There are occasions in the miserable life of me when murderous bells in my brains shrill tingangaling. I feel like SMS-ing the offender to the pearly gates of heaven with no apologies to make. Insatiable urge to break someone’s neck to their death drives me to an orgasmic fit of anger that given a chance, I would not hesitate to dispatch them to heaven!

The only reason I did not do it last week is because of the fear of what Kenya’s new IGP’s boys and girls would have done to me after murdering an offender.

Those of you who have never cooled their heels at Pangani Police Station in Nairobi won’t understand it (Dar police stations are simply holiday camps in comparison!).

You have not been seeing me around roaming alleys of the Uswaz called Mbagala for the last one month. At Bisho Ntongo’s prodding, I decided to go back to school in earnest although my brains have become ice-thick. She asserted that I am merely an embarrassment whenever I shamelessly parade my questionable views in the presence of the likes of Dr Winchinslauss Rwegoshora (PhD, MA, BA UDSM,) said to have ‘eaten’ more books than Uswahilinites put together.

Bisho blatantly put it that my always mouth goes gaga over things I hardly understand, whenever any intellectual discourse under the sun is tabled over drinks with buddies, and I that should remedy that by going to ‘eat’ books. I boarded a bus to Nairobi not because of the urge to improve my status from a miserable scribe but by guilty wish to make amends. I forgive my one-and-only woman for subjecting me to the agony of sharing classrooms with babies in diapers but that is neither here nor there.

Housing for students, especially those like me who come and go, is easy as milking a hungry female lion in Serengeti.

Besides that, with a holed wallet like mine that depends on the alms from my miserable employer on the 45th of the month, the best option was settle in some shady hostel at Mlango Kubwa near Eastleigh.

Transposed from the comfort of Bisho’s bed to the bottom of a double-decker bed is nothing interesting. What if your roommate who sleeps in the bed above yours, whenever he takes as much as a glass opens his faucet and unleashes stinky urine?

That is what happened when I offered him a glass of Vodka Black Label. This is what happened on Thursday last week as he found me burrowed in volumes of books, with a bottle next to me (to numb my senses).

After I had slept for less than two hours, I was woken with a start by the ominously stinking liquid that was oozing through his mattress to mine. My first reaction was to smash his baby face but diplomacy took the best of me. As a punitive measure, I made him mop the cubicle in the wee hours. I am now desperate to come back to Dar. I cannot stand dirty socks and underwear!