Keg-inspired confessions

We are irrigating our throats at a keg den just outside campus. Shiundu, a third year engineering student, is inebriated and the alcohol has loosened his big, ugly mouth. Off he begins babbling like a panicky convict confessing his misdeeds.

His father is a farmer. Back home, he planted some guava seeds which are fast sprouting and need utmost care. He views home with the same contempt that atheists view centres of worship. When he received the calling letter to join university far away from his home, he was as elated as a politician who had been handed a direct party ticket. His parents only afforded his first semester fees after selling their prized bull which was a community husband.

Shiundu came to campus with the sole aim of bringing about a tectonic shift in his village and transform that ram shackle he called home into a palace fit for the king he believed he was. He promised his mother that he would someday reclaim their glorious bull, which was more of a family heirloom.  As a dedicated member of the work-study group, cooks at the Mess know him for his cleaning prowess. I’m told he can scrub a boiler like no one else can. For his efforts, he gets paid in kind, with a plate of food. Last semester, a woman whose profile picture made her look like a primary school teacher sent him a provoking message on WhatsApp. 

The woman claimed she had been sent by the gods of money. To help Shiundu abandon poverty once and for all, she only needed a commitment fee and his presence at an Aim Global meeting. In the time it takes for a security guard to frisk shoppers at a supermarket entrance, Shiundu had wired all his Helb cash to the woman via MPesa.

Poor Shiundu. That was the last time she ever heard from the woman. He was left sending distress calls home, begging anyone who cared to listen, including the village church elders, to help him raise funds for his school fees.

At the start of this year, he was on the verge of deferring. However, the thought of his classmates attending lectures while he tended to his father’s farm maddened him, so he returned to school and continued with lessons, hoping the bursar would turn a blind eye to his unpaid fees. But, there is the small matter of end semester exams. Without paying his fees, he won’t be allowed to sit for them. He will have to quit school, in third year, or at the very least, defer his studies. This is why the poor chap is at this keg joint, drinking like a fish. Unable to help due to our equally deep pockets, we stare at him until he stops speaking.

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