Mr. Sluggard

I was a backbencher in my final year of high school. Against the wall my spot was a blind; and quite warm, perfect for stealing naps during those dreadful prep sessions. That coupled with my spite for the education system showed in my result slips. They drilled knowledge into us until we could feel it going down our throats. So I slept, that was how I rebelled, how I refused to conform to the stifle, I slept.

My desk mate was this tall guy called Roy. He had the longest legs you’ve ever seen on a boy, his waist started where his chest ended. And his fingers, freakishly lengthy fingers, so lengthy you felt uncomfortable shaking his hand. I particularly didn’t like him because he wouldn’t nudge me awake when the teacher doing rounds during preps would walk in. I ended up being flogged in the ass with a stick, and the clown had the guts to laugh afterwards. Boy did I hate Roy. And Roy was the king of perverts; he somehow found a way to sexualize every sentence he heard. He was a scary character, this boy.

But for all that he made up by being book smart. He was sharp, especially in Math. If you can recall, yours truly had a rough time with the subject.

Almost every night we had these test papers administered to us, so we could constantly be in the exam mood, they said. And Sunday night was Math. On Sunday! The Freaking Sabbath! Anyway, whenever the invigilator would step out or take a seat at the front I’d use my hidden sitting position to cheat through this paper, and good ol’ Roy was my vessel. We’d switch scripts and all, on good days he’d even have time to outline to me the way around a question. Good days, when I’d hit the pass mark and escape the cane.

The problem with Roy is that he was very unpredictable. Without having done any prior studying, I’d walk leisurely into the exam knowing Roy would have my back. Those were the days when he’d choose to ignore my calls for help, when he’d pretend not to hear me whisper his name, basically leaving me out to dry. Those were the days I knew I would be leaning on a teacher’s table the next day receiving a beating for unanswered questions. He knew I was using him, and that’s how he’d punish me. He’d tell me some shit like, “This week labda utasoma.”

And now to the point.

See, I’ve been on a two-week break from school. I don’t get out much; I wake up when the day is diving into midday and sleep when the demons are getting out in the night. Once in a while I’ll pick up a book, or watch a movie with half the heart to do it and an orange in hand. Movies are always better with a good fruit. Other than that I do nothing else meaningful.

I think my dedication to this blog has surpassed my better judgment, which is to know when I haven’t the smallest ability to write anything of use to you. Sadly I have convinced myself, rather smugly; that you people give a toss what’s going on in my life, and that’s why we’re here today.

Lately I’ve been slacking on things. I’ve been lazy. I’ve been losing sleep, hell; I’m too lazy to sleep. I don’t go for morning runs or do push-ups anymore, that shit gets old, I feel like I’m getting old. And I don’t write as often as I should. And the scariest part is that I’m not scared about it. Which is not entirely a bad thing because it means I have grown, I have learnt to play it cool and wait for it to come to me.

But if you look closely at the last couple of posts you’ll see the problem. It’s right there. I didn’t spend enough time on them; I didn’t feel like I struck gold when working them. I played around them until they were only fit to beautify the shelf; without caring much for the salability. If anything they felt like drags. I’d wait it out the whole week until the last day before posting, come up with something, and then thump it really fast so it’s ready the next morning. A few hours, that’s what I gave them. No restructuring no rewrites, no shit.

The title of this post is a reggae jam by Culture. Know it? No? Ok. It’s playing as I write this, it relaxes me. Any good reggae tune does. The chorus of this particular one goes something like: Tell me where you get your bread, Mr. Sluggard. It mainly talks to the lazy in society and whatnot.

The truth is that I’ve been standing on pure luck. It’s just luck that I’ve been able to put out any content, because these things just don’t come; you have to work a little bit more. I can’t count on luck too much; just like I couldn’t always count on Roy up there. The way I see it, this is a weekly test. I need to do something about it. I need a renewed attitude. I need help.

And that’s why I’ll be attending the Bikozulu Writing Masterclass this coming month. I’ll meet people like me in there, people who’ll give me that fresh outlook I seek. I know this would be stretching it but is there anyone willing to help with my fee balance?

Until I’m done with the class the blog will be devoid of any activity. I’ll be back after two weeks.

But about that balance. Anyone? Roy?

 

 

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15 thoughts on “Mr. Sluggard

  1. So you’ve decided?
    Funny how there are seemingly no funds enough for two beers around here, and yet some are willing to part with ksh. 15000 to be taught how writing works.

    I hope the masterclass comes with a 1000 avid readers and a crate of the brown stuff.

    Like

  2. Well clearly you’re not putting in that work because I just spotted a spelling mistake 😕😁..

    I really hope those classes are as amazing as I think they are. Take as many photos as you can of Biko. Otherwise, all the best homie. 🙋

    Like

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