[FONT=Book Antiqua][SIZE=5]
‘You cannot lose ownership of a house you own by rent’ ~ Confeckius
[/SIZE][/FONT]
After clearing high school, I remembered a dream I had held for a very long time. I had made it known to everyone, from my classmates in Nursery B stream to my village crew, that one day I would soar the skies. I would be a pilot. Similar dream to that of everyone else who was five years old back then.
But life always has a way of making us humble and it did that to me. In the course of my schooling journey, I had often heard drivers being referred to as pilots. So I thought, why not? If I cannot fly a jet, I will fly a matatu. And just like that, I decided to take a driving course.
But there was a small hitch. Taking driving lessons alone would require that I commute daily from home. I wanted something that would see me relocate to town. So I convinced my old man to enroll me for a course I won’t mention at a technical college I won’t mention.
I moved to a town I still won’t mention and got myself a single room. Ksh. 1500 rent.
By and by I got to acquaint myself with my colleagues at technical and in driving school. By and by I also became a regular drinker; what with the freedom of being away from home and beyond High school rules. By and by I got to know some girl who used to live in the adjacent plot.
She used to work in a computer shop. They used to type and print stuff and burn CDs, but everyone just called it a computer shop.
By and by I started passing by her place for supper before heading to my place. I toned down on my Safaya imbibing so I could pass by her place early and in good shape for food and a little catching up. Eating at her place was really efficient for me so I started chipping in with the food budget.
As you might guess, there was nothing more than a mattress and little, fundi-assembled subwoofer in my house. My feeding partner, on the other hand, had a DVD and a little TV in her house. It made sense that I bring in my sound system to complete the picture. After all, I spent more active minutes in her place than at mine.
By and by, I stopped going back to my place after supper on some nights. A few slices. By and by, I stopped going to my place altogether. All slices access granted.
Elsewhere, my technical classes were soon dropped. It was, after all, a decoy to help me leave home. A means towards the end; not the end itself. The fees paid beforehand just drank earth like that. The subsequent batch, which to even my own surprise my father decided to trust me with, never saw the vicinity of that institution. It came in handy for my town survival; I think you understand.
At driving school, I met with a guy who had been enrolled by his father so that he could join his (father’s) matatu business. When he was out of class, he would serve as a deputy conductor in one of his father’s three face-me matatus which operated on three different routes coming into town from the outskirts. I showed him a nice drinking hole, and he, in turn, tagged me along when he did squads with the face-me.
During such rounds, I served as a deputy deputy-conductor. I would ride in the carrier and do most of the luggage hauling. And haul I did, putting my everything into it lest anyone pointed out my slight build. But I got a few shillings which gave me enough value for my efforts. More value than Bitcoin and Ethereum!
[RIGHT][FONT=Courier New]Riding atop a jalopy like this one by @Meria Mata gave me untold satisfaction.[/FONT][/RIGHT]
[ATTACH=full]155918[/ATTACH]
Back home- new home- we agreed with my feeding mate, now music mate and largely sleeping mate and slice giver to just do away with the other house and split the rent cost for the one we were both using. Economically sensible isn’t it? We auctioned my mattress and did a little house shopping which, mark you, was not entered anywhere in the accounting documents.
That was my first step towards downfall.
By and by, the splitting MoU was silently violated. Rent became my responsibility. My weak attempts at a protest were quelled with ‘You’re the hustler. You make more money in a week than I could make in a year.’ That made me so proud I never even bothered to ask how much she made in a month.
Honestly, though, 1500 didn’t really make me sweat. I was quickly learning street survival and often landed some good deals, though not always overboard.
By and by, getting used to each other in the house kicked in. My cousin Bakari calls them small respects. I started getting complaints about how I came home late. How my job was really dirty and I had to take a shower first thing when I got home. How some of the people who came around didn’t meet the class threshold and they were not to be admitted in the house.
The stroke that broke the camel’s back, however, was the declaration that my clothes would not be washed going forward. I’d have to do them myself from that point. I said that was not possible; I was the General in that house and there was no way I was going to bend that low.
‘I can try to come home early and I will shower before settling and I will entertain my friends in the corridor. But I won’t be caught dead washing clothes,’ I declared.
‘You will.’ That was the simple answer I got.
The finality of that answer made me sure I wouldn’t.
[SIZE=5]…part two getting edited.[/SIZE]