Big-Headed Teachers and Big Little Things

I will keep reading my small, yellow-coated treasure, to see what silly, trivial things people fight about in relationships. So far I’ve read about quarrels over bananas, and quarrels with a cheating pastor. I wonder if I’ll find any fights about gifts.

I dreamt someone had taken my book. My brand-new book. The one I’d recently bought for myself. I dreamt an old nemesis had taken it. And after some struggle, I finally put a face to that enemy. That vile, towering, big-headed teacher. A self-righteous guy who never liked me, decided to snatch my book and toss it on the classroom bookshelf, then dared me to reclaim it. That imbecile! His mere existence stains the noble and honorable calling of teaching. I glared at him with pure rage and disgust. And for a moment, every dark, apocalyptic thought I’d ever had of erasing him from the face of the earth gathered around me in the dream, cheering me on. I thought anything is possible in my dream. I control that realm.
Turns out my evil army of thoughts don’t have the big cojones to finish the job. So there I stood, defenseless and desperate.

Each time I reached for my book, he slapped me, and the pain somehow bled into reality. O the scars that teacher left on me when I was young! I still thirst for my revenge to this day! I woke up terrified and drenched in sweat, even though yesterday (Saturday) morning was chilly and damp. I frantically reached for my book, and when my fingers brushed its yellow cover, I was relieved. I inhaled its glorious fresh-wood, new-paper scent, and felt at peace again. That demon of a teacher has no power over me anymore. My book and I are safe. Safe from the bony claws of that tyrant. My poor book — I thought I had lost you.

I spend my mornings and evenings devouring this book by Jackson Biko. I nearly did a cartwheel when I got the call last week that my order had finally arrived. I was so excited that I abandoned my lunch at a local restaurant to go pick it up. I had waited more than a week, and it had felt like an eternity.

I am a big fan of Bikozulu, or Jackson Biko if you prefer. His stories are thrilling, eye-opening, and spiced with just the right amount of grown-up sarcasm. I envy how he travels across Kenya and the world, interviewing people with stories wilder than a soap opera. The man could turn even his cat, called Oatmeal, into a riveting feature. Most of his writings are other people’s experiences through his lens, but he narrates them so vividly you feel like you’re right there, gossiping with the characters. Sometimes I get so drawn in that I shout advice at the characters, just like people do with clueless victims in horror movies.

This new book is no exception. He has stitched together a glorious mess of stories about relationships: the fights, the tantrums, the grand arguments people stage in the name of love. The synopsis says the book exists to remind you that everyone has relationship drama. Just different voices to the argument, and in different rooms.

I didn’t buy this book because I’m battling relationship demons of my own, but because I want to read more of Kenyan authors’ work, especially Biko’s. He has three other books I’m itching to get my hands on: Drunk, Thursdays, and Let Me Call You Back. His books are refreshingly small—pocket-sized masterpieces I can carry anywhere. Under a tree, on the matatu home, waiting for a lecturer, on my bed. I’m also proudly old school: I prefer hardcopy books. Sure, I’ll read an e-book here and there, but nothing beats the feel of pages between your fingers. The physical intimacy between myself and a book. Biko’s tiny tomes are the perfect companions to kick off the reading journey I’ve plotted since I was a child.

As much as I’m a writer, reading can be a struggle sometimes. The only other book I ever fully read and reviewed was When the Grass is Greener on the Other Side by Jackson Saya. Seriously, what’s up with me and artists named Jackson?

Even in primary and high school, I never warmed up to class readers and set books. They just didn’t tickle my fancy like they did my teachers’ and classmates’. I remember back in Class Five or Six, we were assigned the Moses series. I managed to read Moses and the Kidnappers, and that was it. My friends went “ahead of the teacher”, finishing the whole series before the teacher even introduced the next book. Show-offs.

In high school we had Kigogo, Chozi la Heri, Tumbo Lisiloshiba, Blossoms of the Savannah, A Doll’s House, and The Pearl. I never actually finished any of them. Even the slim ones like Kigogo. They were interesting during classroom discussions, but reading them alone felt like I was reading to please the gods of the syllabus—not for fun or enlightenment.

But this book, Big Little Things, this one has me in a chokehold. I giggle every time I open its pages. I bought it of my own volition, for my own joy. I’m halfway through and I am absolutely loving it. I resonate with it a lot. It is a great start to that reading journey I’ve been plotting. The trip has finally made it out of the group chat, and I am thrilled about it.

The book is about arguments and bickering in relationships. One of the recurring battles I’ve had in my own past relationships is, oddly enough, that I am not one to be gifted. It sounds ridiculous even writing about it. Who doesn’t like gifts? I’ll tell you who. Me.

I appreciate the gesture, the kindness, the warm thought behind gifting. I really do. But as my mother would testify, I am an extremely picky brat. As I wrote last time on my leadership epiphany, I like things done a certain way. Gifting included.

There are things I love and things I absolutely do not. That’s a universal human trait. The problem is, every time someone gifts me something, it’s usually something I don’t particularly like. Then I have to stand there and fake a smile so they don’t feel bad. But no matter how hard I try to coat my disappointment, my face and body language always betray me, and the gifter ends up crushed.

For example, if you gift me jewelry, I will not wear it. And before you say that that is a very SDA statement, no, it is a personal choice. If you gift me a Barcelona jersey, no matter how cool and beautiful it is, I won’t wear it. If you gift me the most premium whiskey, I will not drink it. If you hand me a book about corporate leadership filled with all that corporate gobbledygook, I will most definitely not read it. Ever.

Does that make me a hard-to-love person?

Maybe.

Apparently nowadays there’s a thing called love languages. Maybe mine is not receiving gifts, if that’s a thing.

So to spare people’s feelings, I usually openly tell them beforehand not to bother gifting me. Their presence and thought is gift enough. But most don’t get that, which has led to some hilarious arguments in my past relationships. Imagine fighting about gifts!

But I do gift others—those who love surprises and tolerate my quirks. Seeing them happy lights me up too.

And that is why things like this book feel so precious to me, the way I imagine I’ll love my first daughter. I bought it for myself, and it was worth every kobole. It feels like every kobole. It feels wonderful because no one had to finance it for me, and no one will be disappointed by my reaction to it. It’s like patting myself on the back: attaboy! If I don’t like it, I only have myself to blame—not Biko, not his publishers, not the delivery guys. Just me! Maybe I’m what you’d call a “personal gifter,” if that’s a thing. You love language experts, let me know.

For now, I will keep reading my small, yellow-coated treasure, to see what silly, trivial things people fight about in relationships. So far I’ve read about quarrels over bananas, and quarrels with a cheating pastor. I wonder if I’ll find any fights about gifts.

✍🏽Reagan.