I really have a lot to tell about college. College is one place that gives you basic experience, it moulds and cheers you up. It has its negative side. It can break you, it can crash you bigtime like a tornado. The big fuss about college is not graduating. There are many tiny determinants that assemble your degree. Out of this some can either disintegrate it or just prolong your life in college.
Remember of this guys who enter college at 18 but exit at 26? You wonder why. In the school of every human thought, they will ask why you graduated with a bald head, or an enormous beard that can hibernate a few warthogs, when indeed you entered college with a baby face and a wool of hair on your head. Down this lane, if investigated properly, they can be indicted of laziness. They probably came to college just to avoid the boredom at home.
In every subsequent exam they just get what college peeps refer to as supps. Supplementaries. Supplementary exams are supposed to remind someone that he/she might have spent the fruitful part of the semester in either of these four things forgetfulness, laziness, sleep or in ditches after too much booze. In fact you don’t believe when you are beckoned for one. It’s communicated in a way that sends your hurt pumping the veins instead of the blood. It’s shocking and traumatizing.
Today I just want to jubilate in discussing my classmates. First of all am sorry am talking of real situations here, but allow me. And again the characteristics might not be true. If they are, just overcome your emotions and support me in this story. Public Relations, as a common figure course in our varsity, is one of the most endeared courses in the institution. Put stress there. I mean I stress on that point. It is a course that gets into the fibroblast of your lips once you hear it. It sounds like sleeping milk in a kao’s ears. (Maziwa lala, mursik). It is the talk of the campus. Simply, every nigga in the school knows almost every girl in the class.
To cut short my bullshit, the class has nice-looking lasses. Every nigga will be going around mouth wide open,”sio hio daro ina manguna wasupa”. Wasupa- beautiful damsels. I find myself in the middle of all these beautiful girls. Mind you call a campus female a girl or a woman and you are in for hot soup. It’s such a wonder why they prefer lady, yet they are women. I have never understood, I don’t want to either. Yet we of the male gender, have no problem being called men. It’s the most beautiful word someone can summon me with. I can even walk courageously in a t-shirt with the name man emblazoned on every piece if it. It’s a cheap but necessary civilization.
Now here we are. Five dudes in the class. Don’t want to say the year, you might as well become a tale-teller of me being in varsity for unexplainable number of years for obvious reasons. Out of 27 of us, five dudes. The math is easy, keep the calculator in the desk please. It is 27-5=23. That was easy right? No, it is 22. So 22 beautiful ladies in a class. What do we even term this as? We call it Female dominance.
Team-mafisi has already calculated the ratio I know. Their greatest pleasure lies in mere imagination, and a lot of booty-thinking. To help you out, the ratio is 1man:5 ladies. A realist like me would sternly deny the figures. It is 1man:0 ladies. Don’t question why.
These ladies come in various sizes, from 120 GB to 0.5 GB. It is called variety in its best order. A buffet where all types of ladies serve you. That is confusing. A buffet where you can serve yourself any lady. Note the right statement. We will use it somewhere.
Mzangila is obviously, with no objection, the tallest guy in class. Slender, or rather lightweight. I have always wanted to add on some weight, but advice from my lady friends stops my efforts.
“What do you think of me, I want to add some weight?”
“Mmh, no, in fact you are perfect. If you add some weight you’ll be a giant.”
“Man, you are just fine. In fact lovely.”
“What is disturbing you (nini inakusumbua), are a perfectly perfect”.
Deep down my veins I know that’s misguided information. When will a girl tell you that you look terribly emaciated, or tiny and if you don’t watch out a strong wind will sweep you off the ground? They know how to pamper with sweet nothings. I hate that. But I’m gyming to acquire myself some nice chest and six pack. You know what I mean. Not that I lack, but it is not noticeable. Some ton of muscle is what I need to sway my ass around with. I want to have as many crashes as possible.
“Ooh, that guy is hoot.”
I like the sound of that compliment.
Being the tall guy, of course I am a disguise to the short guy in class. Apparently, we share the first name. This similarity somehow changed the disguise to friendship. He is a nice buddy, with a guttural voice. Just imagine, a small guy with a voluminous bass. It’s sickening to big guys like me with a soprano.
At the same time, my upward length is a scare to many. And of course, ladies love the American height- they use heighty as a phrase. That’s simply the reason I am a disguise to shorter guys. They always feel that tall guys are taking every girl and leaving nothing for them. That sense of insecurity runs in their blood, brain, ears, and legs and openly exposed in their eyes and face.
It is this emotional hunger, anger that propels them to prove that they can. That they can also win as many girls as possible. That is their problem. In fact we tall guys are not competing against them or anything similar, it is that our height is a credit to us and it meritoriously turns us hunk and attractive. Sincerely speaking, myths revolve around tall guys. That they have goodies, that the package is just perfect for the girls. It is true. But don’t take my word serious, nor for granted. If you are a “lady” discovery channel is a must watch, a must explore.
I hardly look like something cool, you know. Thug-like attachments can be attributed to my appearance. Silence is my best weapon, though I do laugh at calculated times. I am a crack head, they say.
There is this guy who seats in the corner. He looks much like me, though he much looks like man in black. Soot is his first cousin. Whether he is in a white dressing or colorful clothe, you simply can tag him a piece of walking charcoal. He is basically black, and he knows it. The only thing he owes the class is brains. Rejected as he is, he is the sharpest object in that class. Damn! I envy his easy scholarly Intel. Take point home that I’m also a nerd, but am three quarters and half of his trivially generated ration. His reasoning ability bequeaths knowledge, well resonated and effortlessly appealing. On the other side, I ooze wisdom.
The other guy, famously named as Dik Dik, is just a disguise. The best part of his day is when the bell for lunch rings, I mean when the lecturer finishes his near-to-lunch lesson. By mistake, the lecturer extends into lunch time, he can simply cry. The fat kid. He is somehow fat, with a big belly and dresses in tight trousers that suck up the ass. I once used to think he got a hungry ass. He is a joke and everyone takes him for that. He hangs out with every girls, talk a lot and throws a lot of electrifying vibes. But to some he is simply a cardiac arresting shock absorber. Girls can tell him anything because he is too social with every Jack and Jane. The end anyway is that he permanently stays in the friend zone. Catching feelings is his part time job, with nasty intolerable turn-off jokes that often give my peaceful stomach some kind of diarrhea. The fact that he goes overboard with jokes conceives an observant vigilante role in me.
Not my choice too, I hate all-sundry syndrome. It is healthy to have enemies. Are you normal with all people being friends? You deserve more foes than friends.
Some other guy has really an American accent, though there is no evident record that he has ever left the country or even touched a neighboring country’s hemisphere. His mouth excretes words like
‘Yoh yoh, you kno waa am sayin yoh, coooul meeeen, wassup buddy, fucking, daaammn, godaamn and the likes.’ No one takes him seriously. Rap music has a label in his head. Looks like he might be one ground-shaking rapist, shiit. Rapper someday. To him, education is a tool for freedom, though he can’t answer any question right in class, leave alone giving an attempt. He embraces a dressing code that defiles human imagination. He has a big wardrobe malfunction, though he is a good friend of mine. Late in the evening he hangs out with his favorite prima donna lady who is a year ahead of him, an old crook that barely spares herself falling for any John and Justus.
I am a jerk. A carefree nigger. But this other dude is the exact opposite. Spends one hour looking himself in the mirror. Gets his hair chemical-ed and sprays himself a fragrant spray. No offence, but he turns out to be girlish. He sleeps a lot and fantasizes about every girl in the class. He too, like Dik Dik, vibes every lady so long has she is dark in colour. At break times he is the biggest noise maker, and loves tea.Unfortunately, girls die for his swag. He speaks lots of English.
To some extent he is rich, and can even pay the librarian his two month salary at once.
That is my classmate buddies. With me, a hustler who can do anything for a few bucks. Selling credit, selling my already done assignments, teacher guide books stolen from the lib and also photocopied stolen books. I love mandazis and tea.
One of these guys rocks. The short guy. He borrows a lot. If he borrows your pen just for one lesson, you will have to remind him to get it back to you, only that it will have a chewed top. He does not write notes and doesn’t know what is going on in the surrounding. He has no idea which lesson it is or even unit name. He attends class once a week but his name never misses even at one time in the attendance list.
HE NEVER GETS ANY SUPP. Never.
The girls fall for him easily. The main justified reason is because he can be handled easily.
Am sleeping guys, I’ll write about the hotties someday. Good night. Though it is 9. 23 in the morning.