Parents, this is how students blow pocket money

By BILL ODUNGA

In high school, our mathematics teacher who doubled up as our games master, once warned us against pool game. He alleged that pool is not a sport. And I thoughtlessly listened, until I joined campus and realised the advice he gave us was birdfeed.

Paradox

There is no Kenyan campus   that doesn’t have a pool table. This is a source of daily bread for a number of guys. And contrary to what my games master said, it’s actually a sport like any other. I find it a bit illogical for him (a mathematics teacher) to caution us against a game that actually applies mathematics theories and concepts — angles, vectors and whatnot, which emphasise precision. That is the paradox of our education system. I am yet to realise how syntax and the value of ‘x’ is any good to my daily life; but I digress.

Pyramid scheme

Anyway, the most interesting part of playing pool is the betting bit. Around that table, men have lost monies of biblical proportions, both the players and the spectator. Here, you put your cash on the line, and your confidence on 15 balls, and hope that by the time they have all been ported, your money will have doubled. It’s a game of chances — a politically correct version of a pyramid scheme.

In my campus, there are different leagues that people can play in. If you are a greenhorn, you are advised to play with mates of your equal skill. You stick to your lane of experience, but after beating a couple of my fellow rookies, I felt like I was big and bad enough to play in the big league. I grew too big for my breeches, and thought it was time to graduate from the baby pool and swim with the sharks.

Wisdom

So I dared this guy, who looked like he was having a bad day, to a game. With all the brilliance of a person who has held a cue stick for only two months, I put Sh100 on the line. I beat him, thrice, but little did I know he was reeling me in. Because when he asked me to put a brownie on the line, I didn’t have the wisdom to think twice.

Heartless

But before I could even say “8-ball”, this guy had ported seven balls and with that went my upkeep for the entire week. With no remorse, the heartless nimrod waltzed away with his new catch, leaving me there stranded-fishing for ways to convince my old lady that the money she sent me ten minutes ago was already spent. That, ladies and gentlemen, is how the cookie crumbles.