The goodness of sleeping early is that you get enough time to at least have a decent dream before morning rudely interrupts you. The other day I had an occasion of sleeping early and yeah, I had a dream. Not the Luther kind of a dream though. That day I had some hideous paper to write and another to rewrite. They ended up sapping all the energy from my magnificent structure, such that I could not even manage to blink constantly.
That day a customer had made me rewrite more than 2000 words and the blunder was his. The guy was just sloppy and forgot to include the most critical of information. The dumb fruck sent it on time and it reached me as I gave out a deep sigh, rejoicing to have finished writing the essay. I had to start, again. All that time, the punching-somebody-in-the-space-between-nose-and-mouth…..thought was relentlessly ringing in my head.
I really need to find somebody to punch. The kid who wakes me up every morning is a strong candidate. Just like cocks (this is a male hen kama ile ya nyayo, pervert) the kid wakes up early to practice for the Screaming Olympics. A cock crows twice or thrice and stops, till the next morning. The kid doesn’t. It ends at night fall. But again, I don’t hit kids. Ok, I don’t hit kids any more.
The last time I hit somebody was 14 years ago. I was just 9. Wrestling was the in thing in the village. With 20-30 hyper active village boys in the same age group, there had to be a way of knowing who does what, who is able to what, and who is the reigning Stone Cold Steve Austin. After hours of football, A would argue that since B can beat up C and he can thump B, it goes without saying that he can trounce C. They call it the law of…um..ok, I forget. It’s in economics 101. Is it transitivity? Anyway. If C disputes whatever A was asserting, we organize a wrestling match. No pulling of punches.
I used to be sneaky and at the same time very cautious of whom I fight. I also had my big bro as insurance. I would aim my killer punch at the ears. It used to work so well.
Going back to my sleeping early story. I found myself in a big beach hotel. The air smelt like it was in Dubai. That is how cool my dreamy nose is. I wonder how the Amsterdam air smells like. So there I was, in a funny short and a t-shirt with a jumper on top of it. I headed to some round table dinner. My dad was present. There were like 15 people in business suits at the table. Dad was visibly appalled by my choice of attire. I must have been terribly tardy. Food had already been served.
I did not take long in my seat before I announced that the guy speaking was plain boring and a liar. He was apparently the father of a girl that one of us was planning on marrying. The surprising thing was that I was not drunk. Everybody had this sycophantic smile as he went on and on about how much a princess her girl was. I wasn’t so amused with that. I rose and gave everybody a piece of my mind. I could not catch dad’s face. I bet his head must have exploded with rage. My dream fizzled out.
Now that the little handsome Joseph of the New Testament is not around and I do not have his number, I am left wondering what the hell that meant. This dream contains scenes that I have never dreamt of doing. Ok that did not come out well. This dream contains scenes that I will never find myself doing. I do not have half the balls required to do what that dreamy self did. Maybe one of you guys is a dream interpreter. Help a brother out.
PS: I told a friend that I had eaten beef that tasted like paint and he laughed at me. I knew something was up when Peter Marangi started appearing in my screen standing in front of food and telling us paint is ‘fresh’. Smh.
Boom box playlist:
A Dream – Jay Z, Faith Evans, Biggy.
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