Mowabites Worldwide

In politics, especially in my part of the world, popularity matters. Doesn’t matter if you’ve murdered the only Son of our Holy Mother. Once you’re popular and affiliated to one of the key political parties, you stand a chance.

And as I head home after class, I contemplate on how politics works in this country and some inherent vital lessons.

A presidential candidate might be fully aware of his slim chances of winning an election, but still runs for office. Each failure is an indirect marketing strategy. The more campaigns held in the current and previous elections, the more popularity and sympathy he gains, with compounded interest each time the ruling government messes up.

In real life, it starts with choosing a field. Writing. Journalism. Education. Filmmaking.

Irrespective of the field you choose, there will be giants and legends whose fame will naturally dwarf yours and intimidate you, and make you wonder if you have a chance. You certainly don’t stand a chance of beating the greats, at the initial stages. But you must stay in there. Keep working. No matter how little it seems to you.

The greats are not immortal. Like leaves, they wither and die. And their legacy starts slowly fading with their names. Even when people produce great movies, books or songs, or publish extraordinary research findings, or invent something, soon, people get tired of the old and start yearning for something fresh, something different, something new.

And usually, it’s someone who has been in the background for long, an underdog who has been busy stuyding the game and its direction is the best candidate to take over from the old players. The patience of staying in the game and gradually building a presence begins to pay.

I reflect on these insights as I walk home from lectures.

These thoughts were particularly refreshing to me because, like many of my coursemates, I had stayed out of school for years and returning to the classroom felt like returning to cold morsels under restaurant tables to nibble at whatever was there to restore a lost dignity.

Many old friends were thriving in their careers and the instinctive response to bumping into any of them was to lower my head.

Here I was, trekking through the mocking African sun, whose mockery of those of us yet to buy cars was masked in tangible heat poring through my thick clothes and coming out through beads of sweat that drenched my skin.

I reach my hostel, a little room that housed four solid black men. The same room served as kitchen and bedroom, with a windowless bathroom whose door led into the sleeping area. The room was always stuffy with our sweat and vapour from our rice cookers, and my roommates, shy to be spotted in their boxers by girls passing by our door to the washing line beside our room, preferred having this stuffy room’s door and windows closed.

You know how much I adore fresh air. Certainly, those windows and doors shall never be closed while I live. Now, you know the source of our petty quarrels in that little room…