SLEEPERY

It must have been on a Wednesday when I decided to skip lunch because, unlike other days, the menu that day was not so enticing. So, skipping lunch was bearable. We were having mothukoi, and on such a day, if you’re not a prefect on duty, you were not going to be enjoying the premium version of that, which was ‘spiked’ with a lot of cooking oil and onions; in sheng, we called it ngata. In our school, meals preserved for prefects were called chamber. We found them being called so when we joined Form One, and I figure it’s because the cooks served and set it aside in sufurias in a secluded part of the kitchen—a chamber. 

At that time, I was a prefect in Form Four, but not with the highest rank. I was a dorm captain, but I preferred the title, Governor, but soon became Mfalme; you’ll know why soon. The top-ranking prefects, namely the school captain/president and his deputy, as well as the boarding captain and his deputy, had the privilege to serve chamber every day. The dining hall captains, needless to say, had their share by default. Other prefects would only enjoy the spoils of their leadership on the day assigned as their duty. It was somewhat like a house of cards because your day of duty was assigned based on how respectable you were and how well you knew the big boys. That is to say, if you played your cards well, you’d be assigned duty on the day we were having ugali and meat stew for lunch or RnB (rice and beans) with boiled eggs. Those, mjango, were the blood diamonds of our days. Students traded in those precious meals, and to joke with them was to joke with your very own life. 

So, if I remember correctly, I had a share in duty on those two prime days, but not on Wednesday. For that reason, my calculations that day prior to lunch pointed me towards my cubicle immediately Mr. Mutuku, the Chemistry teacher, walked out the door. I promised myself that I’d be right by his heels because time was of the essence to me. I had one hour or less to do something I had waited all day to do. 

Sleep! 

That’s it; I just wanted to sleep, mahn! My locker was positioned right by the door, and that door was never shut, even during lessons. My deskmate, a very important character in this story, had his locker by the wall, then mine. Our class, Form Four North, was at the edge of the entire stream building; teachers would pass there on their way to other classes in the stream. If they decided to peep on their way at any point, they would likely catch me dozing like a koala. This is not a funny story because you’d expect me, Mjango, who went by the nickname ‘Mbaba’ at the time because of how mature I was perceived to be, to be the good boy of all and, at the very least, not sleep in class! Even I expected myself not to sleep, but ladies and gentlemen, I would succumb to the weight of my eyes like a tree under the axe. 

If you ask me what was happening to me at the time, I’d probably blame it on the devil because there was no way I was struggling with sleep more than most of my peers. (Okay except one. There’s one guy who had a serious sleeping issue. I think it was a medical condition or something.) I mean, my deskmate Dominic, for example, never— and I mean never— blinked for more than a millisecond. You know the way when you’re sleepy, you’d catch yourself blinking for too long? Dominic wasn’t the type. Sometimes I’d be so defeated by the ghost of sleep that I’d resign to not fighting it at all. If you can’t beat them, join them. So I would position myself and support my head in a way that faced toward the wall. Our lockers were arranged in pairs with three rows. The teacher would stand in front of the middle row, which for some reason was pushed back further than the two rows by the walls. That way, they’d find themselves standing somewhat behind those of us who were seated at the front of these side rows. It was helpful for me because it reduced the chances of being caught with my eyes down. 

As I slept facing the wall, it would be a free entertainment show for Dominic. Let me take this opportunity to tell you a bit about Dominic and why he’s not your usual character even in the story of my life. For starters, he hailed from the same town our school was in, meaning he wasn’t far from home. I was a Nairobi boy, so, with all humility, to drive a point home, we probably would have never become friends based on where we came from. In fact, our backgrounds were so different in many ways, and thus, our characters so distinct in numerous ways. I can’t remember how we ended up being deskmates in Form Four, but for the three years I had been in the same class with him, I preferred him to many other folks. Simply because, while there were limited things we could bond over, he was principled in his comportment and focused on his studies. In short, he was not a joker. Neither was I (to some extent), so I would rather sit next to someone like that. 

He never spoke a lot. He was always minding his own business. But one peculiar thing about him is that, while he was principled, some people would gauge that as being too principled. Like, if you wanted to hide contraband from the admin, you would think twice about trusting him to keep the secret. Or if you were caught pants down by a teacher and given the right to call a lawyer, he would be the last on your call list. Technically, you’d Better Call Saul than Dominic. He just gave off such vibes, but I understand everyone has survival tactics. For him, it was his way of never wanting to be part of any trouble, and so his demeanor spoke for him. 

But the guy, like everyone else, was not without flaws. He had his guilty pleasures that was a blessed personal entertainment. The same way he was entertained by my sleep battles is the same way I’d be entertained during Friday night preps. After remedial lessons, that was the same hour the revellers at the neighboring market would start to warm up for the night. And being a village in Ukambani, their rave was rocked with bangers from the likes of Ken wa Maria, Kativui, and Katombi. Physics taught us that sound travels fast and far at night, so on those nights, it proved true. The guy who rarely spoke would bark at anyone who tried to shut that door. As he tuned in to the music from the market, I would enjoy seeing him struggle not to burst out into dance feats. Sometimes he would get so carried away that he’d let out a couple of fundamental moves as he feigned studying. Head shaking, lips mumbling to the lyrics, and feet constantly thumping to the beat—ah, mjango, I’d pay to go back in time for such moments. 

And I’m sure he’d pay to go back in time to watch and laugh at me as I removed cobwebs of sleep from my face throughout the lessons. There’s this day I turned to face the wall because I felt an incoming wave. I didn’t even realize when I turned. The next thing I knew, I was drifting back and forth from sleep, and my eyes caught him watching me nod off vulnerably as he burst into suppressed laughter—burying his face in his arms. That’s the day I thought, what kind of deskmate is this? This guy couldn’t even try to wake me up. And by the way, he rarely did. But here’s the thing: he rarely did unless I was about to get into serious trouble, like that Wednesday. 

To be continued… 

***** 

In case you’re wondering why I am reliving this tale from the archives of my life, I wanted to make a point about sleep in the context of adulting. For the record, sleep was such a huge problem for us in Form Four. I have a theory that the enemy of progress was using it as a weapon because how the hell was I insanely sleepy all the time? Mark you, I never attended morning preps from somewhere close to Term Two all the way up to the very last day of high school.

As the governor of the most prestigious dorm in the whole school, it was my duty to wake everyone up in my dorm and ensure no one stayed behind. Sometimes I would do that, and when everyone was gone, I would moonwalk to my cubicle, lock it from the inside, turn off the lights, and snooze away. On most days, I wouldn’t be alone. My fellow leaders, starting with my pilot, the Medical Captain—whom we used to call Daktari—to the Dining Hall Captain, the OG himself, and to the Deputy School Captain, nicknamed Sheriff, would journey with me through dreamland in those wee hours of the morning when sleep is sweetest. But that was our preferred system because we would study past lights out. Personally, I was—and still am—more productive at night than in the morning. But I still don’t understand how we all probably slept for the same number of hours, and someone like me would shower every morning without fail but still struggle with sleep during the day. I just don’t get it. 

But here’s the point, mjango. Back then, I would tell myself, and you’d hear our seniors say to us when we were in the junior forms, that after Form Four, we would sleep all we wanted. It’s pain for a moment and gain for eternity. I’m here, many years past Form Four, and I am not ashamed to say that is the biggest scam ever sold to us. 

Fine, there was some truth to it in the sense that you’d have the freedom to sleep as you wish. But I call it a scam because, for one, you cannot bundle up all the sleep you sacrificed in high school and say you are going to compensate for it accordingly. You’d probably have to sleep for six months continuously to get an even score. Sleep just cannot be carried forward. Secondly, we got to life out here in our adulting stages and realized the true meaning of, 

“A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep. So will your poverty come like a robber or one who travels [with slowly but surely approaching steps]…”

It’s how we still battle with sleep up to today, all so we can earn a living. I, for instance, have to wake up at 5 a.m. every weekday because I have to beat the traffic on my way to work. You can say, “So why not sleep early?” Oh, mjango, I try. And on a good number of days, I fail terribly because after I leave work, I get home at 7 p.m. if I’m early. Time flies when you get home. You tell yourself, “Let me rest for a while before I start cooking.” Suddenly, it’s 8:15 p.m. By the time you’re done cooking and eating, it’s 9:30 p.m. That’s the best-case scenario. After 10 p.m., sometimes you try to sleep, but you struggle, toss and turn. Maybe you’re weirdly too tired to sleep. On some days, you manage to sleep in time, then you completely lose sleep at 3 a.m. From 10 p.m. to 5 a.m. is 7 hours—sure, that is the recommended sleep time for adults. But it never feels enough. Does it? 

Throughout the week, you console yourself with, “I will sleep over the weekend.” But ladies and gentlemen, another scam we should talk about is this thing called the weekend. Another day, maybe. By the time Monday arrives, you think you had rested enough, only for you to struggle to wake up on Monday morning. Then the Monday blues follow, and you’re just zombifying through the day. And in my experience, if them blues don’t catch you on Monday, they sure will headbutt you on Tuesday!

Even if I was waking up at 6 or 7, you and I both know that’s still not easy, especially if you’re not a morning person like me. The fact that you have to be woken up by an alarm means your sleep has been cut short, and therefore, it’s going to be a battle. Even on the days you wake up before the alarm, you get upset because you’re losing precious minutes you could be sleeping! I kid you not, I go back to sleep and wait for the alarm because I can’t kill myself. 

I fight with my duvet, then click on my way to the shower while comforting myself with, “Nitalala kwa matatu.” And oh, how blissful it is to know from Maina and King’ang’i on Classic 105 that I am not alone. The number of Kenyans slumbering in matatus early in the morning is a testament to the assiduous effort of breadwinning across adults in the land. 

(Just when I was about to post this, I had to add this line: This morning I was about to bite off the head of the madam who was seated next to me in the matatu. I was busy having my beauty compensatory sleep when I felt a lot of unending movement on my side. Hoping it would stop in a few seconds, it persisted for eternity! I knew if I opened my eyes I would completely lose sleep and we are a still in the middle of traffic. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I peeped and guess what I discovered as the reason for the disturbance? A wig mjango! She was putting on a wig and styling it before a pocket mirror. Some of you will call this petty, please have a field day with the term. But I am just not a morning person and that is enough to ruin my morning folks!)

Sometimes, I wake up saying, “The goal is to be my own boss so I can wake up at any time.” Even I know that’s a scam. Bosses wake up earliest. 

Even those people with kids I know are not catching a break either. You’re on maternity or paternity leave but still deprived of sleep. Parents of infants think or console themselves with, “The child will grow, and we won’t have sleepless nights again.” Until your kids get to an age where their very lives are causing you insomnia. Maybe you’re worried for their well-being. Maybe you’re stressed over school fees. Maybe you’re worried about where they are because they have disappeared from home and switched off their phones. They have gone out brawling, and you don’t know who is looking out for them. They have been arrested. Their husband is beating them. And many more issues of life. 

Because of all the burdens of life and adulting, mjango, it looks like sleep will forever be elusive—slippery. A fact I am learning to accept. I mean, even if we took the liberty to sleep all we want as grown-ups, the problems of life will eventually wake our a**es up! Ever tried sleeping when you’re jobless? Ever tried sleeping when you’re broke? Or better yet, ever tried sleeping when you’re hungry? Sleep is indeed necessary. But I am also starting to accept that, just like sex, it was created for us to only enjoy in measure. It’s the only way, if at all we are to keep both poverty and the devil out the door of our lives.