There’s this particular lecturer; he’s short. Not as short as you would think. I’d say medium height. Probably around 5’4 or 5’6. That’s not a very short person, right? Thing is; I refer to anyone else shorter than me as short. Doesn’t matter if you are just an inch shorter than me. My friend, if my height is greater than yours; you are short. End of discussion! This lecturer… ( How about we call him Mr. Ohanga) The fact that I put that in brackets should be enough to deduce that that is not his real name, so incase any particular Ohanga is reading; No, it is not you. I’m sorry I had to use your name; there had to be a victim of my random thoughts.
So,apart from being short, Mr. Ohanga is also a very dark man. I’m not saying that only because he is darker than me or any other personal reason. There is no ulterior motive. If I show you a picture of the man, I’m pretty sure we will settle on the fact that he can be described as a dark man. It seems everytime I see him, he’s in a kaunda suit. I have to be honest though, I don’t see him very frequently. He takes me (or us, rather) through the Monday 7a.m lecture. Yes, Monday! Mr. Ohanga is rarely ever late for a class. Okay, he might be late once in a while but he’s not one of those lecturers that miss a lecture and don’t seem to give two shits about that. I like that. I like consistency.
On one of the rare Monday’s that I attended his class. Wait. I know you are about to make a fuss over why I claim I like consistency yet I don’t attend Mr. Ohanga’s class consistently. You should have your answer by now, but just incase you don’t; I consistently, don’t attend his class. Get it? So, on this day, Mr. Ohanga was in a grey with hints of navy blue kaunda suit. Grey trousers along with a matching grey shirt with a navy blue collar, front pocket and edges on the sleeves. A nice suit. He was just done with the lecture and was stating instructions on how his latest assignment was to be done. You know, APA references and the likes. He then concluded with a chemsha bongo. For my exotic bunch of readers, a chemsha bongo is a point to note and reflect on.
“ I think each and every one of us has a distinct and unique ability. No matter what makes you compatible or alike to your mother, father, wife, husband or whoever it is you deem to have most similar behaviours or characteristics. Like a finger print. Even twins have disparate finger prints. There’s something special you can do in a special way that only you can do. I’m not only saying that so that you don’t hand in matching assignments but also because I believe in that. Think about it.”
When I started writing, I’d send my work to some people I reveered; if I can say. A grammar tutor or a fellow blogger maybe. I even sent Jackson Biko some of my pieces. (He never replied though!)The way I saw it, I thought I needed someone to teach me some guile and tell me how to do what I liked to do. Does that even make sense? Okay, I’m not being cocky. Some guidance and mentorship would go a long way. Of course I need that but I think that is just about it. If ten people love what I do the way I do it, that’s a good sign. There’s a legitimate voice of concern in my head right now. It asks, “What about the people who don’t like the way you write?”
To be honest, I don’t know, yet. I don’t even think about it. Not in a confident way though. Naturally, I like to stay away from what we term as a negative vibe. Mostly what is reality and what I don’t want to solve. I hate difficult situations. I mean, who doesn’t ? I think, even by asking that question, I’m trying to escape the fact that such situations actually do exist and they need a solution.
A cooking gas cylinder lasts me four to six weeks normally. It depends really. Sometimes, I’m having a lazy phase and I have take-outs for a whole week. Sometimes, my mother’s genes are playing thier role and I have the urge to cook all of my meals. By all my meals I mean, the bachelor’s staple food of ugali and eggs. Sometimes I have scrambled eggs, sometimes I have the ordinary fried type. I always seem to be having eggs for supper.
Thing is, a full cylinder barely serves me for more than six weeks; but I never really have the urge to get a full cylinder or the money to fill one by that time. A voice inside me says,”It can’t be empty already. You got a full one just the other day.” Yet I know all too well it’s running empty. I hate the fact that I’m about to incur an expense. So, I wait till it’s empty then I can make up an excuse to genuinely get money out of my father or whoever I deem suitable to extort.
The thing is, there’s always a way out. I’m not only saying that because I want you to feel encouraged or because you might relate with what I’m saying, but because I believe in it. I also believe that the fact that there’s always a way out to whatever plight or predicament I’m in is added motivation to reach out for it. If you know your sweat will get you your dream car, then work hard. If you know your idea might change your life; then go for it. This might be thrown out of context by a young girl justyifying her actions to get herself what my friend calls a sponyo, (A sponsor) but that is a story I will set aside for another day.
So, you might not like the way I wrote this, but still, you might like what I’m trying to tell you. Be yourself. Do you. Use you to make you better. That’s a whole lot of you’s! There’s different strokes for different folks. Besides, life fucks you either way.