[Guess who’s back, back again. Prissy’s back!]
I’m in a mat heading to school, most people might call it campus but I am not most people. I’m simple, even after high-school I still refer to lecturers as teachers, university as school and hostels as home. I might have used the word sophisticated to describe myself, but I don’t like the current definition doing rounds on social media platforms where it has been reduced to a hash tag.
Do you watch ‘2 broke girls’? There’s this immigrant that doubles up as a cook. He has a heavy Russian accent and is hairy – very hairy. Forget him. Im talking about the girl with big boobs. She has this idea for people addicted to social media, specifically twitter and instagram; “Twitter is for dumb people and instagram is for people who don’t know how to read.” Oh Max! The things that you’ve taught me! I’m not dumb, and sure as hell I know how to read. I don’t know about you thought, but I think I have done a pretty decent job in quoting a phrase. You might say it is just a TV show, but I know my teacher is proud.
Well, these past few weeks have been full of activities. They have been really mind involving and since I pride myself in simplicity it’s been challenging. I’ve been doing my project; final year – and it has definitely not been a walk in the park. Walks in the park are easy, unless you can’t walk then you can say they have been a walk in the park. Have you ever tried writing an academic paper? It’s hard! Things aren’t any easier with a strict supervisor breathing down your neck every minute for Nitti-gritty things such as correct citations and references. I loathe the coming of the digital age – all this 21st century mumbo-jumbo has had our teachers insist on soft copy versions of our work. I always cringe anytime I have to hit send because I know my work is the product of the infamous CTRL+C and CTRL+V. This digital bug might just have bitten my lecturer or they might have attended one of those seminars they go to. You know the ones where they are all down at the beach in their plaid trousers folded knee length with their shirts half way open exposing some chest hairs and holding their pair of black shoes in hand as they wade the shores? They might have learnt there that you can check a student’s work for plagiarism by running it through a software. If this was the case, then let’s just say my end was in sight. All my hard work (and that of others including Google and a number of other plagiarized PDF’s) would have been fornothing. You cannot convince an African parent that you’re not graduating just because you were caught cheating. In Africa you’re never too old for a good ol’ ass whooping. The funny thing is, this has never happened, I might just be paranoid but there’s a lot at stake. Bottom line, I can’t be caught I’ve been doing my best on this on project.
The thing with these projects is that you have to find a way to record your findings. It’s been torture and I have suffered enough. Wait, is this where the so called ‘sufferers’ get their name from? I thought it was from a religion that expected them to scour the earth and toil until the day they died. I was thankful to my parents they didn’t introduce me to such but looks like I didn’t really get far away because here I am.
I’ve had over a week with my ‘suffering’ and I’ve barely made progress past the first few sentences. While this might sound normal, it’s not. I have a ton of information from office visits and phone calls that I thought would enrich my work – so far nada! I didn’t see much hope in getting any of the work done so in my ‘suffering’ I had to find a way to alleviate it – I did the simpler sections. Then it hit me, these projects ask us to acknowledge all those that have been a part in the process. Who would I acknowledge? God? My parents? Was this an Oscar? I got out of the house and caught a mat. I always plug in my earphones when I am in them. This time playing was ‘The man who can’t be moved’ by The Script. I love this song to bits, more so the live audience version. I don’t know how this song relates to me though because all the men I have dated are moveable. The song had my mind drift back to the acknowledgements and I wondered if I would be able to acknowledge all the people that had led me up to this moment. Forest hill drive, sigh, that album was something. Remember note to self? The acknowledgments on that? I’m sure mine would sound nothing like that. Not that I wouldn’t want it to, but I’m just no J Cole. Mine would be a major shout out to all the guys that broke my heart. What? They taught me I could be more by not settling for less. They led me up to this moment. Maybe I’d write about being a bird that’s been set free soaring in the sky. Probably include a bit where I talk about the feeling I get when the air runs through my feathers. How I have travelled but how I haven’t really quenched my wanderlust. But how can you quench a lust that sends thrills down your spine when you board a bus to an unknown land? A lust that leaves you wanting the company of friends and strangers? A lust that allows you to be fascinated by foreign dialects you do not understand? A lust that prompts you to weave words every time you think about it? This lust is slowly becoming my new love. Unlike humans, it won’t under deliver or have me settle for less, or be complacent. Instead it will open me up to new experiences, and gives you much more to look forward to.
Do I sound like a jilted lover? I am not. It’s an epiphany – in a matatu but an epiphany all the same. If I could have my way with the acknowledgments I’d recognize all the people I have interacted with. Especially the matatu operators that ply my route. They don’t even know my name but they have christened me Sandra. They always say hi when I am at the bus stop. I’d acknowledge the boda-boda guys, these guys have hilarious stories and their lives are an adventure akin to Jurassic park. How about all the pals I’ve had one for the road with? Okay, five for the road. We’ve had pretty intellectual arguments together in both the dingy and classy joints amidst all the noise.
Somehow I found myself back in school. Not the university, but all the schools I’ve ever been to including the Sunday one. All these teachers shaped me. They’d definitely have to receive some form of dedication. They’ve baptized me with immense knowledge and I still thirst for more. I have learnt, through them, the world is full of possibilities for a dedicated soul and a ready mind. I wouldn’t be done yet, no. I’d have to shed a tear, from the right eye and doing a mic drop before moon walking off the stage. Heck! Add in the deuces sign, MJ crouch grabbing, size 8’s mellow dramatic kick, that one friend’s epileptic dance and some chemical X.