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1st Year and the Swahili accent girl

I am perched studiously behind a laptop, with the right sleeve of my tee hiked up to my shoulder, like a highschool malefactor. Blinky Bill plays in the background on subtle volume, just the right volume for me to wear pensiveness and write. The door is ajar. Ever so slowly, wintry wind tenuously breathes into this room. After endless days of the sun’s excruciating wrath and dust, rain decided to visit last night. She trickled in a drizzle, through the ominous ambience of the night and into the youthful hours of the morning. The sun hasn’t shone today, it’s resigned to hide under the grey clouds. Suffice it to say it’s nippy, cold like a dog’s smut. Not like I’ve touched a dog’s smut but a dogs smut seems cold, just like the tip on your nose at this moment. My feet are cold, I can’t find my socks.

In this laptop sits a circa 2000 word article I wrote last week but haven’t edited. Editing is writhing man, ok, I shouldn’t add ‘man’ after that sentence to express emphasis. It isn’t politically correct anymore, hehe. Dicey times we live in; political correctness, sensitivity, men unlearning masculinity, women going for what they deserve and whatnot. Interesting times.

It’s a good incentive to do better though, to not subvert anyone’s voice; male, female or non binary. But you have to admit that the stress ‘man’ at the end of an imperative statement thrusts the point home. It gives it the stab and ferocity. No? I’ll be slightly out of my depths trying to tackle this whole social movement thing so allow me come to a halt.


I was saying, editing is searing – man. It’s writing something you had written, probing it then rewriting it again. I read somewhere that the beauty of writing lies in the re-write. Write, sit on it a tad then rewrite after the fog clears. Editing is like sitting at a banal desk job in a stuffy windowless office with a defunct AC and a stuffy boss.

Do you ever do something, sit back, feel blissful and fulfilled of the sheer beauty of what you’ve done. That’s how I felt with this piece, I think I wrote it beautifully. It’s flawed but has a chance at life. It has the potential to be something. It is those guys who are told; ‘you aren’t there yet but you bear potential’ better yet it is those guys who are referred to as ‘not good looking but kind of sexy’. Women.

Caveat; anew, this might be a rudderless rambling, forgive me for it. Occasionally, there just isn’t something to write about but I have to because I’m trying to plough in my 10,000 hours in the craft, its arduous and ruthless but has to be done. An evil that needs to be summoned.

Scratch that. There is always something to write about, interesting or not. I would have written about my young brother. I would have chosen to write about my grandmother’s passive aggression. I would have chosen to write about my apprehension over finishing my undergrad this year and the haziness that lies ahead. I would have chosen to write about how I got a scar on my right leg and trying to hide it from my stern mom. I would have opted to write about my 1st year experience. Now, let’s broach that a tad.

In 1st year, I had this room-mate; an average height bloke who had as lousy a taste in music as his hairstyles. The bloke blasted obnoxious music from the speakers of his phone, and his phone had loud indefatigable speakers man. It should be atrocious for phones to have speakers that loud, since a phone with such speakers are treacherous – especially in the wrong hands. And they did fall in the wrong hands, wrong hands with a wrong taste.
This guy (who I’m struggling to remember his name) made the unilateral decision to move his girlfriend into our room notwithstanding that she had a room in the girls’ hostel. Not to convey my sour grapes but the guy was in a 24/7 absolute engrossed relationship. It was a full-time job. As if that wasn’t enough, I shared a class with the girlfriend.

I would come to my hostel room during the day and find the door locked from the inside, the nether end of a key sticking in the key hole. Of course they weren’t locked in reciting SDA hymns. Going by the mood of the key, they were also sticking it in, jumping on their bones and boners (couldn’t resist to add that in) at 1 pm.

Deep in the nights, they would croon sweet nothings to each other’s ears as I rolled eyes under my sheets. The chick had a high pitched voiced laced with a faux Swahili accent. The guy’s, not worth my black ink. Not soon after, from the air, I’d catch muffled kisses and feel intrusive, trying not to move. Utter third wheeling. Kisses sound good in movies, in real life, not half as good. At least not when you’re a third party. I’d stick in my earphones to alleviate the soundtrack of their raunchiness.
I’d sit in class and watch this girl go about, like she hadn’t been pissing on my peace for the longest time. A few times she’d catch my eyes and cock away. We never talked, it was uncanny the few times I’d talk to her, there wasn’t anything to talk about. What would I tell her, mourn softly next time, feed my fetish? I evaded her like a ghost.

They say we shouldn’t revel on a man’s misfortune, I did. When the two lovebirds broke up, I was stoked. It was bliss, it was nights of laying my head on my pillow and getting worthwhile shut eye. The girl eventually moved out of the hostels and got an apartment for herself, the imbalance and lingering feeling of emasculation therein was hard to sustain for our homeboy, might have drove the relationship down rocky terrain. I presume the girl broke up with him (music taste, maybe). I just didn’t see the boy penning the final appendage. He was a lover boy. I deduced the dejection on his face on the subsequent evenings, you’d see anything if you’re resolute enough. Even you, would have sen the poignance in his eyes. Even his volumes ebbed and his music embodied a melancholic mood.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this anecdote, it is inconsequential, but here’s the crux, whatever you do, be cynical of a girl with a lingering Swahili accent, they’ll break your heart like they did homeboy.


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