Mama, Now That's A Job

"Index 143!" ordered a loud female voice.
"Yes sir! Sorry, Yes Madam!"
The whole battalion of students eager to face their life defining paper burst in laughter as I majestically walked to my desk. I could feel the sharp eyes of the invigilator pierce me to the bone marrow as she escorted me with them eyes like a faithful bodyguard to his master. It was as if she was asking me the Sholei-question, "Do you know who I am?" But I gave no single care of what she was trying to declare with her stern face that completely was no match to her curvy body.

She had the kind of body that God created on a weekend when there was not much to create. You see, on a weekend I imagine God created the "wonderfully" made, while the rest of us normal/ugly folks came off the pipeline as the "fearfully" made. She downed on a very thin dress that seemed to beg any hand that had the opportunity to touch her. The kind of dress that isn't too long to kill you with boredom or too short to make a man have a heart attack, but long enough to hide the subject matter, you know that type? Right?

I took the desk next to the wide window. Not that I chose it for myself but because the Old-Man up there pulled His strings of fate and saw it fit for me to be index 143, not 142 nor 144, but 143. But who am I, a mere mortal, to question what His Highness the Lord Himself selected specially for me? Who am I?

I took my rightful place and began chanting every prayer that my staunch Reverend had ever taught me. I could feel that these prayers were being served to God by His army of Gabriel and the strong fellows up there. They were not the kind of prayers that have to go through the likes of Peter, Matthew and doubting Thomas for vetting, no, they were designed so personally that daring to open my letter/prayer would amount to one trying to read a letter of a son telling His father the problems that ail him. I hope saint Peter with his excessively inquisitive habits didn't poke his nose on matters that do not remotely concern him. If you did, Peter, I have a bone to pick with you. That's not a threat for that matter.

"And lastly, index 223!" That female voice again.
Each student took their designated place ready to reap what they sow for a whole scorching 4 years. I was in "the others" hall with the rest of us bunch of fellows who never worked hard in form three and fell for index numbers that were identifiable by more than 2 numerals. This is where all idiots who hardly managed a mean grade beyond a C - converged to undertake our examinations.

Don't judge me that I found my way to this hall too. You see in form three I had these adolescent emotions which were burning me up like a raging fire on grass. Story for another day, but now you know how I ended up here.

Two very mean looking men joined the lady and begun dishing out the examination papers. A thin sweat was declaring its paths down my shaggy hair which had not had a visit by the barber in ages. I took a deep breath, thanks to my yoga tutor, and calm took over me the same way the seas calmed during the time of Jesus of Nazareth. By the way, I still don't get how this fellow used to talk to storms like they are his pals. How?

So I take out my pen and ready it to ooze knowledge and experience that has been earned not so easily but by a long four years of hardship(read canes) and lots of maize and weevils, aka, githeri, and a few beans here and there. I felt completely ready for this specific English Writing paper, regards to my teacher of English, one Mr. Hillary Muthoka(this is where I send shout out to the rest of my teachers, but today save this space for this soldier-strong teacher).

I was armed to the last tooth to fire arsenal after arsenal. Delivering blow after blow on the Queen's language. I could imagine my fellow students scrabbling to catch the slightest glimpse of the justice I was going to do to this paper. My very joking friend, George Mwendwa(by the way watch his music on YouTube as Rota Dee, how have you guys not watched his music?) would probably be throwing papers at me in an attempt to have me position my paper squarely for him to copy my work. Yeah, he would do that like he had a PhD in Exam Thievery and Answers Editing. Sorry sir, that just seemed like a good line to spice my story

I could imagine the examiner marking my paper with broken ribs out of reading the wealth of memes married with sophisticated language I was going to deliver. I hope his/her insurance works, owing to my humor he/she would be in hospital for days, which means a big bill, where the insurance comes in.

I brace myself up and I open the paper. Karma has a way of embarrassing me each time I am ready to do justice to a task.

Long story short, five years later here I am behind my laptop delivering my wrath upon the keyboard to pen down this article, namely, a blog post, while the rest of THE students are surgeons, pilots, accountants and other jobs which deserve the name JOBS.

But well, I guess it's not such a lose because I keep folks like you glued to their phones, iPhones, iPads and other i-devices.

Mama, now you see where your fees went to? Right? Mama, I have a serious job. I do articles, scripts, blog, write, in short, I am some idle jobless fellow who writes stuff as it trickles down my brain. Now, that's a job.

On a serious note, adults, I am a seasoned filmmaker, script writer, photographer, and basically any job that involves holding my camera or penning down my story via the qwerty keyboard.

Check out my coming film, "Circle of Games". Thanks my faithful readers for keeping me employed here. Have a drink on my bill.
Cheers.