Hello, hello baby you called I can’t hear a thing
I have got no service in the club you say, say
What, what, what did you say oh you’re breaking up on me
Sorry I cannot hear you I’m kinda busy
Once upon a time, when I was younger the prospect of getting a haircut was exciting.
Wait, I thought he said this post was about texting…
Yes, it is.
Where was I? Yes. Haircuts. Excitement. Not exciting in the sense that I was overjoyed by the fact that a random dude will put a machine to my head and proceed to assault my hairline. But exciting because there were always these charts on the walls with all kinds of haircuts to choose from. The Box-cut fades, mohawks, The Jordan, whatever kind of hairstyle Ludacris had, the choices were endless.
Alas, my parents always chose the same thing for me. “Nyoa ya shule,” whatever that meant… This is how creativity is stifled, people!
As I got older, I realized, I was getting haircuts in really weird, sometimes dingy places.
This isn’t about texting at all, is it?
It is. Just wait.
Do you know there’s a difference between Kinyozis and Barbershops?
Kinyozis are everywhere. Some are wooden shacks erected in estates, some are small stalls, usually on the ground floor of certain apartment complexes. Some have two or three barbers who attend to customers, most have only one. Most of them play loud Reggae music, others are always tuned into Radio Jambo. Quite a number of them are called “Liverpool” for some reason. All of them have Ludacris posters and posters of EPL teams.
Barbershops are different. The most obvious difference is the absence of posters and Reggae. Here, you have to articulate what you want to be done to your head and not just point at Number 23. Here, you’re not just shaved. No, after the thing that took you there in the first place, you get after-sales services – face scrubs, massages, the works.
After this revelation, I was old enough to choose my own haircut.
My parents, in their wisdom, also deemed me worthy of (and old enough for) a mobile phone. But they did not deem me worthy of airtime. #TheStruggle.
Back then, Safaricom airtime could only do so much. (I guess it’s not so different from now. Talk about consistency, Safaricom). You couldn’t call anyone for more than a minute but you could text them. And texting was a wonderful thing. There was even a time where you could use Twitter via text for free. This was the leaked DMs phase of 2009/2010. What a time to be alive!
See, I’m the kind of person that comes alive via text. I read recently that that’s a thing with introverts. We’d rather text than talk face to face or over the phone or wherever human interaction is required. Texting is awesome because:
- You can answer a text at any time after you receive it. (For me, it’s usually right away or hours later. There is no in-between)
- You can “not get” the text. (Related to point No. 1)
- It’s economical (when you’re a student)
Fast forward a few years after graduation to the present.
I hate texting.
And I’m a terrible texter.
My introvertedness has matured. I’m at that point in life where I would rather call you and finish a conversation within minutes than spend an hour trying to convey the same information via SMS.
Consider also people who text in horrible grammar. What is “Xaxa/Xowi“? What is “Nmeenda hoC ntarudi matym“? Why would you shorten messages using a Short Message Service? What is so taxing that you cannot text “Nimeenda hospitali.” Granted you might be sick but I am also sick of your adulterated language.
I have one of those amplifiers/woofers in my house, and the worst sound in the world is that sound that it makes when signals in the air become audible and you know that your phone is about to ring/chime. You know that sound, don’t act surprised.
The irony is, with my data plan, I have over 60k SMSs that I’ll probably never use. Wish I could exchange them for money, but … (see bitmoji)
But the absolute worst thing is this: I am physically and psychologically unable to see a notification and leave it alone. And I have absolutely no idea how some of you are able to do that. There are friends of mine with 3809 unread emails! How in the names of all the cats on the Internet do you get 3000 unread emails? Why would you have 187 Facebook notifications?
The sight of that little red circle atop my icons or tiny numbers in brackets (348 unread) makes me want to consider murder.
So even if I hate texting now, I have to – I don’t want to but I have to – read every text from Safaricom and Jumia and that random friend you haven’t talked to in years telling you to help him/her raise money for his/her wedding.
Ignorance is NOT bliss.
And to you all (*especially you, my friend), read your damn emails!
PS: If you have my number(s) and you still want to text/message me after this, feel free. I’d never ignore a message. Although, sometimes you may have to wait a while before I respond. Days may pass, babies will be born, blue ticks will be evident, but I will get back to you… eventually.
Take care guys.