was so sure uni was where I would make my mark. I was going to have a column in the school paper and all. I was going to bring freshness to it, and not start my pieces with sijui Greetings from Calvary. I was going to write about anything and everything in that column. I pictured people picking up that paper just to read me. And I would be flying incognito, no one would know my real name, the name of that column was going to be my name. People would know me simply as the CS, short for Campus Scribe. Hehe, nice no?
I could lie to you that there were no spaces for fresh blood; I could tell you I went to campus and found that the paper was defunct, I could lie and say I sent something to the editors but they rejected it. That they shot me an Email saying, Dear Campus Scribe, thank you for contributing to the paper. We’re sorry to inform that it can’t be accepted at this time, we found your language to be offensive and without structure. It would not fare well with the people at Calvary.
I won’t lie though. I just haven’t tried anything. I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of thing, deadlines, tight editing et al. It’ll change me somehow, I’m not sure I’m ready for change. Nobody’s ever ready, but you’re never going to know unless you try right?
My sad truth is that I’m here, with a bag full of ambition and expectations but there’s nothing to shout about really, school gets banal real quick. It depresses me. Maybe I do need that change after all.
To you getting into campus and feeling confused about the whole arrangement, many have been where you are, but this is your chance to start over, to learn things, to teach yourself about you, to write a different story. Good luck friend.