I Stand Here Thinking Bad Things

I am in the banking hall queuing behind another youngish man of like 27. There is just one other man ahead of him. Looks like someone around the final lap to retirement. Should start considering hiring a lawyer and an expert in writing wills and passing by the priest’s house every day to say hi. Grey hair but still with a humble belly to stomach the queue on a Friday morning.

A TV screen beams from the corner above TELLER 001. There is a graduation ceremony in progress. I should wonder why the watchman has just told the woman behind me not to use her phone yet there is TV in the house. Like who still watches the sad things in this day of LoL and LFMAO?

But this is their place so we shall have to be content with the foolishness and anything else that carries the tag home-made, including pens tied on strings like we are high school kids out to steal anything to cheat our exams with.

There is a multitude at the graduation. Innocent young people whose dream of white collar jobs has half been met. Bingo-I-have-done-my-part looks. The journey for doctors and teachers and secretaries has just begun. Straight people like the woman behind me – those who believe that the world is some kind of a programmed software where the good you do returns as good here on earth and tomorrow in heaven.

Today powers to read and do are being conferred upon thieves, looters, nepotists, rapists to go out there and fail governments and institutions.

So that they go out there and hold worker strikes whenever they feel the pay is low. Or smoke from their balconies on Saturday evenings and admire the young chap coming home from school.

The old fella has now engaged the younger chap in talk. He talks silently like good rich people do. I think he is a doctor. Or professor at a serious university. (Apologies soldiers and police.)

He wasted 25 years, he says. I think I’m hearing that the millionth time from their talk where most words are swallowed however much I try to follow.

The younger guy just shifts his weight to the right leg and continues listening as his senior goes on expounding something I don’t get. 25 years. Is that his son at home?  Or that Jammeh guy of Gambia? Or a certain man from Torah? Or me? 25 what? Problem with eavesdroppers is that you will take home your thousand guesses but that’s all. Even when you mean well as a decent eavesdropper in a banking hall.

I guess that is what life is. 

A few years ago queues were something else. I remember that first time I queued at the St Peters dining hall. I was small but with the ego of a village hero. Being a village hero was a feat for the fortunate few. Like the children of teachers and the chief and an occasional doctor. And those of us who passed primary school exams with fluffing colours, whatever that meant.

So I’m queuing and wondering how my village would have been without geniuses like myself and this prefect comes, looks around and points at me. Today we are eating meat and I’m only a few steps from the cook’s window. So I suppress my tears as I go to him. He tells me to go back to the dormitory and tie that thing round my neck before I qualify for eating. When I come back the queue is from here to Angola. Where did those idiots come from all of a sudden! I stand at the furthest end and start counting people’s blessings. When I’m halfway to the serving window the food is over. The matron is asked to explain. She says students were taking a second or third share. So Mr Ogola, a strict young fella we’d named Odilaks for Odili Samalu, that man Ogola takes about 50 boys to the staff room and whips their arses flat. I’m among them. By the time he is done with us, we are in the school farm paying for the crimes of humanity since the fall from glory. 

For the four years I stayed at the school, that was a norm we all came to accept. Queuing and being picked upon to account for what we didn’t know.

I’ve hated queues. Were it not for the value people placed on schools, I’d have found something better to use my time on. Queues represent suppression. Oppression. Education.

Education back then was that great thing. It would raise us from the dust to those clouds up there. Sorry to glory.  But sixteen years through the system and then you realise you were taught, ever, shit. To seek jobs. Even those graduating believe there are jobs out there tucked in the armpit of life. Cool jobs with stickers reading their names and shouting I am single please take me. Clean shirts and hot showers and weekend journeys on hired caravans.

Not queuing here waiting for meagre salary from cashiers who see a thief in everyone. 

It narrows down to the criminals that are our parents. Even made very good constitutions illegalising theft and sex to under 18s. But omitted to mention the crime of giving birth and then sending the young ones to other people’s people to beg for jobs.

They need jail at an MS prison. 30 years to the father and 31 to the mother. You can’t go giving birth to young men who will be professional beggars standing in banks for meager coins and expect that nature will absolve you just like that. Nature isn’t a fool.

But nature is a fool. These criminals continue to appease their groins to bring forth candidates of torture without fear or, and I hate cliches, favour. The government is even providing free maternity and improving road networks for them. 

Sometime in the future we shall all stand with our Creator. Even those who don’t believe this. And then we shall be found guilty of coveting our bosses’ daughters. And then we shall be shown furnaces breathing badly and asked to choose our places. Joji, my guy at Patel’s, will be the first criminal to be thrown in. Spent his entire adulthood stealing Patel’s bread whenever he left his desk for a lunchtime nap. Andrew, my landlord’s son, will be thrown in second because he has never discovered how to tame his south pole on people’s wives. Between my Maths teachers at Musenda and the guy I met in Burundi burning charcoal near a morgue, one will be thrown in next. And on and on.

Well, we lived expecting this anyway. And some of us will even start walking to the place to check areas they can set up water and shoe repair sheds. You always know someone who knows someone in paradise and so getting contraband water smuggled from the angels’ tanks or new pairs of shoes stolen from a king’s son won’t be that big deal. Or even ex-UK freezers and ACs.

So we will start walking and looking around for any wet sand to put out the fire with. And then there will be a loud shout of protest from the group at the back. Turning, we shall all look around and fail to see the person. 

Who was that, God will ask.

There will be murmurs as the chimneys bellow asking the King if there are any more humans to be roasted.

The shout will come again. A bark. We people will forget about the furnaces and take a step aside. Then in the middle shall remain the man taking God head-on in his backyard.

He will be dark and weak with a drunken look. It will be Otisman the carpenter. He will even be wearing his Gor Mahia shirt.

What are you saying?

I am not going to that fire.

What? You disobey me in my day when you squandered yours in brothels and that joint near your wife’s house?

I am not going. We are not going. We shall go after seeing you in the furnaces with us. You gave us foolish parents. You put us in a tough world. Saw us struggle through school. We struggled to live. Then you killed us. Is that a lesser crime than our spending hours of pleasure at the shrine you just called brothel? 

I think many things standing here in this queue.

We wake up so early for 30 days and then have to queue at a local bank for the payback. We even discipline ourselves you would think the money will stick on our palms beyond next Friday.

Have you ever been late for work and then found that the buses plying your route are on strike because of a foolish thing like police extortion or drivers’ strike? And then you sit there wanting to cry and ask God for a miracle? And then you see one of the buses by the bend of the street and everybody has already rushed there to fight for the few remaining seats? Boss, then you beat yourself and hold your phone in the hand and fold your sleeves and enter the pushing and shoving. Then you beat a great number of them and manage to get in when it still matters. You even get yourself a seat by the window and feel like breaking the wind so the weaklings know who rules this jungle. In all fairness who told them to sleep on the job? In this city, folks don’t blink….

 

And when you are still congratulating yourself and sympathising with those left outside, the conductor comes and says everyone should have their fare in loose money. You have it in loose and you could have helped the guy next seat if he asked. Then the conductor says that those alighting at the Stadium shall pay half the money. You jump. That’s how an own fart begins to smell bad…..

Smells bad because you are not going that route of the Stadium. The only play thing in your route is your life. You are in the wrong vehicle.

Have you ever gone through this?

That is life.

Unapologisingly so.

Do your work and let’s all sit together and wait our deaths.

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Author: Papa Were

Just a man with a metallic horse and an umbrella.

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