Third year came to a screeching, climactic end this past Friday. On Thursday, I had a fund raising to help raise tuition fee for my sister Ezinah, who is pursuing her degree with us. The turn out was low, but the outcome was overwhelming. I cried. Never knew the true value of friendship until Thursday. To this we shall return in our future dispatches. First things first.
On Friday 8.30pm, I arrived at KBC to a standing ovation reception from my classmates who had arrived earlier to format. If you are the slow type, let me bring you up to speed. Formatting is the process whereby BA students engage in all manner of activities including but not limited to: alcohol overconsumption, sex, drugs, partying, travelling, at the end of a semester to help forget the semester gone, academically that is. Some do partake in everything listed. I subscribe to the school of alcohol overconsumption.
KBC is a wonderful place. Like all military camps across the globe, beer goes cheap but served warm and the environment reeks unadulterated masculinity. There are no comfortable seats and discipline is highly encouraged. The last time I abused a policeman in the company of a beautiful woman and slaps worth ten tons landed on my face and I nearly lost my eye.
So, I was making a comeback. The environment was humidly warm. The mood was palpably enthusiastic. The who is who in our class was around and I have never seen a table so dirty with beer bottles. The laughters were throaty and unpretentious. There were no women around to inhibit the refreshing jokes that were uncensored.
No sooner I sat down than they started on me. Apparently, someone let in a secret that I have hots on some pretty-faced chick at in our class. For the next one hour, I couldn’t enjoy my drink. My dating and seduction skills were subjected to scrutiny and found wanting. The comical blunders on my part are inexcusable. Unforgivable. Suffice to say that my writing job was said to be of no use to me since I know approximately 2097 women in the University and can’t just bed them as regularly as expected.
See, the act of being a man is about how many women you can sleep with if you have the opportunity. So unless you are in prison or a celibate priest, you have no reason of not sleeping with as many girls as possible. Since our lives sometimes are under public scrutiny, especially for someone like me who cuts a deceptive political look, and who works in the media, individuals are always in the lookout for whom I have been shagging with.
When they fail to know, they derive conclusions, patently questioning my sexual orientation or my preferred means of getting the steam out. Wet dreams? Making love with my hand? Or do I visit the brothels?
The lashing went on. The sexual lifestyle of my object of affection was scrutinized and boy, wasn’t it unsettling? All my plans were sent scuttling. I was the laughing stock of the evening. Not that I cared. Personally, I participated in the self-deprecating exercise. Somehow, I like it when people poke fan at me. Simply, because they don’t know a thing about me. Usually the stories are hyperbolically exaggerated and one is supposed to play along, so as not to kill the humor, which essentially is the reason we go to drink.
The evening came to a rather bad end when immaturity settled in and guys started arguing which car is better or whose father works where? They exchanged fists and I had to leave. Next stop, Spree. One drink, the DJ is boring. Next Bettys, the place is too crowded and the class the club initially possessed is gone. We went back to sleep.
Saturday it happened at club Sound where I stumbled upon a very pretty chick in her mid twenties but so annoyingly conscious of her looks that it was boring. She had a very sexual smile that can turn on even a 93 year old father. And she had a figure, so shapeful and the dress she wore was full of erotic promise.
Trouble: she was in company of her girlfriends, purportedly sisters.
Problem: They were buying their own drinks. Beware of women buying their own drinks.
Crisis: They were about to leave.
Dilemma: I was fidgety and she could notice.
Anyway, she agreed to give me her number, but gave me a wrong one. That of her sidekick.
Boy! I can give anything to see this Margie again. So basically, that is how my third year ended.
Now I’m a fourth year. So far, so good. The going has been tough. I have had my best and worst moments. Embarrassing and enlightening. My time is up and I’m reasonably anxious. In the next seven months, the conveyor belt that is the university will be vomiting me. At that rate, I need me some rent and a woman to start life with.
Now getting a woman from the university is increasingly becoming elusive, given that women have now interpreted equality to mean, equal cheating rights, equal lying rights, equal arguing rights, equal going out rights, equal dressing rights, and it is getting a tad nauseous, especially for guys like me who prefer the old type of life.
Call me a chauvinist, if that will give you an Org***** but truth be told, the generation of women we are raising is a chaotic one. They will be the bane of a chaotic social order in the future.
Come next year, I will be now a full man, taxpaying citizen. That means, that the next six months will determine whether I will be a loser or not. I pray that all of us make it, and get jobs so that we can contribute to building this economy.
So friends, let us try and get ourselves a job and live to hope that we are not graduating to a life of misery. Get yourself a spouse if you can. If not go out to a different college or from the village. I believe that there are still good men and women out there. Go ye get one.
The job just begun.