EDWARD NIMUSIIMA
First off, congratulations! I wish I can break into that tired congratulatory jingle, but it’s alright. You don’t have time to listen to that drivel. You shouldn’t have time to listen to any drivel. It’s been a tedious long journey, through that path punctuated with thorns and pitfalls, through the temptations that winked at you from the corner, through the unending cycle of course works, through the blinding beauty that sat a few seats away from your row, through the endless strikes, through that ageing and somewhat annoying lecturer who should take a break and tend to his poultry and see his grand kids through their homework. Through all that. I see you smiling uncontrollably, restlessly, like a leaf swayed by wind. I see you donning that gown. It is not fitting, but it fits your academic triumph, your excellence. At that party, dance all you want. Dance as though you were in Campus Nite in a dingy pub in town high as a kite, remember your campus days? Okay. Dance. Wiggle that wasp-like waist. Wobble on the floor. Crawl away in unbridled delight. High-five with your parents. It’s their day, too.Take a selfie. No, take selfies. It’s a must! Make sure the cyber world knows about this. Pout in your pictures. Flag off the pictures with captions like ‘Finally’.
Finally.
Welcome to the world.
A world with no course works, but a world with assignments. A world with no lecturers, but a world with supervisors. A world with no re-takes, but a world with, well, what stings more than a re-take? A lot. However, you will hunt for this world. If you have connections in State House, you are covered. In fact, don’t read this. In fact, why waste time doing a beeline to the Freedom Square?
After the party, after the hangover, wake up. Check your social media platforms. Stagger out of bed. Rub off the dust from your shoes and dash out; comb the city looking for work. They will toss you around, like a dysfunctional twat. The lady behind the counter, with her well-oiled lips, ducked under an expensive wig, squinting through fashionable glasses shipped from Indonesia, will ask you whether the HR expects you. Of course he/she doesn’t. Matter of fact, he/she doesn’t know that you had a first class in BA Econ. With your larger-than-life parcel tucked in your hand, well-polished shoes firmly planted on the ground, you will say, ‘No’. To which, the lady behind the counter will bark, rather coldly, that, “I am sorry…”
It won’t be the end. Like a doctor, press on till it hurts. You will be called for an interview, for series of interviews. You will WhatsApp all your buddies, because, yes, finally! The interview will be flawless. Sadly, they won’t call you as they promised. See that? Don’t climb up Workers House to touch heaven, or go to heaven. No. Change shoes if you have to. Change your boxers because, who knows? That purple one could carry all the luck. Carry on. Knocking at the doors. Smiling at random strangers. Wipping sweat off your brow. Yawning. Carry on, walking because, you know what, one day, just one day, the bulb will be turned on and the darkened room will be illuminated.
Are you ready for the big break? Let that ad simmer.
And after you have sat through that job, received your monthly peanuts, you will stumble across the author of this letter in a bar. Be generous to direct the waitress to his table. Thank you.
