today i spent the day nurturing young hearts(@ a kindergarten my family runs) to become responsible citizens if this country. well, n it was good now that it was do-what-i-say-not-what-i-do policy.
then, i dispatched them early as ‘teacher had other important biz to attend’….n true, i was to pick the electors card to day- for y’all who thiink am well below the legal age…
n wasn’t it an experience, in the observation kinda sense…i mean, from the time i arrived at the station n i was sizing up the clerks:
they were two smartly dressed ladies-in-black and going by their freshly-plaited hairstlyles and the hospitality they gave ignorant kenyans…man n the way the chief-lady was whispering worms of conversation into her phone, that was govt credo… n chedar
meanwhile, i got my name registered n am prepared to vote all these old geezers out. remember i dont vote 4, i vote against n replace these corrupt many with the incompetent few.
after the nervous seconds of having the sexy mama hol’ m’ sweaty palm(to get my fingerprint), i made my exit, tryin to look my best n am like hopin al meet her next time i pass by..
then, if a heart attack doesn’t stop me, al drop some line like(after callin on my celly n pretendin that a no aint going thru’..)\
“hey, wud you flash me this no, my phone got connexion issues..”
n then , i give her my number n that way, wont i have her no?
never mind…am not desperate..
anyho, i was like headed to my former colle n i this mat almost run over me….steered by drug crazed touts n full of hip yung stas from skul, hell, i flashed the unidigital salute n scurried off…but i dint fail to notice this lady seated on the front seat with her hand resting on the door in an i-own-this-car style. her friend, just next to her is bobing her head off to the high-decibel, pouring from the vehicle’s powerful woofers- yung pple, a vain generation..
then this tout swings out n lands dangerously, almost knocking me over(kismat sio?). the only thing i note is his black shirt( i stare at it like a fool when he screeches infront of me)…
“i know i am not PERFECT but am so CLOSE it scares me”.
. .then instead if apologising, the dude is like looking at me like am made of mahogany n wonders if some hooters have sprouted from his chest..uhm, dude doesn’t even know wot he is wearing..no wonder he’s not perfect n is not only scared of getting wholly perfect, rather of thinking..
” life test:no experience needed”
tell me whats yours.
big, phat,plump, gisty,cheek-y,lusciuos,bra-own,g-string-y,bust-y but not burst-ying, whoa-it eyes,dimple-d, and i guess there is more to it that the words try to capture…
anyhow, since i let the red-dog in me out, i dont strut around campus with my hands burried in the pockets. some close friend disclosed to me how chickeny-y they do bring me out and hell no, am no loser!
now, arms spread out, hanging from their sockets as if i have boils and lumps in my armpit, i puff my [small] chest and assume the pose of an aggressive, overly dressed football player. comic it may seem, but no numskull has cross’d my path lately. I only hope my baby face isn’t distorted to portray some other picture of me like the face of a frustrated poet or a guy who’s at the end of his rope of life. Nevertheless, none the more… with my mouth screwed eyes half slit, peering through you and so much more that speak of a dude who does speak softly and carry a BIG STICK in life, I snake my way through the throngs of student crowding the corridors. Its lunch-time and the pursuit is now universal: to get something inside the downstairs chambers.
Am headed for the canteen.
As you’d guess, its crowded and more like a mob justice scene (or sin). With the chaos and all- every one wants to be served first. They have their notes flung out in the air and a slick pick-pocketer could have had a field day here. At the same time, orders are shouted like its one of those seedy luthuli bars(not that I have been there).
The shop attendant, one Joshua, is awestricken. The lord must have stopped the midday sun to see into it that all hungry heads get fed and he rakes enormous profit. Or again, he may be wondering how the hell he has not six or eight arms so as to serve them and possibly not lose any one uv ’em…
Even though hunger pangs are biting into my patience I stand back and let the more hungrier ones quench their flavors accordingly…
” joshu! Vanilla yoghurt na burger hapo!” an impatient rascal, tired of waiting shouts. He justifies this with rants such as :”I have a class in the next five minutes”. And the dirty glances he gets are like ” and so are all of us!”
This, strangely, jolts me into the superhighway of my archives as his request strikes a cord in my history folder.
Vanilla vanilla…where art thou. Still no results…then it comes to me and I smile, hastening me to join in the hassle.
Vanilla…that flavour extracted from seed pods of a tropical American vine of the orchid family…
Ah, but it’s the origin of the name that strikes my sweet tooth most, well, almost.
Vanilla apparently, is the Greek word for the female genitalia
(vagina). huh! and the fact that the seeds have some ‘semblance’ to it lead to the christening of the flavor as vanilla.
“Joshua vanilla hapa pia!” I drive my way in the pack regardless of the murderous stares….
Hey, I love vanilla flavor. Its my flavor, what’s yours?