Cursed First Class Honors
First, I want to welcome you to my blog. Back in the day when I was smelling ambition and big dreams, I opened this blog. I have always had a thing for humor. Sometimes the jokes in my head are funnier than the ones on paper. I wonder why. So if you can find something here to laugh about, laugh. If not, find your laughter person.
There is only one post on this blog from way back. Forgive me for being caught in the fight for a perfect grade, for a perfect student, from a perfect son.
From where I come from, there is no other leverage but education. Education is precious and people in my village know it. It is a path out of poverty. Tumekapitia my guy. Having an education means I get a chance to dream bigger. That spirit dies from time to time, but it is always there. Today I am punching these words on this meticulous keyboard with the hope that I can make some sense. I hope I do.
Enough of the foreplay. Seriously, karibu sana (I would have offered you some tea like the Luhya I am, but economy mtu wangu!)
Now, how does it feel to earn a First Class Honors Degree in Communication and Multimedia Journalism, and be jobless after graduation?
It feels like education is the biggest lie we have ever been told.
My campus was not that smooth. I have had to stay at Laini Saba and Soweto in Kibera slums. And before you ask, I have never encountered flying toilets. I would have loved to. But all the stereotypes about a place are not always true.
Living in Kibera taught me a lot of lessons. I could be going to a private school, Riara University, and staying in a very unsafe neighborhood. Every time I walked home past 8, I would almost feel my heart literally kicking its way out of my body. There were times I would hear stories about robbery and gunshots, and I would pray that my mother was praying even harder for my safety.
It taught me how to survive. To live within and below my means. It taught me to hustle. I got my first paying gig with a friend through the late Prof. Ken Walibora. This was also my first encounter with corporate fuckery. A certain Marketing officer from an international school promised if we could shoot and edit the event they were hosting (where the late Walibora was a speaker), she’d buy our content. After all the effort we put in and the struggle that went into the production, she never liked our work. It was decent, to say the least. But it felt like a lie. This was the outside treating a young man with ambitions and a big dream harshly.
This should tell you I did not come to play in Nairobi. This city that is shamba la mawe is no one’s motherland. It does not spare those who came to joke around unless you are a Tik Toker shaking nyash and sanitizing the streets. Nairobi is a monster if you allow it to be. Yet here I was, a boy fresh from the village, ready to face whatever the city had to offer.
I joined campus in August 2017 and graduated in July 2023. It would be a big lie to tell you that I was a smart student. In fact, when I received the booklet and found that had a First Class Honors, I almost cried. I have only cried two times. When I finally accepted that I could not date this babe that made my heart go duduke, and that one time a one night stand was too sweet not to share some tears of joy. So it was shocking. Like me? First class? Aje sasa?
But there was definitely a great deal of effort placed on getting there. Working to support my education, countless hours of writing academic papers, shooting and editing class projects, and the many times I admired these fine walalo babes who were even prettier during graduation. I read. I did the CATS. I had resits. I did a fundraiser to raise school fees (kama ulicome through, you made my dream come through. Asante sana). But it would be a shame for you to ask me for tips on how to ace it. I have none. Just do what you gotta do.
When you do a good job, people start noticing you. They give you work. They refer you to work. You make some good money. But if you are as naive as I was, they do you what Aerial does to clothes. Mwosho mmoja.
The writing industry is cruel if you do not understand how it works. While this is true, most of the gigs and work I have done have been purely on a referral basis. I would lie to you if I said I know the pain of sending job applications. The few times I have sent my CV for an opening (which I never got a single feedback) made me hate applying for jobs blindly.
As a result of this, I am finding it hard to apply for roles. I resigned from my job as a Digital Marketer at a Digital Marketing agency in August. That decision has haunted me for days. Right now if you call me a fool for making that decision, I can even take a loan to sponsor that campaign of dragging my name in the mud.
The only worry I have is societal expectations against reality. Society expects if you have good grades you automatically get a pass at getting a job. Reality says, “Ng’ooo.” There is a lot of pressure from family and friends to already have a job. Since I did journalism, most people expect me to be shaking hands with the likes of Victoria Rubadiri bana! It is not giving!
The reality is that I do not desire to work in a newsroom. I do not dream about it. I do not want it (Please if in 10 years you find me working at a top TV station, don’t remind me of these words. I will simply tell you “kwani hujui jokes?”)
As I walk in the shadow of the valley of joblessness and dotted gigs here and there, I wish I was that average student that people did not expect so much from. Yet, I am proud I was among the top in my class. Because if I were to die today, there are a few words that can be said about and against me, and having that accomplishment in my name will make my village mates happy. First, many girls would complain about how I broke their hearts. Do not listen to them. Some will say I simped badly in their DMs. Listened to those ones. A few people will say I have a beautiful smile. Some will try to deny this. If they do, go check out my Instagram account. Concentrate on pictures taken this year. That kienyeji boy in pictures taken in earlier years is not me (Read this with your kieyejiness to get the point clearly).
But before I die, I promise to send in a few more job applications (I am enjoying sprinkling some lies and exaggerations in those resumes).
I am figuring out my shit. Getting my life in order. This was definitely your year, not mine. But next year my guy! I am praying over it. If you are jobless and feel like a disappointment like myself, there is nothing I can offer you. Maybe get your life in shape?
See you tomorrow (or next year). Let’s see if I can be consistent.
