By David Kiriinya
There are a few times in life when lady luck smiles down on a broke man in campus.
Just recently, lady luck, clothed in one of those short dresses and menacing stilettos, with a purple clutch purse was waltzing lazily looking for someone to smile at when we met. I was broke to the last coin. I must say that lady luck is a fine woman who understands proper timing because the time she smiled at me was that time when I needed someone to smile at me and say ‘shika hii thao ukakule lunch’.
It is one of those lousy Friday afternoons when there are no classes. Not because the timetable reads no lesson, but because according to your personal timetable, the day is free. The day is made even lousier because everyone is in the possession of a form, or in the process of acquiring one in the next few hours. Your friend and his acquaintance all greet you asking about your form, and you pause and wonder whether you will get one or maybe you misplaced it. Of course deep down you know that you have absolutely no form, at least not for the next few weeks. You only hope that the heavens will conspire in your favor in due time. Your ringtone for the last two weeks has been ‘Hard Living’ by Wailing Souls.
As evening draws near and the whole market center gradually fills with lasses in figure-hugging outfits and the familiar smell of alcohol, your throat gets more parched and your loins stir, albeit momentarily and so subtly you hardly recognize, since the latter has been subdued by the former.
I am seated outside one of the market center kiosks, my thoughts unrestrained and roaming the earth. The sudden vibration of my phone startles me and I eagerly fetch it, hoping that my elder brother had finally seen sense and decided to throw something small my way. Apparently, Safaricom have not forgotten about the M-shwari loan they gave me last month.
As I ponder how the day’s supper will be sorted, the irritating vibration again derails my train of thought. These days a man cannot ask for a loan and live in peace, I mumble as I fetch the phone. Suddenly, I find myself at the M-pesa shop withdrawing twenty three thousand shillings. My next stop is the local eatery, where an innocent half chicken accompanied with mounds of ugali and mboga ya kienyeji find their way into my stomach. I make my exit from the eatery complete with a toothpick in my mouth and a cocky smile lighting up my face. This must be a good day, I think as I whistle my favorite tune while making a beeline for the pub.
It is here that I realize the nice problem that I have on my hands; that I cannot quite well plan and budget for such huge amounts of cash, given my new-found status as a rich man. As you may know, rich people hire accountants to help in managing their wealth. I am not going to be left behind.
I need an accountant urgently to give valuable financial insight on how to reduce the twenty three thousand shillings that had accidentally been sent to my phone number to manageable levels. I need an accountant to advise me on when we will substitute beef for chicken or pork, or any other animal protein thereof. I need an accountant to advise me on who would be the beneficiary of my generosity at the pub on Friday. I needed an accountant to tell me which lady would be bought Guarana (with amorous activity to follow later, of course).
Anyone with an accountant in mind can contact me. You can all rest assured that the criteria for identifying my new accountant will follow all set rules and provisions of the constitution. In the meantime, my phone remains off for obvious reasons.