Campus live-a tale of singlehood and hopes

Oranges and Cactus

I wasn’t ever going to study law in my life. But when you hear my mum, waking you up in the morning to go read because “PLO is not lazy” you somehow start wondering what you and PLO share, apart from an obvious flare with words, and a small kipara that is not there but is really there. And so the gods are somehow with you, you do fourth form and pass, somehow, despite attracting a retinue of suspensions in high school for being “hot-headed,” revolutionary and too radical to listen to anyone in life.
You don’t want to do medicine, or engineering. To be honest you don’t even know what you should do in life, but somehow too, you end up at the Kenyatta university, doing law, and your parents back in the village can’t stop calling you wakili, the villagers too can’t stop calling you to ask for legal opinions on what the `law` says when a person `swears` himself in as Raila did. Honestly, you have no idea, the last time you saw a constitution was when you some first class seeking bimbo was arguing with the lecturer on some obscure legal precept, and you had to go see this constitution, just to show the guys around you that you are not that dumb after all.
You detest suits, like hell you do. In fact you hate them as much as you hate the food cooked at the mess, which is always mixed with a fair share of undercooked carrots that can dig a borehole in your teeth, and always end up sticking between your teeth and shaming your sorry ass before the girls. But like eating at the mess, you don’t really have an option; you have to garb yourself like the rest of the `senior men` a bunch of guys you started hanging out with because you couldn’t be `uncool` at any one point. In between your faded jeans and khakis, you have this one suit that you keep wearing to turn up for looks pretty good on you, but you always feel so old when you put it on that Noah should have been in high school when you were in high school.

Somehow everyone ends up getting hitched up in some way. Every other boy you know gets himself a girlfriend of some sort among your classmates. It’s not cool, but because you don’t have the guts and the language to pursue the fast talking law school girls, who want to be taken for lunch dates at the Emeli hotel, just down from school, supper at Mooreland, also nearby, and in between soda`s, chocolate and some water they pass for juice called` fruitville`, you keep saying that “ relationships are not your priorities,’ and that you want to study fast before you think of them . But everyone gets picked up, even those you thought would wait gets picked up by a student, sometimes they find a father figure in the form of a sponsor.
A few months, not even a semester down the line, you have cut a clique for yourself. You are the genius guy who can reproduce pages of a book at the speed of an office secretary. You are the also the guy whose feet you can’t step on, savage with words and actions. But this new-found fame doesn’t offer you any reprieve, even when you start balling because somehow you have chanced on some money they don’t look your way. They are hot- headed as you are. They say “hi” in curt little ways in the morning, then warm up to you when they see you start popping chocolate and candy from your bag. “Kantai aki you are so sweet, umenibebea candy leo?” and you feel like telling her to fuck off your personal zone, but some little bird somewhere told you she`s as single as a budget briefcase, so you give her one with a sorry smile and say “ iko kiasi, anytime.”
Your budget is strained, you make a few shillings writing for people who sometimes think they pay you through` exposure` but you live in one of your dad`s numerous places, you can’t complain. Sometimes you get the guts to ask a girl out, spoil them with chocolate before she goes back to her legit boyfriend, but you go back home, check your wallet and realize you have dug a hole so deep you’d have to add the number of writing gigs you have taken to refill it. And so you spend all that time wondering how much sleep you`d have to sacrifice, how much food you will have to cut back in order to buy enough coffee for the night. But you can live with that. You are so much a student after all, and somewhere they said that that students can’t have too much money, not when there are girls to impress and feed, and parties to go to.
There isn’t much you can do, but your off-handed attitude turns to desperation at some point. You want to have a girlfriend so hard you can’t live with singlehood. You are the only one who walks from the school, deep in Ngara to the stage alone. Off course, once a while, like the days you shed your jeans for a suit, there`s Maurene who goes to Kiambu, who has a boyfriend you don’t know, who she keeps flossing about all the walk. And you somehow miss those moments, her endless rivers of stories and escapades that you start owning them, until she hears the lie you once told a friend and she goes ballistic on you.
Definitely you can live with all that, but you can’t live with the fact that no one can pronounce your name in full, and those who can, keep reminding you of some stupid kindergarten tongue twister that is associated. You greet some girl like “hi, am Kantai,” and she goes blushy with a stupid smile on her face, then smiles again and starts saying” if Kantai can tie a tie, the blogger, right?” somehow you feel like slapping her, like getting angry, but the same little bird that keeps updating you about who`s single and searching did also include her in your list of “potentials“. So you also smile, and tell her” yeah, you got it right. Mind some lunch? On my bill?” They can never stay away from the allure of saving a little of their money on someone else`s pockets.
They all end up taking up your contacts, because they heard somewhere that you have very funny status updates, and that you are hilarious and good meaning. They are there for your content,like some sort of Viusasa, they start texting you when some update touches them and they have to laugh. But you don’t want that, you don’t listen to that. So one day, you wake up after sleeping on the chair because you have been writing all night, and you write her a poem detailing your affection for her, and she replies with flame emojis and a curt “k” to mean she has loved the poem but not you. It’s heartbreaking; somehow, they always end up slipping through your fingers like small snails.
So you keep wondering where the gods cursed you, whether your mum`s prayers that you should not be confused with the evil girls are really working, or whether it’s because you bite your nails when thinking really hard. But no answers come forth, you can’t go drink out your stress silly like the rest of the boys in your class, or invite a girl home for the night to watch ‘ black panther’ on your dad`s curved screen in between kisses and cuddles because the estate watchman will report you faster than you can say your name. And then will start a round of quarrels, and msomo. so every day you wake up, and while bathing with cold water because you heard it helps your skin you ask yourself whether you should really wait for the beautiful ones to be born, and to call the beauty you have seen in class “gremlins,” as boys ought to when they are rebuffed, or to remain the perfect gentleman you have been, spewing forth Latin terms like confetti because you got better use of the time you would have wasted on girls. Bado mapambano!
To be continued when I reach second year, hopefully there will be


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