In my primary
school years I had always been a performer. I belonged among the creme
de la creme of the school. Those who banged in 90s and 80s come what
may. Whether it rained or shone. It rained a lot though. But when I
moved to high school, my grades also moved. Migrated to Serengeti like
those bloody wildebeests. But then, I was in a high school, not a
secondary school. And in high schools, exams are set differently. They
are tough, they are savage, they are unforgiving. You sweat blood in
those seedy exam rooms.
As
such, in my high school years, I hammered not so top grades. My grades
competed with the number of years I've been alive. But I never gave up
and God never left me. His so handsome and extremely lovely creation. So
I foraged my way through school. Managed to eke out a good grade and
will be doing a premium course in the next few weeks. That's if the
stars don't align and I jump to some other field.
But
this post ain't about high school or campus, heck no! This is purely
about my primary school years. And the fiery rivalry that was there. It
wasn't an academic rivalry. We had better things to do. It was a tsunami
of hatred, a field blood. It was pure war. Boys lost teeth, lost
confidence and everything that made them boys. It forged us into men.
Phantoms of that dark past still haunt and sing in my ears. They flash
in my mind, I twist in bed, I writhe in pure agony. But hey, don't be
tensed. My primary school years weren't that bad. Twas really cool
actually.
Here is the rivalry.
I
don't know who lied to the administration. But word which reached us
was that the school was going to have a new leadership system. Gava
like, where there is a prezda, attorney general and the works. There was
this common myth that fellas who hammered social studies were perfect
choices for the attorney general seat. And boy! I hammered social
studies like nobody's business. Always the champ with 90s. My closest
rival was this fella Nyakado. He was good too, really good.
It
was thus said that in the upcoming elections. Nyakado vs Osoch for the
attorney general position. Ahaa! I had always won.. This was going to be
another cakewalk. Little did I know that tribal politics have roots in
primary school. See, it was a luo school. And those homeboys were never
going to allow "mtu wa nje". To have the much coveted instruments of
power.
We campaigned.
We
lied to little boys how we were going to change the school. Printed
banners and such shit, bought people bread. Come election day, I was
over the moon. I sat with my gang, the likes of Onsarigo as we waited
for the results.
Sadly,
those bastards had rigged me out. Nyakado won by a landslide. Yaani
aliniosha. Guy garnered 320 votes to my 67 votes. I felt like mourning.
But I was already circumcised. And circumcised men don't cry in front
uncircumcised boys (no pun intended). So I let the vitriol suffuce
within me. It flickered for a while then died. A fallen ember.
We stayed in touch with Nyakado. He went to Bush, I went to camp Laz. We still talked, a buddy and a nice writer too.
Last week, he reached out. He wanted to do a guest post. And I was like.
"Jamaa, you stole those primary school elections. But you still have the nerve to want appear on my blog."
But
we're buddies and I don't hold grudges. We surely can't let some
motherfucking election get between buddies. We laughed it off. Talked
about a lot of stuff. And I thought, why not. Let Nyakado post his stuff
on my blog. We'll that's partly because I like him. As a friend of
course. Uhm.. We need to be clear on such statements this days.
Without further ado. Fam, I give you Stanely Nyakado. Nyakado, meet the lovely family.
You begin to curse. You begin to regret why you did that. And of course, you start hating yourself.
‘’I’ll never forgive myself for what happened to her," you say to your friend Stano.
“It’s okay bruh, it has already happened and no matter how hard you cry, things cannot be changed,” he replies.
Thats utter bullshit!
You
feel like hitting some sense into the cretin’s head but the pain that
you feel inside is more and you stop. How can it be okay when she is not
there with me? How can it be okay when I am not to blame for what
happened? How? How? How? (Sad Nigerian song) Those bloody West Africans.
She
loved you. Wait, she didn’t love you: she really loved you. Let’s call
her Aisha. Aisha because apparently every beautiful costal girl is
called Aisha. Aisha because every naïve girl from costo is called Aisha.
Aisha because it is only a five letter name that fits her. We'll call
her Aisha because my crush is called Aisha. (Stanley's crush, not
kinasisi)
No word is fit
enough to describe how beautiful she is. If you think the name is
beautiful then wait till you meet the owner. God must have created her
when he had all the time in heaven. Maybe during December when he was in
a festive mood or end month after earning his salary. Her shadow was
more beautiful than some girls faces (Sijataja Mtu).
She
had a smooth non pimpled flawless face. Her two breasts were bigger
than some people’s brains. Her waist and hips perfectly accentuated by
whatever she wore. Then her perfect thighs and legs wah! Even from a
distance one could see that cleave. No words can be used to describe her
beauty.
Yours was
supposed to be friendship just friends and nothing more. Even ingeenda
sana maybe you’ll be the chairman of her friend zone or better still you
two become mega best friends. Introducing her was supposed to be like;
‘’ Mambo Lameck (@ Batasi Schmidt) Meet Aisha, a friend.’’
But
she could hear none of it.She added girl to friend and pap! She became
your girlfriend. A self-declared girlfriend (Ladies please be like
Aisha)
Your heart was not meant for her. It didn’t skip a beat when you set them on her and meza mate. Your heart beats didn’t rhyme.
To you she was a friend but to her you were more than a friend.
You
are booked and the sign’’ In a relationship’’ neatly placed on your
forehead. Aisha knew that you were single but still you couldn’t find
the courage to tell her. She knew that you were single and ready to
mingle at any angle. Courage! Courage! You were not courageous enough to
tell her that Shirley was your only oxygen that you breathed. So you
resorted to keeping mum and entertaining her stories. She was too
beautiful to be a side chic, too new to be a spare wheel.
You
once thought that you had gathered enough courage to tell her that she
wasn’t meant for you. You invited her over to your crib and treated her
to a fine dinner (by tha chiles love dudes who cook like costarian
chiqs) you then relaxed as you took a bottle of Jameson (After kukopa
pesa Kwa branch)
‘’ Aisha there’s something that I have wanted to tell you,’’ you started.
‘’
No need I guess I already know what it is. There’s no need to say more.
I know that you love me and my answer is yes; I’m ready to be with
you.’’
What! You had lacked words to form an
answer. You didn’t know what to tell her. Silence prevails where courage
fails. There was no way you were gonna tell her about it today. You
couldn’t imagine breaking he heart instead of her virginity.
Before
you knew it she was into you. You looked at her sexy lips and noticed
the power of her seducing dimples. She ran her finger from your lower
thigh gently to your upper to your upper thigh and you had felt your
pulse racing
‘Show me
your worth as a man. I want you to make me feel like a lady a real one
to be precise.’ She had whispered softly into your ears.
Now
that had been difficult. There was no way you were gonna sleep with her
and Shirley was coming around tonight. ‘Look here Aisha; I’m not ready
for this tonight. Maybe next time please.’
‘Come on; don’t tell me you’re lame down here.’ She had saying while gently stroking your member.
I
think you’re talking like this because you are drunk,’ you had told her
as you escorted her back to her apartment. Days went and soon they had
turned into weeks but you never heard from her and when you finally did,
it was at the graveside.
You
look at Stano and hate him for no reason. Here you are: Aisha DEAD and
Shirley dumped you like hot potato. Maybe I should have told her that I
didn’t love her, maybe then she would be alive. As it stands now there’s
nothing that you can do. She committed suicide because you could not
give her back the love that she freely gave you. You look at her at the
letter she left behind and hope that you’ll have the courage to read
it.
‘I’m sorry Aisha but
I loved you only that I was afraid to tell you because SUCH IS LOVE ….
Those whom we love never love us but those who love us we never love….
@_nyakado.yule.msee
By Stanley Nyakado
Photo
credits [t.a.a.r.i.q] Find him on instagram https://www.instagram.com/t.a.a.r.i.q/?hl=en. One brilliant
photographer. If people were like t.a.a.r.i.q the world would certainly
be a better place to live. Cheers man.
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