January, the month named after the Roman god, Janus, is already ravaging us like a tornado and volcano combined.
Couple this financial maelstrom with the crippling teachers’ strike and the picture isn’t pretty.
Curiously, this is the month all my comrades have been waiting for. While everyone else grits their teeth, my comrades are determined to have a whale of a time, come hell or high water.
The holidays had pitted them against their parents and guardians, forcing them to take a break from their beloved asinine activities.
The start of a new semester provides the ostensible cover for them to carry on their tomfoolery with alacrity.
Just like the next guy who makes resolutions, comrades also have grandiose plans for the year ahead. Plans to bring about destruction, not prosperity.
Their resolutions do not contain decisions such as losing weight, reading more or saving money.
Besides waiting for petrol prices to fall below Sh70 as promised so that they can imbibe it as a cheaper alternative to mainstream liquor, university students set out to drink more, get laid often, attend Masaku Sevens and win the Selfie Olympics.
While everyone else tightens their belt, living on the breadline, my comrades are having a ball with their parents’ and the government’s money.
Miracles akin to the one Jesus performed at a wedding in Cana are re-enacted as comrades convert entire student loans into vodka overnight.
This is the time of the semester when comrades develop taste for champagne on beer budgets. With cash to fritter, they frequent high-end clubs and practically roll in it, lighting Cuban cigars in Sh500 notes.
Their diet also climbs a notch higher, as regular eateries that substitute cutlery for toothpicks are shunned.
Instead, their taste buds are placated by pizza and five-course meals from high-end food chains, washed down with expensive bottles of wine.
And instead of saving some of the money for a rainy day, any spare change is used to purchase morning-after pills on Saturday mornings.
Let me tell you something you already suspect and you can take to the bank: by mid-February when my comrades have spent their cash in dribs and drabs, they will come back to earth and scrounge for food at that fly-ridden kiosk near the dumpsite.
It’s that time when romance among comrades, planted on the false illusion of deep pockets, blossoms. Lord knows that by Valentine’s Day, when all the boys will be poorer than church mice, the girls will forsake them in droves and run to 40-year old sugar daddies who will pander to their every whim.
Stay with me as I report from the land of loud parties, asinine music, drugs, little learning and sexual language. For another year, I will try to prove to you that what a village drunkard can do while high on kumi kumi, my comrades can do better.