Echoes in my grave

R: “I don't know if I'm a workaholic, or if it’s just that I hate lazy people.”

SC: “Well, which is it?”

R: “I think it’s both, you know. Every time—especially when it’s a ‘free’ task like carrying chairs in church, arranging seats at an event, cleaning up the classroom, picking trash in the compound—I’m always the most excited to dive in. I want to see everything in its place: chairs neatly lined up, the venue spotless, dishes washed. When people walk in and compliment the setup or the décor, I feel like I’m part of that praise. Like I’ve contributed to something noble. Didn’t Paul say, whatsoever is good… think on these things?”

SC: “He did.”

R: “My sister calls it people-pleasing. Maybe it is. But how can it be people-pleasing if I’m doing it for my own satisfaction? Honestly, it’s the lazy ones that make me hate them. Deeply. From the darkest part of me, I despise people who are afraid of work.”

SC: “You do?”

R: “Aah man! Those who escape duty just because it’s unpaid, they vex me to the bone. If I had Thanos’ gauntlet, they’d be the first to disappear.”

SC: “You talk about Thanos a lot.”

R: “Yeah. For a villain, he left an impression. His grit and conviction were powerful. Kind of how I look up to Hitler.”

SC: “Whoa!”

R: “Relax. I explained it in my last newsletter—it’s not what you think.”

SC: “Mmh. Anyway, how do you feel when you give your all in these ‘free’ tasks but your friends just idle around?”

R: “It makes me resent them—even people I once liked. The moment I realize someone hates work, I quietly disown them as a friend. These are the same ones who do ‘volunteer work’ for LinkedIn updates or photo ops. They make me look like I’m overworking. Yet if we just pulled our hands together, the job would fly by.”

SC: “Mmh.”

R: “And trust me, I’m not sinning by calling them losers. I know people who genuinely put their hearts into tasks like I do. People who don’t care for money or applause but get things done anyway. I have been around them, and their energy is contagious. They make my 100% look like 80%, because they are giving 101%. One of them is called Willard Jakorayo, from Kochia.”

SC: “Kochia where they plant watermelons?”

R: “Yes. Willard’s a hard worker. He studied construction, and I’ve seen him on multiple sites in my area. He works diligently because kwa mjengo laziness isn’t tolerated: either you put in the work, or you’re thrown out. That’s his mentality in almost everything. I’ve always liked that about him.”

SC: “You might just be a workaholic.”

R: “Maybe. I do clean a lot when I’m upset too.”

SC: “Yeah, I’ve seen you. Cleaning makes you feel better about the situation that made you upset? Like you can clean away the chaos upsetting you?”

R: “Yes, it does. Finally, someone that listens.”

SC: “How so?”

R: “When I can clean the mess around me, it feels like I can clean the mess inside me.”

SC: “So, you solve problems by ensuring your surroundings are spotless?”

R: “Exactly. Order around me helps me face disorder inside.”

SC: “You might be having OCD, bro.”

R: “You think so?”

SC: “I do.”

R: “Might be. But it’s saved me from breaking down a lot of times.”

SC: “Do you prefer free days or busy ones?”

R: “Oh, busy days.”

SC: “Coz of the thrill or..?”

R: “Always. The thrill keeps me alive. But more than that, I crave purpose.”

SC: “Go on.”

R: “Doing nothing all day eats at me. I only enjoy rest after I’ve earned it: after I’ve written something meaningful, helped fellow youth at church, worked at my internship, cooked with mum, played with my sister, studied, done my assignments. Once I’ve contributed, rest feels like a pat on the back whispering: ‘You deserve this.’”

SC: “Do you feel that often nowadays?”

R: “Sometimes. I’ve learned not to care about the lazy. I just pour my heart into my work. That way, I leave knowing I gave my best. No self-blame.”

SC: “Do you blame yourself a lot when others fall short?”

R: “I used to. As I said, I’d clean obsessively whenever I was disappointed—rearranging my already spotless room, rewashing clean clothes. But I’ve learned to detach from the lazy. Life itself will teach them that chairs don’t arrange themselves, classrooms don’t clean themselves, sound systems don’t connect themselves. Someone has to do it. And if you’re always the one asking ‘why me?’, then that’s where our friendship ends.”

SC: “But what if life never teaches them?”

R: “Then I will make sure they’re not part of my life. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me do things at the highest level.”

SC: “What else did you want to tell me?”

R: “Remember when I said, ‘Finally, someone that listens’? That wasn’t a joke.”

SC: “So people don’t listen to you?”

R: “Oh my God—yes! It’s one of my biggest frustrations as a leader. Getting people to follow my train of thought is like pulling teeth. And it’s not just leadership. Even in my life—lately I feel unheard. With all the modern internet ‘wokeness,’ everything you say gets twisted into a buzzword you’ve never even heard.”

SC: “Like which buzzwords?”

R: “Oh, the list is endless: misogynistic, narcissistic, controlling (that’s the most common) rude, pedophilic, arrogant, deceitful. Basically, the whole lot of sins of modern man—except alcoholic, hehe.”

SC: “And—”

R: “..I do drink soda like an addict though. That might count as alcoholic.” 

SC: “Nobody drinks that much soda.”

R: “Pff. You clearly haven’t met me.”

SC: “Mmh.”

R: “Mmh.”

SC: “And does this affect you? The labels, I mean.”

R: “Yes. Especially when I know my intentions were pure, yet family or close friends twist them. That cuts deep.”

SC: “For example?”

R: “When I try to help based on past experience, I get branded ‘controlling.’ I don’t know if it’s my tone or if I really am controlling.”

SC: “Why do you think they say you’re controlling?”

R: “I think it is because I hate mediocrity, and I like to see things done right. If I see someone slacking, I correct them. Or at least, I think I do. But it comes out wrong.”

SC: “Why not just let people do things their way?”

R: “Because then it feels like I’d be neglecting duty. Like watching someone score a 90 when I could have helped them get a 99. Mediocrity offends me, man.”

SC: “But some people are mediocre. And that is not for you to decide. Some people don’t want higher standards. And some don’t want your help, no matter how noble your intent.”

R: “Mmh, I guess you’re right. Still, it burns me inside to see people do things the ‘wrong’ way.”

SC: “What about relationships? Do you feel they listen to you?”

R: “Not really. That's why I'm seated here talking to you, ain't I?”

SC: “‎What do you mean?”

R: “I mean, you’re not even real—you’re my subconscious. You're like the Jarvis to my Tony Stark.”

SC: “Again with the Marvel reference!”

R: “….”

SC: “So is that why you write so much nowadays? Coz you don’t feel heard?”

R: “Yes. Writing frees me. I can pour it all out without fear of labels. Or if they come, I won’t hear them, so won’t affect me.”

SC: “No, I’m talking of all the unpublished pages you write daily. Aren’t you overworking your hands?”

R: “Naah. It’s worth it. Writing gives me clarity. You know what’s funny? I used to ask those closest to me for advice. Literally asked them: ‘I’m stuck on this decision. What do I do?’ And all I got were vague, diplomatic responses. That’s when I realized I have no one to confide in anymore. It used to be my brother; he would put up with all my BS when young. And he had concrete and real, practical answers. Now, it’s just me, my pages, and sometimes a coin toss. While the coin’s in the air, whatever thought rushes through my head is what I decide.”

SC: “Straight out of Peaky Blinders.”

R: “Exactly. Tommy’s method.”

SC: “But you’re not Tommy.”

R: “Shut up.”

SC: “So writing and talking to me: that’s your way of being heard?”

R: “Yes. And it works.”

SC: “Could this be a midlife crisis? Or maybe a traumatic response to something from the past?”

R: “Naah. I’m barely 20!”

SC: “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me. I’m your conscience, not those little girls you lie to about your age.”

R: “Okay, okay. Fine. But no—it’s not a crisis or trauma. It’s growth. I just think I am at a point in my life where I need to relearn how and when to speak. Learn to communicate better, to accept that not everything will be done my way. Learn how to treat people better. It’s a steep learning curve, but I’ll climb it. Isn’t it ironic though, that I am a writer but I have trouble with people understanding me?”

SC: “What of your romantic life. Are you even dating?”

R: “I don’t want to talk about that.”

SC: “You have to. You can’t avoid me.”

R: “‎Well, if you must know—”

SC: “‎I must.”

R: “—I’m not dating. I tried, but it didn’t quite work out as I hoped—for both of us.”

SC: “Because of your flaws?”

R: “Partly. But also because I just want to leave women alone, bro. Nowadays you try to be genuine, chivalrous, romantic—all those stuff—but somehow there’s always something you’re not doing right. Sooner or later I might even end up in jail because I also have a temper.”

SC: “Oh—”

R: “Don’t worry, it’s under control nowadays.”

SC: “‎Who's fault, do you think it was, that it didn't work out between you two?”

R: “It doesn’t have to be anyone’s fault. Honestly, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Some things just don’t work out, no matter how hard you try. We were young anyway—I was 20, she was 18. We didn’t even know what we were doing.”

SC: “Makes sense.”

SC: “So when are you going to stop talking to yourself?”

R: “What do you mean?”

SC: “You’ve been at it for hours. It’s 10:20 p.m.! Your sister thinks you’ve finally lost it—‘Mr. Know-it-all gone mad.’”

R: “Oh man, look at the time. But before I go, wait…”

SC: “—”

R: “…Buddy?”

SC: “—”

R: “Don’t leave me, buddy.”

** Silence. **

** Darkness. **

✍🏽Reagan.