Dear E,
I might start with all those things they said long ago -like how much I love you like Aladdin and whoever he loved or how I miss you like the sands cover the ocean- but the truth is, I DO NOT. So I will start this the way I do my business; with a straightforwardness that pains and a truthfulness that hurts. If you do not like it, you are welcome to use the same door you used coming in. It’s our entrance and exit. Again, I have my friends in clusters, and to be honest, internet friends who have my number are just that: ghost friends. So, I treat them like I treat business acquaintances; straight forward, brief and to the point.
The kind of job you do does not really matter in today’s world. What matters is what is in your pocket. Are you a daddy’s boy still asking for hand downs from your parents or are you a guy out there working his ass silly to make it work in this harsh world? To be honest, even if you are a hawker and you trip your ass to get food on the table, WE ARE FRIENDS. The daddy left hand (unless your dad owns an estate you are supposed to manage and get a salary like the rest of us) and me, we will never click. Do you know why?
No you do not: Because you never bothered to know. You are so uptight on your insecurities that you think the world is bogging down on you. Well, bad news to you. IT IS NOT. Remember, you are not the center of the universe and you will never be. Like your great grandparents and their grandparent’s grandparents, you will eventually die. We will be sad for a few hours for a day and then we will go back to our lives; like nothing happened. As for those you will leave behind -your kids blah blah blah- they will be too busy trying to make ends meet that the only time they will remember you, is when they have school fees arrears: and even then, they will be busy looking for it, so, it will be for a flirting second.
Have you ever heard of this word PASSION? I hope you have not. It is LOVING what you do no matter how the world sees you, or it. Did I tell you that I am supposed to be a sociologist? No I did not; because I am too busy digging ponds and farming fish to care about what I am supposed to be. Again, I do several other jobs like mentor young boys and girls or rehabilitate rape victims. I could make the two full-time jobs and earn big with them. But I love fish. I grew up farming fish. And I f*****g love farming fish. I am that girl you will find buying ice cream at TRM with every cloth I have on soaked in mud. And I freaking do not care what they will say; what the world says; what my friends say, or what the counter girl with well-trimmed, manicured nails will say. BECAUSE I F*****G LOVE MY JOB!
So when you come to me all fire like an angry resurrected dragon, behaving all hurt because I referred to your job title in a conversation, a job title I had no idea you carry around your neck like a bow tie, it pisses me off. Not because I am guilty (you will see Jesus come back before I can apologize for using your job title on you), but because it makes me wonder what you are doing there in the first place. Thing is simple, whatever you do for over eight hours a day for thirty days a month definitely owns you, crowns you and names you. That is why we have people being referred to by their professions: bloggers, writers, photographers, designers, architects, biologists, doctors, thieves, swindlers, con men, burgers, butlers, cooks…heck salesmen!
Vincent Kiprono is one of my few friends I have carried over to now from my past. He is a salesman. He sells insurance and I call him just that: SALESMAN. Noel Onyango is one of the few friends I have made via social media. He is an architect and I tease him about drawing cartoons all the time. And his nickname? MR. CRAYONS. Andrew Aballa is another social media friend. We met when I was an undergraduate and he was a post-graduate. I call him POO-CHASER coz he is a laboratory something (whatever they are called) who does all these tests on microorganisms for organizations like KEMRI…and hospitals. They all call me TOM GIRL/ MIMOH-THE-MUD-TEASER coz you are more likely to find me in a cowboy shirt and boots, very mad at some guy who won’t dig a dyke to my preference or who is trying to f**k around with my pond measurements than you are likely to find me in a “decent” lady like dress cord of long/short nice Christian dresses.
What am I trying to tell you E? It really does not bother me that you are mad at me for using your job tag, neither does it bother me that you will probably not talk to me ever again. I will still put food on my table in the evening, pay my school fees and buy beer at Jambo grill/Natives every Friday evening. My life will move on like you never existed and I will not be sorry about it. What was that saying again? The fewer the people you engage with in a day, the lesser the garbage you will have to put up with.
Just do me a favor. F*****G LOVE YOUR JOB or QUIT. Also, buy some sense of humor. With the two, your life will be much easier. So much easier if you learn to embody what you do, own it and love it. In retrospect, it will learn to love you, respect you, appreciate you and pay you back for loving it.


2 thoughts on “Dear E.

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