I Can’t Allow Myself to Look like My Problems

I really have no idea why campus students are thought to have money. Maybe it’s because of the flashy drip (that’s what Gen-Z call clothes), the hairstyles, and the ever-bright grins on their faces.

Of course, you can’t walk around smiling if you’re broke. What’s funny? I mean.

But no one has ever been the brokiest (I can’t really find the right word to describe his level and depth of being broke) than Eduh. He was always broke, but you could never tell unless you were his close friend.

When we joined campus, we happened to be placed in the same hostel. We shared the room with four boys, scratch that, four men. We all had hair in other areas of our anatomy, so yeah, men. Of the four of us, Eduh was the loudest, friendliest, and had everything – the shoes, the trendiest clothes, and of course, the girls.

It all looked classy on the surface. Whenever you looked at Eduh, all you could see was an epitome of a rich kid. Someone who has it all figured out.

As we disappeared into the kibanda to have our supper, Eduh would invariably be seen swaggering into one of the expensive restaurants in the vicinity of the campus.

We could later meet the real Eduh while in the hostel. He’d ask if any of us had some extra cash to lend him. He’d even promise to pay back with interest on top.

Being that we were just as broke as he was, we couldn’t help finance his lifestyle. So, obviously, he just had to look for it somewhere else.

He’d borrow money from other girls who had feelings for him. It’s hard for a girl who deeply loves you to deny you money. Eduh read that script and memorized the lines. He had a pile of debts from, like, a million girls.

We’d at times be chilling in the hostel and hear a knock on the door. On saying ‘come in’, a lady would just part the door curtains and ask something in the neighborhood of, “is Eduh around?”

And that happened again and again. Different faces, different days. Rather, same poop, different air freshener.

When this first happened, we thought that Eduh was a ladies’ man. But for the records, he was never really the type to exile us from the hostel. He’d rather have swindled a few more ladies than bring one to the hostel for some ones and twos.

The fact that we knew the other side of Eduh made it easier for us to know how to cover his ass whenever someone came to ask for him. Sometimes, he’d just be in the hostel with us but we’d lie that he’s not around.

“Mahn, these guys want their money back and I don’t have anything to give them,” he’d croak every time this happened.

Despite Eduh being a 24-7 broke guy, he also had a generous side. Whenever HELB came through, he’d take us to the nearest bar and let us gulp on keg to our fill.

He’d also pay for our kibandaski bill of ksh.50.

And eventually forget to pay back his debts. To return the favor, we’d always lie that we don’t know where he is whenever his people came asking for him.

I now understand why I thought campus students had lots of money. The situation on the ground is so different.

Perhaps, the people in high school who rub shoulders with me think I have money. I need to call for a press conference at this juncture, to address the nation and let everyone know that I don’t have that money. I wish I had. It’s just that I can’t allow myself to look like my problems. Plot twist, I am Eduh.

Mr. Ogonji is a highly professional and talented journalist with a solid experience in covering compelling stories, reporting facts, and engaging audiences. He is driven to uncover the truth behind today's most pressing issues and share stories that make a genuine impact.

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