She was a nightmare. I do not know why,
exactly, but she used to send shivers down my young spine. We were in class two.
And every morning we secretly prayed she never showed up to teach. And of course,
our relationship with god was at its infancy, therefore unanswered.
Every morning, whispers ‘she’s coming’
would rent the classroom and we’d all peep through the window to confirm. I
guess seeing is believing. Mrs. Chirchir would be ambling across the field in
pace that made us extra tense as we tried to welcome the impending doom.
The mere act of crossing the field taught
us two things: that whatever is abominable for us was perfectly acceptable for
adults. Taking a detour across the field was akin to insulting the king. I
guess it was an early lesson, which we did not get, that adults can do whatever
they want.
I didn’t like Mrs. Chirchir at all. She had
two children, a boy and a girl. They were two really annoying children. I think
they intentionally chokozad others and if you lay a finger on them or even act
like it, you’d encounter the rath of their mother. We kept our distance,
leaving the kids to annoy themselves. And they often fought, with the boy, being
younger, was more ferocious than an accosted lion.
Mrs. Chirchir did not do me anything to me
of note. Except I lived in mortal fear of her. One day, she came to class
surreptitiously and found me talking with my desk mate Edu. We were doing our
assignments and Edu was apparently copying from me and I was letting him know
about it.
“Ati unanionea hii!!” I said within Mrs.
Chhirchir’s earshot.
“Kumbe unaongeanga ivo?” She asked. At the
time, I knew hell had broken loose. I knew I would be turned into mince meat.
But she didn’t. she let it slide but that simple act did not make me like her
at all.
Fridays were hellish days for us. This was
the day we’d be asked to fetch fresh cow dung from a neighbor to improve the
aesthetics of our classroom floor. It wasn’t’ cemented. It was hellish for us
boys because it was an indignifying chore. It was emasculating and the woman in
Mrs. Chirchir used that opportunity to diminish our manhood – it wasn’t that
advanced but it was manhood nevertheless.
When you think really deeply, there is
nothing like future. Of course, if you discount Future Fambo, and Future the
rapper. But today, I am incapable of thinking really deeply. I’ll offer a
superficial analysis of my hypothesis on why there is nothing like future.
It dawned on me, and I am quite astounded,
that I am really old. Somewhere along the highway of sweet twenties, I got
waylaid by some aliens who convinced me that growing up stopped at 20+x years.
It could be a nice way to live if you had oil wells pumping under your armpits.
The stench would be bearable to the fairer gender.
20+x years imprints a fatalistic
here-and-now mentality. At this age, the future does not exist. There is
nothing like a month from now. A year from now? We’ll be probably dead after
consuming mercury-laced sugar if not OD.
After Y years have elapsed, the bubble
might burst suddenly or gradually. It can be sudden when you go back to the
village and that small boy who used to ask you stupid questions as young
children are wont, is married with two children. And the wife is probably hot,
too, if round off motherhood to the nearest 18 years.
And the little champ has built a house!! It
might not be that grand per say, but it is his house. He can wake up and
demolish it and no one would give him shit. We would think he is mad though
even if it is his own house, built with his own money. And he probably has an
old rickety motorbike that would give you tetanus or marasmus – whichever comes
first. But damn it! It’s his motorbike, bought with is own sweat and blood.
And then there is you, stuck at 20+x years
with a bunch of diplomas and degrees, and a whacky philosophy about life and
everything that makes it throb. Whacky here means contrary to popular belief,
that is, politics, social, and financial. And religion.
Back to future. It only exists because you
decide not to live now. For instance, you could make a little money and decide
to postpone spending it now. You willfully deny yourself pleasure to spend it
at a later now, which if think closely, will still be now. You will never be
alive in a future, you are only alive now, at this present, and one breath, one
heartbeat, and one second at a time.
But then if you think like this, you will
stagnate and turn murky and greenish like stagnant water.
