Fast things first (the homophones are in order as intended).
Let us observe a moment of silence in solidarity with the ‘comrades’ who do not know the names of their chancellors, vice chancellors and deans of student.
Let us say a prayer to the young men and women of higher learning — who have no idea what the African Union is or why our candidate lost to a Chadian. ‘Comrade’ you are not alone. You exiled common sense out of your campus room and invited ignorance into your bed. You’ve been cuddling your new catch, telling her how the light inside her eyes burns so bright, it blinds your view of common sense. But do not worry ‘comrade,’ Tuko Pamoja!
You see folks, in this trying times of unemployment crisis and one Matiang’i — who arrives like a thief in the night - campus education (just the aspect that you are pursuing or pursued a degree) has been turned into designer underwear. The label matters more than the garment itself. And definitely more than that which it’s mandated to hold into place. And now that there’s a lecturers strike, we campus folks are strutting up and down town, doing with ease and without care those things that the bible set aside for married adults, showing of the labels of our undies ignoring their sad torn state.
The waistline of our designer underwear is intact. But boy, below it, there are holes. The piece of cloth, after immense abuse by sweat, friction and negligence is giving in to sickness and an imminent death. The university student of this era can’t create knowledge like the Orengo of his campus years. Kina Miguna Miguna and Gitobu Imanyara were comrades. You and I are not, we are just former high school students, whose knowledge, intelligence and concern for our nation is dimming day by day.
That said, my person and I will just chill in my tired campus room, weka a Demakufu mix and listen to ‘blah blah blah sitaki kusikia, si ulinicall nikakupigia’ song. May the strike continue.