About Millena

I left my phone at home. Deliberately. There’s no point in carrying it when I barely glance at it during my commute to class. Besides, no one bothers calling me—I wouldn’t pick up even if they did. Now, here I am, planted in this sterile classroom, the hum of a water pump right outside my window droning on, its sound seeping into my head. I’m not particularly waiting for the lecturer; I’m just watching the clock tick, counting down until I can dash out of this godforsaken room at the earliest opportunity. A construction drill bangs in the distance, piercing even through the muffled chaos of my drifting thoughts. That’s how far my thoughts have drifted. Anything that can make a sound manages to invade my ears. Including Millena.

Millena was here way before me—she always is. She practically unlocks the classroom each day, punctual to the dot. By a quarter to six, without fail, she’s in her seat. And now, for reasons beknownst only to her, she’s decided to fill my ears with tales of her boyfriend, who, apparently, avoids her calls and refuses to indulge in trivial couple games. The irony isn’t lost on me—if only she knew the irony of sharing such tales with someone like me. Yet, I sit there, half-attentive (coz the water pump is still ringing in my head), nodding at regular intervals, punctuating her monologue with phrases like, “He did what? No way! And then?” You know, the stuff we studied in English Lit lessons, once dismissed as impractical, now seem to have found a peculiar use after all.

Millena is a rare blend of the quietly loud and fiercely intelligent. “Quietly loud” because she reserves her chatter for obedient listeners like me, while falling silent when the occasion demands it. Around authority figures or in serious settings, she becomes a picture of poise and restraint. You won’t hear a squeak from her when the lecturer is around, or when in a serious meeting, or when she’s tired. Or when, as I said, boyfriend doesn’t pick her calls. She takes the snubbing in her stride like a champ. She’s mastered the art of balancing her silence and outbursts, a quality that makes her presence impossible to ignore. Quietly loud.

In class, she’s anchored at the very front, always under the teacher’s nose—or potbelly, as it often happens. It’s from this prime position she recounts her boyfriend tales to my unwilling yet compliant ears before the lecturer arrives, blissfully indifferent to the fact that everyone else can hear her (us) too. That’s their problem, not hers. Despite our endless story times, we’re too stubborn to sit together. I can never sit at the front! I suffer enough trauma from sitting at the front in high school. And God forbid you put Millena at the back—she’ll bite your ear off, literally!

She takes the ‘educate the girl child’ memo too seriously, and she carries it like a badge of honour. She’s relentless: not a word misses her ears, nor a joke not laughed, nor a question not tackled there and then—she absorbs it all. She answers questions only when the lecturer insists, or when the backbenchers like me collectively decide silence is golden. When she does answer, it’s not to show off, but to “save” the class from what she considers a gross act of disrespect—leaving a lecturer hanging. Whoever told her that I don’t know—one of her grandfather’s seven wives probably. And she doesn’t want a share of that guilt to fall on her. The praise she earns for her answers is hers alone, and the rest of us are left to wallow in what the lecturer frequently insinuates is our collective ‘stupidity’.

During these moments of glory, she often sneaks a glance back, a grin on her dotted face. She often sees a young chap, barely a page written since he entered class. See, this chap doesn’t believe in writing notes and then go and read later. He never reads them later. He believes in listening to the teacher, writing down important stuff and then later try to remember them off head as he now writes his notes. Something about connecting the neurons in your brain, he didn’t write the notes of that talk too. His philosophy is simple: listen, absorb, and rely on memory later. None of this dictating notes shit.

So way back, in the same classroom, she turns and sees this almost uninterested chap yawning his teeth out and ever glancing at the clock. His desk is almost as empty as he found it, and he only takes notes when the teacher is looking, or sometimes is defiant enough to not write the notes at all. You can never find a water bottle at his desk, neither will you find more than one colour of pen. Asked, the results are his defense always—that no notes, but still produces good results. Not as stellar as Millena’s, but good results are good results. In the not-so-famous words of Don Carlo Ancelotti, “If a system is working right, why change it?” This yawning chap has forever etched in his mind the wise and popular words of former CS Prof. Magoha—words that should be hang in the Louvre Museum in Paris and in every school in the land—”Who told you you have to score 100%? Even 80% is too much! If you find a question you don’t understand, wachana nayo!” Words to live by.

When Millena looks back, her expression is a cocktail of emotions—part disdain, part amusement. A concoction look of both disgust and a slight smirk of adoration. It’s a gaze I’ve come to recognize but can never fully decode.

Millena, of course, is always armed for war. She takes her studies like war. Her desk is a battleground of open textbooks, detailed notebooks, and an inexplicable pink or yellow slip of paper whose purpose I’ve never understood what for. Her ever-present fancy pink water bottle sits at her feet, and she sips from it randomly with a delicate precision that spares her lip gloss while being loud enough for me to hear her gulp from the back. It’s both irritating and oddly endearing. A fluffy pink tote bag hangs by her side, brimming with whatever paraphernalia she might need at a moment’s notice. Millena doesn’t waste time searching for tools; this is war! A war against ignorance and against being an uneducated girl child.

And then there’s the letters. Unlike most people our age, she communicates serious matters through handwritten letters. No calls (she understands why I hate those), no texts, no DMs coz we’re both not on Instagram. Letters. Heartfelt, often loosely punctuated, but deeply sincere letters. Loaded with love and tears. These are reserved for moments when I’ve worn out her patience, or when she feels something needs to be said with gravity, or when I miss class for a long period, or when she’s upset of something I said or did. Serious matters that she feels might come off as impulsive on regular speech. She retreats to her place and crafts the letter at her own pace. Sometimes weeks later she hands them to me personally, and insists I read them in her presence, ensuring I grasp the tone and nuance she intended. It’s archaic, charming, and entirely Millena.

What does she think this is, the medieval times when you only spoke to someone afar off through letters? But she loves it, and I love how she takes her time to write them. We are both strong advocators for how writing something in your mind gives you clarity. Writing, and prayer. So speaking it out and writing it down. Write and speak. More often than not people don’t even need therapists, they just need an ear to speak into, and a plain canvas to paint their words in, then they’ll be alright.

This year’s first letter asked me to write about something that makes noise in my ear. So here I am, obediently doing just that.

Millena, a name that flows elegantly off the tongue as effortlessly as she commands attention. To curb any unrealistic images forming in your head, let me paint a picture of her, limited to what she’s allowed me to share. If you happen to see Millena, she’s a light-skinned babe, with a voluptuous figure that seems almost sculpted. Former Pengle Entertainment actor, Wuon Otiato (Otiato’s father), might describe her as “nyathi mochwe gi kalam gi rubber”—God would erase where He saw not fit, and correct. God’s masterpiece. She’s perpetually dressed in elegant, semi-formal outfits coz she also works as an intern for some décor company, often in skirts or kitenges that match her hairbands. A walking emblem of poise and grace. Never seen her in a trouser though. I wonder if she wears sweatpants at home. She must; too much skirt can make you loose.. Anyway..

That’s Millena. No one else could describe her better. No one. Take it from the yawning chap at the back of her class.

✍🏽Reagan.