My life revolves around dreams. Like I dreamt of growing up to be a boy and I was born one, amen? Unfortunately that’s the only one that has come true.
Like in my P7 vacation, I wanted to be a dentist, thanks to Bosco, my much-hated friend. Long story short, there was this girl.
Bosco and I hated each other but couldn’t engage in verbal and physical fights because most times we met, there was a whip-savvy adult around. So we just decided to read hard and become something we could each use to hurt the other. I thought cutting his teeth in half would make him be bad kisser and I’d win the girl.
When, a year later, the girl came back married and pregnant, we became friends and decided she was a whore. Even if she was 12 years older than our 13-year-old arses. I dropped the dream.
Then I wanted to be a TV Presenter. But that was around the same time Straka came inside our TVs and covered everything else including the cameras filming her that there was just no room for any more presenters.
To get the job, you had to edit your CV from “I want to be a presenter” to “I want to be a Straka”. And already there was a sufficient supply of Straka for every Ugandan family with a TV set.
So I either had to wait for more families to buy more TV sets to create the need for another Straka or just change dreams.
I dropped that too.
Then I wanted to be a bra. Again, there was this girl. But when I saw her with different tribes of bras, I knew that if I became one, she’d never stop cheating on me. So I dumped that one also. The dream.
Then I wanted to be a teacher. This one came from a former student of my auntie’s who remarked, “Eh! Mununuzi’s auntie! You’re still alive? But teachers you don’t die!” Yes, he had a lot to learn about compliments but at least he gave my 9-year-old mind a dream. I thought that immortality was one of the perks that came with teaching. Gradually, I realized that the teachers in Uganda actually preferred to die so I X-d it.
Then I wanted to be a…oh. Okay. Let me tell them.
Sorry but the rules dictate that I stop here. Any added words will be deemed harmful to the public, shipped to America, stripped naked and disposed of at Young Money studios to work extra hours as Little Wayne Sibyangu’s lyrics.
Please ship words above.
Oh, by the way:
Kenya, we met and decided that since you have been very good neighbours, you deserve to choose by how many goals you want to lose. Please let us know whenever you’re ready. We’re not excited about this either.