If there was a god

If there was a god, I’d have quit school at the start of the year to focus on writing and beer.

 I’d have shacked up in my house in purple trousers and kikois and written scripts for series’ that would be taken up by an African station on DSTV. Not those that show shoddy Nigerian and Tanzanian movies but rather a station like mnet that targets the contemporary modern middle-aged African. My series would tackle real life issues but still be funny and witty; and they’d pay me handsomely for it. 

I’d also acquire a contract or two writing articles for respected online publications read by only a handful of Kenyans who are sophisticated enough but that is popular abroad. These would provide me enough money for linen trousers and fancy African sandals.

By the time mum noticed I’d quit school and spent my semester’s fee to kick start my writing career it would be too late. But she would be glad coz I would be making good money by then and I’d buy her good African jewelry and cups with messages that praise her mothering skills on them.

I’d move to a gated community of flats a few kilometers out of Nairobi. Somewhere along Mombasa road where you’d branch off from the main road and drive a kilometer or two on a well maintained murram road. The estate would have a fancy name with “view” or “ridges” at the end. It’s important that the estate be inaccessible via public transport to keep off nagging girlfriends. But it will be close to a shopping mall, preferably a Nakumatt. 

The estate would be well maintained and one of my neighbors would be a news anchor or well known local journalist. This serves the purpose of creating small talk and impressing visiting friends. The estate would be serene save for a few kids riding their bikes dangerously on the streets that serve as parking lots at night. The rent would be fairly cheap to leave me enough money for beer and books.

I would drive a small car. A Volkswagen beetle or if the ratings of the series’ go up, a Volkswagen polo; something worth more than half a million but less than a million shillings. Anything pricier than that would leave me less money for books and beer.  I’d hang African things on the rearview mirror of the polo and give it a female name; Lucy perhaps. I’d have a bumper sticker on the polo…bumper stickers even. I’d value the car but wouldn’t wash it very often.

I would sleep with slim, dark women with a taste for art, wine and natural short hair. They’d be very similar and suspect me but they’d never find out about each other. 

One would be a tall, dark, bald upcoming model with a love for poetry. 

Another would be a fourth year college student studying a tasking course such as aviation or medicine. She’d wear heavy glasses and have slight self esteem issues, a bright future and beautiful eyes underneath her glasses. She wouldn’t care much about dressing and fashion but she’d be extremely rowdy in bed. She’d also be well versed with current issues and good, old music making her good for night long conversations.

I’d also occasionally sleep with one of my neighbors whose older, richer boyfriend is slightly fat and bad in bed. She would be a bank teller or something of the sort with manicured nails, beautiful skin and fake hair.

 Every so often I’d have friends over and we’d sit round the table and argue loudly about our poor education system, dirty politics and how we’d never reach the 1^st world.  We’d all compete and sit on the edge of chairs to give our opinions on what the problem is. But we’d offer no solutions because we are educated.

When this gets boring we’d drink and discuss girls and the large painting of a jumping, naked maasai that would be hanging in my living room. Then we’d go out to concerts sponsored by local telecommunication companies that support art. The performances would mostly be by Kenyan jazz or afro fusion musicians who aren’t known very much beyond artistic circles. After, I would write an article about how Africans don’t support their own and make more money. The artists would call to say that they read the article and agree with it. We’d then set up coffee dates to discuss Nigerians and river road as the nemesis to sales of good Kenyan artistic work.

One of the rooms in my 2 bed roomed flat would be converted into and office or creative space. I’d spend little or no time here but would describe it to visitors as “where the literary magic happens”. I’d work in the house save for when I’d go on location to direct short movies about the despondent in society that would win awards and earn me recognition and more money for books and beer.

I’d wear sandals everywhere apart from when going dancing or camping. But even then, the shoes I’d wear would be flat and require no socks. I’d be invited to book launches and conferences to discuss African literature and such and such. I’d write a book with a mystical title about how our education system was failing the artistic.

But there is no God and I have not quit school so now I have to rush to class.