And because I dream in series

I haven’t yet found someone to try my new insult on, preferably a woman. It’s mainly for the type of women who fall asleep too quickly, as if they dream in series and can’t wait for the next episode to begin. Knowing about this system of dreaming, it involves thorough intellectual skills such as sleeping all day and expecting to be a millionaire in a year. Through sophisticated research, I have discovered that you can perfectly dream the same dream, in continuous form if you sleep in on a Sunday afternoon. At exactly 4.37 pm, your mind will start by replaying the last scenes of the previous episodes. You should read the findings, I have pasted them on all public toilet walls. Pop into one and have a bliss.  

It’s perfectly normal and easy to dream the same dream as I have stated above. I am the authority in this field that’s why you should read my peer reviewed journal. For those who would rather empty their bowels in familiar toilet bowls, I am going to explain a few things so that you can make progressive political decisions henceforth.

The dream begins a long time ago. As young man, barely into my teens, I doused in gasoline a grass thatched house back in the village. It served as village drinking joint, an equivalent of your favourite joint, say Kiza Lounge or 1824. It had no name but it was perfectly useful so long as people would find it. As it turns out, three drunkards did not make it out alive. If you value progress like I do, you wouldn’t be bothered by the fact that the world was less of three drunkards. As fate would have it, I made away with the murder. Life went on normally; I ate and shit normally, breathed normally, and of course I will die normally in my sleep and in old age. People don’t do this anymore but that’s what is in my script which is being reviewed by god. Except for my transgressions, he may….I don’t want to make suggestions yet.

I may have lied that life went on normally, because I would dream being pursued by petite ladies who were on the trail of the bizarre and shocking murders. It think you can agree with me that there was something wrong with the ladies because we often ended up making out until the passed out but then I would wake up scared stiff that I may revealed that I killed people as men sometimes brag in when they let passion override the faculties. The ladies would show up. We would go through the same sequence again and again. For ten years. Until today. Fourth of February twenty eighteen.

And so today came. A call came through.

“Hallo, are we speaking to Kipchirchir Rop?” the caller asked

“Yes, that’s exactly me,” I said boisterously because that’s the name I would love to be known by when I become a famous author. I thought that may be someone one had spotted my writings somewhere and decided that I was good enough to be awarded a contract for my debut novel ‘The Sound of Invisible Things.’

“We are calling you in connection with murders that happened ten years ago,” the caller said.

I tried hanging up. It wouldn’t. I had to remove the phone battery. I hurriedly packed my clothes in a sack and left home. I had the idea of fleeing, to a country like Kenya where fugitives usually hide. 

When I opened the gate, I found a large number of soldiers with their guns trained on me immediately I stepped out. In shock, I dropped the sack that had the best clothes but instead rats squirmed out. In shock I woke up. I think in the next episode I will be in jail or Kenya. The later seems more likely.