Sometimes I wish my
folks would book for me two adjacent hostel rooms so that they can put a maid
in the second room to be my substitute parent when I’m at campus. Maybe then, I
could be a little less inclined to make poor decisions and settle for low
standards.
Like the saying goes – the little things you do always come right back at you. Back in high school, if you were a normal kid, you were required to present a report card (normally pink in colour) at the end of each academic period. This showed that you had spent the last four months scoring Ds and Fs and not blowing your tuition on Sports Betting and Discos.
Personally I think imagination is better than education. Because you can always imagine that you’re smart. The whole education thing – the whole pink report card thing, is the rip off of the generation. I mean, how the hell does someone in their right minds pay close to a million shillings for a silly pink card every few months?
Cui Bono? What good is that?
Talk about a stick up.
Anyway, having a maid next door doodling all over your issues is not the best part about campus. The best part is that you don’t have to carry a silly pink card to your folks after every few months. You’re not accountable to anyone, no one at all. You’re not liable for anyone. If you wind up dead, your body will be discovered after graduation because they’ll need to contact you to inform you that you’re dead and you’re not on the graduation list.
In that exact order
My mother has failed to wrap her head around the fact that I show up at this specific time, every year, demanding hostel money and food money and photocopying money and trip money and whatever-else-I-can-cook-up money – without the glorious silly pink card. So we’re watching TV, just the two of us, and she brings it up.
Mum: You mean they don’t give you a report?
Me: Give me a report? (I have this thing where I repeat the last part of her questions so that I have more time to come up with proper answers). No, they post the results on the internet.
Mum: I have never understood this internet thing, it is all very confusing to me. They should know better than to complicate a simple progress report. I mean, I surely can’t be the only parent who can’t use the internet. Didn’t you write anything down?
Me: Write anything –? – er, actually I did. But I misplaced the paper where I wrote them down.
Mum: You have always been careless. It is like one of your many talents, losing things. You lose things even before you think about owning them.
Me: Yes, mum.
Mum: Anyway, how are things? Are you passing? What’s this thing I hear – um, repeats? retakes? – they’re called retakes, right? I heard they’re dreadful. Do you have any?
Me: Well, they’re not as dread –
Mum: What do you mean “not as dreadful”? (She sits up, heavily, and looks me in the eye) Do you have any retakes?
Me: Well, er, the thing is –
Mum: The thing is what, Arthur?
Me: Arthur? Um, no, I don’t have any retakes. But even if, say, I had like three or four or possibly five retakes, they wouldn’t be that bad. I would just have to do them all over again, you understand?
Mum: No, I don’t. Don’t get any of those dreadful retakes. Every extra minute you spend in that place is costing me a heart attack. As a matter of fact if you get a retake, make sure you lock yourself in that overpriced hostel room and throw away the room.
Me: I won’t get any (more) retakes mum.
Mum: You’d better not. And what’s this you’re making me watch? That’s an old man and a small girl for chrissakes
Me: It’s called Shameless.
Mum: Well you should be ashamed of yourself for making your mother watch such nonsense. Isn’t it time for news? Let me watch news like every other old woman for chrissakes.
* * *
Happy Holidays! Watch TV. Be useless. Be happy. Throw a coin to a beggar on the street. But most importantly, be high as kites my friend.
Peace sign
Can’t keep up? Follow @KukussBlog on Twitter and like the Kukuss Blog page on Facebook.
Like the saying goes – the little things you do always come right back at you. Back in high school, if you were a normal kid, you were required to present a report card (normally pink in colour) at the end of each academic period. This showed that you had spent the last four months scoring Ds and Fs and not blowing your tuition on Sports Betting and Discos.
Personally I think imagination is better than education. Because you can always imagine that you’re smart. The whole education thing – the whole pink report card thing, is the rip off of the generation. I mean, how the hell does someone in their right minds pay close to a million shillings for a silly pink card every few months?
Cui Bono? What good is that?
Talk about a stick up.
Anyway, having a maid next door doodling all over your issues is not the best part about campus. The best part is that you don’t have to carry a silly pink card to your folks after every few months. You’re not accountable to anyone, no one at all. You’re not liable for anyone. If you wind up dead, your body will be discovered after graduation because they’ll need to contact you to inform you that you’re dead and you’re not on the graduation list.
In that exact order
My mother has failed to wrap her head around the fact that I show up at this specific time, every year, demanding hostel money and food money and photocopying money and trip money and whatever-else-I-can-cook-up money – without the glorious silly pink card. So we’re watching TV, just the two of us, and she brings it up.
Mum: You mean they don’t give you a report?
Me: Give me a report? (I have this thing where I repeat the last part of her questions so that I have more time to come up with proper answers). No, they post the results on the internet.
Mum: I have never understood this internet thing, it is all very confusing to me. They should know better than to complicate a simple progress report. I mean, I surely can’t be the only parent who can’t use the internet. Didn’t you write anything down?
Me: Write anything –? – er, actually I did. But I misplaced the paper where I wrote them down.
Mum: You have always been careless. It is like one of your many talents, losing things. You lose things even before you think about owning them.
Me: Yes, mum.
Mum: Anyway, how are things? Are you passing? What’s this thing I hear – um, repeats? retakes? – they’re called retakes, right? I heard they’re dreadful. Do you have any?
Me: Well, they’re not as dread –
Mum: What do you mean “not as dreadful”? (She sits up, heavily, and looks me in the eye) Do you have any retakes?
Me: Well, er, the thing is –
Mum: The thing is what, Arthur?
Me: Arthur? Um, no, I don’t have any retakes. But even if, say, I had like three or four or possibly five retakes, they wouldn’t be that bad. I would just have to do them all over again, you understand?
Mum: No, I don’t. Don’t get any of those dreadful retakes. Every extra minute you spend in that place is costing me a heart attack. As a matter of fact if you get a retake, make sure you lock yourself in that overpriced hostel room and throw away the room.
Me: I won’t get any (more) retakes mum.
Mum: You’d better not. And what’s this you’re making me watch? That’s an old man and a small girl for chrissakes
Me: It’s called Shameless.
Mum: Well you should be ashamed of yourself for making your mother watch such nonsense. Isn’t it time for news? Let me watch news like every other old woman for chrissakes.
* * *
Happy Holidays! Watch TV. Be useless. Be happy. Throw a coin to a beggar on the street. But most importantly, be high as kites my friend.
Peace sign
Can’t keep up? Follow @KukussBlog on Twitter and like the Kukuss Blog page on Facebook.
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