I’ve always liked Wednesday. I like the word. It’s a beautiful word to say. There’s always something I’m looking forward to on Wednesdays, and I can’t remember a point in my life where I wasn’t.

It started in primary school. Every day at 10 o’clock we were given tea, and two slices of bread that could have easily passed for a blocks of wood. Sometimes, when they were felt generous, they’d spread a smudge of jam on it. It never helped.

No amount of jam could make a tree bark taste better.

But on Wednesdays, we’d have small tasty queen cakes that I’d let linger in my mouth long after tea break. Once in a while, when no one was looking, I’d eat the piece of paper as well. I loved me some queen cakes.

And then in high school Wednesdays brought forth two chapattis at supper time. It was right after Games. Wednesday was Games day. We ran to the dining hall for those chapos and we knocked each other down in the process and we didn’t give a toss about maturity. You take a bunch of pubescent boys out to kick a ball around and they get hungry.

We were served two chapos that went down with a plate of beans and some soup. On those days I would feel a bit heaven on my tongue.

And then after high school I did a lot of nothing until I discovered One Drop Wednesday on Homeboyz Radio. Wednesday. 11am. I was there.

Although, now there’s a bit of a problem.

Every Wednesday until Easter, I won’t get an ear on the show because I have class, a Theology unit that I go to shuffle cards. The lecturer is an old man who walks around a lot and talks a lot and arcs his brows every time he sees my sandals. He thinks he’s a funny man. And he is. Sometimes.

So now my Wednesday has become deflated, a two hour rambling by an old man puts the kibosh on the whole thing just like that (I’ve always wanted to say kibosh).

Again, before we go on, there’s no story in this post either. I just have to dispense these words before I sleep today. Forgive me. Si it’s Ash Wednesday? I won’t take up much of your time. Promise.

In about one hour BM and Grace and Krystine will push the front door and walk in with their foreheads thumbed with ash. They’ll be from Mass. Ash Wednesday.

I’m catholic you see, but I’m not very big on church. BM wasn’t very happy to hear that.

My problem with church isn’t that I’ve got no faith. No, it’s because I can never really pay attention to what the robes at the altar are banging on about. My mind wanders during the sermon. And then I put my head down and snooze until the congregation has to stand up again. It’s a bad habit.

The Pope says we’re meant to fast and pray and stay away from red meat on Fridays. We’re meant to deny ourselves some luxuries for 40 days. It’s lent, he says.

Fun fact: yours truly was an altar boy once.

Anyway, there’s a lady I see on a ka-bike every day on my way to school. The bike is a blue scooter- like machine that carries her nicely from Kenyatta Roundabout onto Valley Road. She wears a helmet so I’ve never really seen her face.

I want to see her face. I want to look into her eyes and tell her to show me her fears, because it’s obviously not death. I see her braids though; they slither out of her helmet and all the way to her back. She looks like she’s called Renee.

I’ve always wanted to meet a girl who owns a bike, especially one who’s a bit of speed junky. In my loin inspired head I think of some girl with long shapely legs and a leather jacket who drinks whisky and loves sex and doesn’t have a problem admitting to it.

I didn’t see Renee yesterday. And I didn’t see her today. I’m now scared that maybe I’ll never see her again.

My Wednesdays have lost meaning now. The universe has conspired to take away my Wednesday.  I have no reason to wake up wide eyed and full of expectation on Wednesday. She’s been snatched from me, both Wednesday and Renee. I need something to fill in my Wednesday now.

Hey friend, buy me a beer next Wednesday.








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