I understand this is a public space, thus there is need to control the content published here. However, there are certain things we must just talk about. It might sound ghastly, so if you can’t stand toilet innuendo, kindly open a new tab and ask Dr. Google why the ICC hasn’t opened up investigations for the chemical weapons used in Syria last week.
Still here? Good. Moving on….
His name is Eric. I bump into him every morning and never forget to say hello. He loves singing when he is at work. I work late hours, which tells you I am pretty much not an early bird.
That means the earliest I use the washrooms is around 10am. Coincidentally, that’s the time Eric finalises his work at the ablution block. Eric is the chief factotum at my hostel — a fancy title for menial worker, and his job description is cleaning up the hall of residence corridors and washrooms. He is a funny chap to boot, especially whenever I stroll in for the morning leak. He is always humming to a certain popular Luhya gospel song.
Eric and others of his ilk are very humble people if you ask me. They clean up our mess. I went to a high school where panel beating was the only form of punishment, so I know nothing about cleaning soiled loos — which I’m told was a form of punishment in some schools.
But I’m appalled at the improper use of the little men’s room by some students. How an aspiring intellectual can inappropriately use a loo and leave it ‘just like that’ beats me. And again, how such a chap can be idle to the extent of doodling and writing crazy stuff on the walls is beyond me. I would expect graffiti in a City Council toilet — but not in a campus. And at least in a City Council loo, perverts have the civility to use pencils. Future intellectuals in campus use human waste, just imagine!
A word for the wise; never lift a toilet seat in a men’s lavatory. Believe me, I have tried — thinking at last some responsible soul walks these washrooms. This is what I saw; “Wewe unakunya hapa, umetoa wapi chakula ?” Need I mention the green slime that reeked of mint?
Honestly, whoever had preceded me must have been a constipated mule. No human being can pull that kind of crap. The cherry on top of the cake was the handkerchief — which he had used to wipe his slate clean. My stomach turned, and I lost urge of using the washroom. Disappointingly, as I jogged away in shock, Eric waltzed in with his spinning tools, happily whistling as if he had been tipped or gotten a pay rise.
Someone must have laced this chap’s food with laxative, because what greeted my sight scarred my memory. My friends say I will need to sign up for a couple of therapy hours with the school’s shrink. Phew!