Yet we work.

I’ve almost ran up to here. This lecturer must feel bad letting us out even a second before time. The bus stage has some humans. And really less vehicles. I’m just going nearby. Everyone is tired. Too tired to feel like dropping me at my stage. So I wait for a driver that will agree to do the necessary. And at this time, many are willing to forfeit that extra fare to get home quickly.

But i’m lucky, I don’t wait for long. Trey songs is singing loudly from the speakers of the bus I finally get into. The minute the bus is full, the music is changed. To Rhumba. God bless that soul. Its either i’m getting too old or that i’m tired. Or both. For me to enjoy slow soothing music by the end of a long day.

And i’m hungry. Yesterday night I dropped my prized bottle of spray in the bus. And I didn’t find it. It must have rolled away, or I was just too tired to concern myself with it. So I stepped off the bus, hoping it was just the spray I dropped and nothing else.

The other day, while walking towards home, after getting off the matatu, a man stopped me in a dark part of the way. I was tired. I was hungry. I just wanted to get to my bed. Yet I ran as though Eliud Kipchoge and I had a bet. I just wanted to get home.

And today, as the rhumba music played on, it occurred to me, that I work. A lot. But I’ve never regarded all that I do as work. Because no one else thinks it is. Or maybe because in the society I am in, we only regard something as work if it has monetary benefits. Even stealing is work. But volunteering at some organization isn’t regarded as work.

And as I sighed, hoping to not fall off from my seat in the bus, I realised that I go to sleep tired, yet still thinking of how I haven’t worked. As if I need an employers signature to ratify my aching bones.

And maybe the reason why me and my body don’t get along is because of this. Not appreciating it when it works. And wanting to act as if we do nothing.

Yet we sit in class and listen to tales for hours. Some interesting. Some not so much. Others just mundane stuff. That we have to understand to be who we want to be.

Yet we work. Somehow.

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