Early morning, my alarm blares. Oops! It’s yet another day of scraping by on a shoestring budget. Living on your own terms has its allure: no curfews, no rules, and the freedom to indulge in the weirdest food combinations imaginable. But more often than not, it’s katogo and cabbage on the menu, rather than the chicken I dream of, and that’s on a lucky day. With nothing for breakfast, I get dressed in a jiffy and rush to class, hoping to make it through another day. By the way, government students are the best timekeepers you’ll ever meet. We always know the exact date and day of the week, down to the minute. You’d think we were auditioning for a calendar commercial. And why? Because of that mythical thing called a “living out allowance”, the puppet master of every government student’s life.
It’s interesting that university has no break time. Or I would rather say, it is never part of my schedule. Its lunch time! Noodles and spaghetti are staples, yesterday, today and tomorrow. Regardless, I dream big. “Sneakers aren’t enough; I need boots.” “I’m dropping android for iPhone.” Meanwhile, the allowance stares back sceptically, whispering, “Really? Thats your plan?” Undeterred I respond, “Yes, I’m gonna show you fire!” I wouldn’t want to call it the Parousia but waiting for money feels like an endless vigil. patience gives way to prayer, then to calls home, only to be met with stories of borrowed hope. “We’ve been waiting for your allowance, too. Your little brother isn’t well,” they explain. Each day, hope wanes, and borrowing shifts from a dirty word to a lifestyle.
Despite the struggle, I have perfected the art of looking sharp. Clad in well-pressed suits, no one would guess that I am surviving on one meal or none at all. Out of begging and hustling, I managed to start a small business that rarely returns a profit. I’m more of a ‘CEO’ in title than in earnings. Others juggle with part-time jobs, doing whatever it takes just to get by. Dear God, it wasn’t my intention to hide from friends but I have over-leveraged. I have maxed out my tabs at every shop in the neighbourhood. It’s overwhelming. survival is the goal. Out of despondence, with no lifeline in sight, a new dream is born as the pressures of being broke sink deep. The dream of storming the administration, rallying with cries of “We want our money!” Yet somehow, it always stops at the talking stage, the plans of revolution lost in the shuffle of daily life.
And then, randomly, a miracle happens. “You have received…” The message pops up, and the excitement is almost tangible. At that momentous epoch, it feels like you’re floating on air, free from the chains of debt and hunger. But here’s the catch: the money is always a lot, until you actually receive it. No scientist, no mathematician has ever cracked the mystery of how fast that money disappears. In the end, the allowance that was supposed to fund my grand dreams ends up settling debts and buying one or two good meals. It’s amusing how friends on private think we are rich.
“Broke but not broken” has become my personal mantra whenever I ransack my room for coins. with bank accounts on life support, I’ve mastered the art of creative budgeting and professional stress management. I always remember I’m not alone in this madness. whatever it takes, make sure you survive. Surviving this chaos means you’ve already earned the credentials to run this country!
