Wistful

Found this when I went trawling through my hi5 on a whim. It's almost prophetic judging by how I felt about work before I quit. (And yes, hi5 is social networking's once popular uncle... who you now avoid because he coughs a lot and smells like vicks vapor rub )


Work is slow. The day drags on with the enthusiasm of a convicts feet, shuffling on his way to the first and final appointment with the noose. Is this what I looked forward to the entire span of my school life? The numerous days spent pining away for the promised 'brighter future' that came hand in hand with the 'start on Monday' at the end of the interview?

Those days would have been put to better use in a number of ways. It's at times like these that memory beckons from the deep recesses within, a calling that initially transforms an individual into an inactive piece of humanity. A toothpick at a beer chugging competition.

You see your computer screen, but then again you don't (recollection gives one the ability to see past the physical). The comedy, the satire, the drama of your past life is now billed as the next show.

The curtains get drawn back. Your eyes have a vacant, meaningless stare. You don't know this though. You shouldn't. If only you could see yourself slacking off. Beautiful. The motion picture flickers on, projected in the back of your head. There you are, in those ridiculously small school shorts that you wore every day because 'they made you run faster'.

You just got caned for procrastinating on your homework. Again. The voice-over says that only the caning has changed. You laugh, and the echo reminds you that you are alone in the theatre. It's cramped in here though, there is only squatting space. For one.

So how is it that you heard an echo? You are here as well. You as a kid, laughing at you right now. Laughing at your 'if onlys'. Ha Ha Ha! What you wouldn't give to be in his place right now. He isn't in pain anymore. You know he isn't going to do his homework tomorrow, so maybe his pain is reserved for then.

For now though, he laughs at what he is bound to become; but more than that, he laughs with joy at the fact that he is what he is now. He laughs happily at the fact that he is not you. You with your wonderful job, and your two cars, and your down payment on that property in Runda. He laughs because you are rich and he isn't.

It is rapturous bliss. The boy does not have to become the man. He will never more be present physically, but he will live forever in your mind. He will never get a raise, he will never go a' courting, and yes, though it borders on the blasphemous, he will never play golf. Ever. The lucky bastard.

But you straighten up, as much as you can in this cavern of a head. They said there was much promise in 'your future'. The boy didn't believe it, but you did. Many a man has searched for 'your future' and the gem that it hides. Most have died without catching a glimpse of this reclusive beast.

You found it. You didn't stumble upon it. You tracked and stalked and stabbed and when it lay at your feet, you ripped its heart out. 'Much promise' was in your hand, still beating. You made it. So why does the child ridicule your achievements?

You are a man, a warrior, a CHAMPION...are you? A big, bald guy walks on screen. I recognize him and it immediately all recedes in a dizzying blur, my mouse gaining tangibility and the icon desperately searching for...what was I working on?

'Good afternoon sir, the folder will be on your desktop by four.'

The bare facts

There are times when you shouldn't be too open to a good thing...even when it's unintentional. This is the story of a relatively young man and the morning that ensured that his apartment would forever remain an eyesore in testament to the fact that he still wasn't married or even in a relationship with a moderately tidy woman. As a bachelor, it is expected that you will have an exiled pair of boxers behind a couch or wayward cutlery from the night when you turned the TV towards the Bedroom door and broke both the cardinal rules your mom gave you regarding food or TV in bed and evil movies where the black guy dies first. This considered, it only makes sense that you should have someone pop by once weekly to clean your house. Which I did. About seven odd times. I kept firing them. See, it's not that I like my mess. It's that I like my mess a certain way. And if you can't strike the balance between keeping the house Martha Stewart (pre-jail) approved and ensuring that I will still find the remote when I come home, then swan song. Until *Mariam came. She was good. After a bout with her my house would glow. DM (During *Mariam) I wanted people to spring surprise visits. I even wanted people to use my toilet (I know crazy huh). It was delicious hedonism. However *Mariam was meant to come only on Thursdays. But on her first day working she came on a Monday cos I needed to give her directions to the place. After which she showed up on Thursday and the magic had begun. Then the next Monday, I woke up late, scratched my bum, took a shower, toweled down, grabbed a button up shirt and sauntered half naked off into the kitchen to drink juice straight out of the box like I do every morning (except when I have company I want to impress). My kitchen faces the balcony and in a moment that jammed the cogs working the picture processing lobe in my brain, as I stepped into the kitchen with my shirt billowing about me and not much else to the imagination, *Mariam stepped onto the balcony landing. Our eyes locked through the Kitchen window and my body went into action before my mind even begun to comprehend the crushing weight of the situation. Time travel can be defined as the moment I saw her and the realization that I was suddenly back in my bedroom putting on trousers and muttering unintelligibly about ' Thursdays only'. When I opened the door for her, she was glassy eyed, vacantly staring over the Balcony into nothing... probably trying to douse the burning image of her boss caught with his pants not just down, but in an altogether different vicinity. I explained to her that she was only meant to come on Thursdays. She nodded understandingly but didn't look me in the eye. She left and later on in the week, I got a text from her saying that she had found a job where she would have to work all week and therefore couldn't come back to my house. She was merciful and left out the word 'Ever'.
I miss her

*Names have been changed for the party's protection and to reduce the risk of any unintended further damage of character. Quite likely my own.

Team spirit. Not me though.

Last night, while slaving away till the wee (I like that word, and I need to pee) hours of the night as so often happens in this particular field, I had a stunning revelation. It’s not just lonely at the top, it’s retarded too. It’s mind numbingly and finger twiddlingly (no, that’s not really a word) retarded. How else do you explain an almost-head honcho suddenly canceling work at 3:00pm because we will be doing an agency clean up? We will be scrubbing (Yes, with soap) our offices and nobody will be allowed to leave until their office is spick and span. This is supposed to read as a ‘fun, team-building event and an excellent avenue for ‘bonding’ and other vague terms used to define the herding of mostly unsatisfied and unwilling agency lackeys into enclosed spaces. This is usually done with the help of frothy liquid to numb the senses into almost enjoying what would otherwise be a largely unpleasant experience. The liquid will be present…and frothy, it’s just that this time around it’s served in a plastic squeeze bottle… and my gut feeling is that if you drink it, you will die. But you’d also have the cleanest, most ‘lemon-fresh’ digestive system in the morgue, which is not necessarily a bad thing. Unintelligent experimental suggestions from jaded deputy MD’s only adds to a growing list of things that we could do without in the business. I vote to abolish
• Hour long Status/Traffic
• Time sheets
• Creative advice from client service (devil worshippers)
• Team building activities that do not include beer
And that’s just me

Babuji Rani

Every evening, without fail, something sneaks out under my neighbours door, up my walls and through the screens on my windows into my apartment, saturating it so completely that I can’t walk in any direction without stepping in it. It is the sound of intense hip movement, occasioned by the jangling of trinkets and the eventual but ever-so-certain wailings of two voices in a crazed match to tap the most unnatural pitch known to humanity. My neighbour is eighty. And I’m getting terribly tired of being forced to listen in on his Indian movies every night. I wouldn’t mind the dialogue so much (I can say chom chom) if it wasn’t for the unspoken rule that that the entire cast should break out into mad singing and dancing after the opening credits. Today I just might go and talk to bollydude about his unhealthy passion. Or maybe I should just assume that he has a hearing impairment and leave him be.

Speaking of bad sounds, there’s a new song by tattuu called ‘Songea’. Sample a choice lyrical segment.
‘Tunasonga juu, before you know it moto. Move on (repeat until you feel unclean)’...

It is a sad day when we allow such spectacularly evil work out to the detriment of the public. Masochists and other lovers of painful pleasure should feel free to listen to this delightful tune, and rest assured, your ears WILL bleed. Grant me the permission to revoke my nationality for the spell in which this song is played. I feel so violated.

Stir occasionally.

Useless client service people should be boiled in a pot on low heat. Not the good client service people. Just the useless ones. Which means you'll still have to use a pretty huge pot.

Just lose it

If you've worked in or still work in an agency before, you'll know that there are those days when you need to curse.
And curse.
And curse.
And curse.
I've only been here one week. Please help me Lord Jesus.

Vampire roaches and how to vanquish them

We have electricity rationed from 6:30am to 8:00pm, so while you have it, you use it. Last night I decided that instead of clipping my toenails and wondering whether my girlfriend cried when I left (Cause I didn't see any tears on that pretty face and the whole flight I kept thinking, 'does she really love me' and other deep questions related to life), I would read a book. So I'm lying there and this roach the size of Shrek's thumb makes a brazen dash across my bedsheet towards what could only be my neck (Either that or it was coming to perch on my back and read over my shoulder, which is equally annoying). In super-hero fashion, I swiftly rolled off the bed, eyes still on that bastard and picked up the book I was reading, about to bring it crashing down on that devil spawn. But it was a book on what happened in Zaire with Mobutu and I hadn't even gotten to the good part yet (and by this point I was highly starting to doubt that there was a 'good part' at all), so I hesitated. And the filthy beast paused. Looking at me...Taunting me. Now I was pissed. I dropped the history of Mobutu and Zaire/Congo/Drc and picked up something a lot more appropriate. I rolled up a copy of THE SOURCE and made that roach cry for his mother (or wherever roaches come from; which is probably France cos I couldn't understand what he was saying). Hip Hop is powerful. I beat that bitch til the white meat showed. Afterwards, I watched in satisfaction as it's leg gave a couple of post-expiratory twitches. My breath wasn't raspy any more and my hands had stopped shaking. I even browsed a couple of pages of that magazine. I had committed insecticide. And it felt right.