Deodorant

I gots to breathe.

Please.

Back up off of me, I gots to breathe, So let me breathe.

Breathe.

Please.

In case you didn’t hear me, yeah yeah, I gots to breathe.

So let me breathe, please.

What they don’t tell you about marriage is that after saying I do, there are a lot of forms you have to fill and/or amend. Now, I’ve been filling forms for half my life and there’s a certain rhythm I’m used to.

Name: Mark

Date of birth: One day in March

ID number: Starts with a 2

Marital status: Single.

Obviously, the marital status field has changed. However, now I’m apparently supposed to know my wife’s details as well. Do you realize how difficult it is to memorize someone else’s ID number? Someone else’s tax PIN? I can barely remember mine! But, alas, such is the life I chose.

you've changed my life

 

Why are you talking about filling forms in a post about deodorant?

Let me tell you why.

I had a form to fill this morning. Nothing much. Just a little bit of insurance (something else they don’t tell you). I was adding my wife as a dependent on my health policy. You know, in the case that all this unprotected sex might produce offspring we’ll need a health plan. So mans was being proactive – the responsible young man my wife is lucky to have.

I left the house early and made my way to the insurance place. A very nice lady named Ruth* assisted me. Shout out to Very Nice Lady. The amendment form she had me fill was rather simple and since mans is proactive, I already had copies of other forms that I thought I might need to avoid a conversation like this:

Mans: Hello. *Normal masculine voice*

Wife: Hi. *Unusually cheerful voice that sounds like it has been to no good*

Mans: I forgot to carry your ID. Si unitumie na email.

Wife: ID ulichukua jana. You didn’t give it back.

Mans: But nilirudi nayo.

Wife: Ukaweka wapi?

Mans: Check in the shirt I had on yesterday.

Wife: Okay. Hold on *takes forever to find the shirt I had on*… It’s not there.

Mans: Then I have no idea where it could be.

Wife: Could you have left it in your office?

Mans: *I could have but would never admit that* No.

Wife: Ebu check your wallet.

Mans: *checks. It’s in there*…

Wife: Umepata?

Mans: *rather unconvincingly* Nope.

Wife: Najua umepata. Bye 👋🏾 *you can hear the waving*

 

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So to avoid all that, I had copies ready.

The whole thing took like 10 minutes. The plan was to get back to the office early enough to grade some papers.

I’ve never been a big fan of public transportation although I must admit that it is a blessing. I can’t imagine walking everywhere like Mekatilili wa Menza. I ain’t about that life but since I have not yet procured myself an automobile, matatus will do.

The sad thing about said matatus is that you can’t control who sits next to you unless you pray. Pray very very hard that God gives you a car.

You still haven’t mentioned deodorant.

You impatient puppy…

I chose a seat by the aisle since the seat I could have taken was taken by a rather burly man. The aisle seat was befitting to allow room between my head and the… roof? (do cars have ceilings?). Also, I’m quite tall so matatus are my knees’ worst enemy.

Unbeknownst to the hero of our story, this matatu was one of those “carry 27 people” kinds of matatus. Naturally, there was a sambaza provided which found a passenger and in no time we resembled a can of sardines or a box of matches, that’s how packed we were.

I should have been angry but I wasn’t because I had completed my insurance mission.

I became angry much later.

See, the chap who sat on the sambaza thing was a student. How do I know that? Well, he was young, had on a denim jacket (because apparently to be cool these days you have to rock denim) and that pineapple dreadlocked hair young men are convinced makes them look cool. He had a friend who was sambzwa’d in the row behind us. Also rocking the pineapple hair. But that’s of no consequence. It’s just a pet peeve.

These youngins were on their way back to school from somewhere questionable because they smelled of vodka and regret. They were also very sleepy. I wonder why. The one next to me (we’ll call him Liam because why not), since sambazas have no backs, leaned forward resting his elbows on the seats in front of us. Off he went to slumberland and left me in hell.

Liam had a stench! I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, bad hygiene or he was running from something (law enforcement probably) but those armpits were from the devil. He smelled like old onions, tripe, and broken promises. If his smell had a visual comparison, it would be an Avocado that you were waiting to slice all day then once you do you find it’s as black on the inside as the soul of a politician.

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Go see a doctor, Liam

I was dying.

The burly gentleman beside me was getting rather ripe as well. It was 9 in the freaking morning!

There I was, surrounded by a vortex of smells that, if you were to ask me, smelled like Satan farted in that car. Or a dumpster on fire, which coincidentally has a bitmoji.

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Thirty. Minutes. Of. Pure. Torture.

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No one cracked a window that entire time by the way. That’s what angered me.

So, this is a public service announcement. Please, for the love of God, wear deodorant. They last 48 hours now. You can save a life.

Please.

And open the damn windows in PSVs!

 

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