I was recently invited to a friend’s graduation party. Technically, it was my Dad’s friend’s second-born daughter’s party, but that is a mouthful I was thinking I could spare you. Still. I went as part of my Dad’s plus two, (if there’s anything like that) and because I never shy away from free food.
So, I am at the garden party, chowing down some delicious, rosemary-infused mbuzi choma, and washing it down with this amazing ginger ale I have never had before. Meanwhile, one of the graduate’s aunts is going on and on about how the lady’s dowry has tripled because of the cap she’s just added onto her education. From the corner of my eye I can see my Dad seriously nodding in agreement. I bet he is thinking of my own dowry, seeing as I also just graduated. Pff!
Ten thousand and one speeches later, the graduate finally rises to give hers. By this time, I have since cleared my plate and I am just picking my teeth with some expensive looking tooth pick. Seriously, the tooth picks here look like they just landed from Singapore. Like they have seen the Great Wall of China and taken selfies in Abu Dhabi. Ai, but money is good. See what it can buy. The graduate, let’s call her Maria, is PRETTY. Last I saw her, we were just kids with mapengos and ugly holiday hairstyles. But now, everything about her speaks class, with a beautiful touch of humility to it.
I like this species of people. Those that have it all, but are so gracious and humble, you’d think they feed from garbage cans. People who are well travelled but you hardly ever hear them mention a word about it. Not akina nani who won’t let us rest because they just went to Diani here, and are flooding our timeline with pics and updates with #BeachLife #BikiniTingz and #MyLifeBetterThanYours. Then when they come back, every conversation of theirs starts with ‘You know, when I went to Diani…’ Even if the talk is about the war in Aleppo, they will always squeeze Diani somewhere in there. PUH-LEASE!
From her speech, I gather that Maria has just graduated with a Masters degree in Finance. She has also completed her ACCA, has a tonne of other accolades and a great job. Meanwhile, yours truly is just seated here thinking, what is life?? What am I doing with myself? While I am waking up to episodes of Odd Mom Out and reducing my lifespan with Urban Bitez and a tonne of other unhealthy foods, people are out here working hard and making a great life for themselves. Did I mention that she has flawless skin? Meanwhile, the only thing that’s flawless about my skin is my ability to pop pimples like I was born for it.
Seriously people, forget the party and engage me for a bit. Do you ever go to certain places or meet certain people and feel like your life is so darn shitty, you could actually win an award for it? Do you sometimes look at your mates living the IT life, earning bucket loads of money, travelling all over the world, building nice houses for their parents, getting married in the fanciest of weddings, and you are just there, waiting for Game of Thrones to return?
Sigh. Back to the party, I am still in tandem, flashing my life before my eyes like this like that, when my bowels start to grumble. Not in a way that says ‘I am hungry and you need to feed me.’ It is more like a ‘You need to find me a toilet and you need to find it NOW!’ kind of grumble. I choose to ignore it, because after that deep self-evaluation, there is no way I am letting any part of Maria’s beautiful speech pass me. I however make a mental note (probably the 5329th), to avoid mixing foods like a combined harvester next time.
Do you know the finyilia-ndani tactic? I shift on my seat a bit, squeeze my sphincter muscles just enough to send that shitty bubble boiling back up my tummy, and it seems as if the storm passes. She is now talking about how tough the job market is and anyone that does not match the competition will be kicked out. I need this, because all my applications seem to have taken a detour to Timbuktu. No responses whatsoever. Maybe I should review my resume.
Maybe, but for now you should find a toilet!
The storm below has now turned into a full-blown tornado. At this point, even my sphincters are threatening to go on leave, and I cannot dare to stand up and go to the washrooms because wahala will follow me for this party if I try. So I think to myself,
Maybe, if I just pass gas in a silent teeny-weeny way, things will be okay and no one will notice. And I could pretend to be equally irked like everyone else, when the smell dawns on them. I’ll even fan my nose!
And so, like the terrible perverted maggot of a person I am, I tilt my ass and begin my release. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is when shit hits the roof; figuratively. Literally, shit blasts my underwear, the way ketchup from those squeezy bottles hits fries on a plate. Mercilessly. Ruthlessly. Hardheartedly. NOISILY!
I can’t believe that I have just sprayed myself with shit. I can hear a lot of stifled laughter all around me, and I am trying to put on a brave face, but I smell like hell and anyone can smell it from a mile away. The lady to my left gives me a disgusting look and moves two rows forward. The guy to my right is going to burst his cheeks if he stifles his laughter any longer. My brother is at the buffet table piling more mbuzi choma onto his plate, and my Dad is acting like he doesn’t know me. He is just sitting there, fidgeting with his spectacles and clearing his throat, pretending he didn’t hear a thing.
I have never been so alone and embarrassed in my life! I want to die. I can’t face another day. Someone is probably snapping and/or tweeting about me right now. Wharrrristhis yawa! Who will marry me now? My watch is ended. Jehovah take me now. Then, just when I think it couldn’t possibly get any worse, I hear my name booming from the speakers.
I look up to see Maria calling me as a fellow graduate to the front, to cut the cake with her.