I was supposed to have written this yesterday, instead I’m writing this on a Sunday morning. It’s a still morning. No ripple. The sky the colour of colic. There is the droning sound of a plane passing somewhere 25,000 feet overhead, seatbelts sign off, the refreshment tray rattling down the aisle: Sparkling water, please, thank you. There is a small dog barking incessantly somewhere in the neighbourhood and a mourning dove calling from a rooftop. I love when doves call. I want to come back as a dove. A white dove with a beige beak and an amber chest. A female dove preferably, so that I can lay eggs. I think it must be fun to feel an egg coming out of you. I strongly suspect that doves enjoy the experience of laying eggs.
We will live this life abundantly – drink fine whisky, drive cars that smell of us, raise well-adjusted children, create loyal friendships, see lions walking on the streets, do only what we are passionate about, fall asleep at night with beautiful books open on our chest, taste chilled rosé off the lips of a gorgeous woman, sit on a train through Europe with our heads resting against a window, change the life of an orphan in a children’s home, love our Lord mercilessly, feel love drip into a puddle in our stomach when the national anthem is played in Rio – but we will never know how good it is to have an egg come out of us, and that is a tragedy. Birds hold that privilege. We will never know. Mornings like this, when I’m hydrating last night’s sins and I’m lying in bed, my hand in my shorts like all boys and men do distractedly, I think about doves and how they lay eggs, how good they must feel when three or four smooth eggs come out of them and they sit on them, keep them warm and wait for them to crack, and for small beautiful beaks to peep out and taste the air of an already fractured world.
Unfortunately, thinking about doves laying eggs isn’t the best use of my time. I realise that I need to get out of bed and do some writing. But it’s impossible. It’s impossible to get up and do the needful. It’s easier to think of dove’s laying eggs. In my in-tray are 4,500 words that need to be written by dusk. Things that have piled up. Things I have left to pile up. Now they are here, and they are staring at me in the eye knowing that I will blink first.
Instead, I think of birds.
Hi, my name is Jackson Biko and I am a serial procrastinator.
And a dove lover.
And I need help.
Do you know the hardest bit about being in Jua Kali for me? (Apart from someone you just met tugging your sleeve saying, “You should write about those men who pee by the roadside, Biko, so disgusting!”) It’s invoicing and then chasing for your payment. I hate invoicing because it’s so colorless. I think when we finally die and troop to the pearly gates, we will hear screams. Anguished screams and gnashed teeth and when we finally ask Angel Gabby what the ruckus is all about, is that the infamous hell, Angel Gabby? He will shake his head and say, “No, that’s worse than hell, that’s a special place for the people who invented the invoice….mostly accountants, well, a good number of them.”
I always let my invoices pile up. Putting them off as much as I can, and then one day after I realise I’m broke and school fees are due, I take a big breath, sit down and write them, and when I’m done I feel like someone touched me inappropriately. I feel violated. I want to sue. Because no man who pays his taxes should be put through the ordeal of invoicing or chasing his money. Especially since you always have to attach a small handwritten note to the dreaded accountants and write ‘herewith’ or ‘with kind regards’, being polite when you really don’t want to, and if you know they are born again you have to say something like, “Have a blessed day, Patrick,” so that he feels like you are so God fearing (of course you are) with the hope that he will think, “Ah, Biko is a man of great faith [I am], let me expedite this maneno quickly and have him get paid.” Wapi. These are the worst accountants because they never bend the rules to have you paid faster. Accountants are as cold as Siberian fish. I wonder if accountants allow their women to cuddle them in bed.
I have many invoices I’m yet to write. I dream of writing them in my sleep. Sometimes when I’m reading and I run into the word “description” or “quantity” or “particulars” I feel my stomach rumble with guilt. Or the word “VAT” which is the ugliest acronym ever invented. Yes, far worse than STD. If there was a jail for acronyms, VAT would be locked in isolation, only allowed to come out to get some sun for 30 minutes a day. VAT would be allowed to shower only once, with cold water and jogoo soap. Then fed bean soup with no salt. There would be no appeal for VAT because VAT cannot be rehabilitated into general population.
The problem isn’t even VAT. I really suffer from procrastination. I have those yellow post office registered mail slips that have been sitting in my car for ages. Kim will join high school before I pick up that mail. If someone had sent a spare forehead in the post, it would be spoilt by now. That’s not even the worst of it, you should see my starred emails. I ‘star’ emails that I plan to work on. Sigh. I have a constellation of them. A milky way of them. Untouched. Lonely emails that I wanted to react to but just didn’t find the resolve to. If you ever sent me an email that I didn’t respond to, it’s probably starred, rife with great intention but killed by procrastination. I apologise, dear fan. I will immediately get round to it. Tomorrow.
I don’t even know how I meet my deadlines. At True Love I send in my copy when they are going to press the next day. This is after Judy has called and whatsapped and threatened me and said, “Biko, we will go to press without you, I swear…” Only then do I magically find an hour and with adrenaline coursing through my body, I bang something out. Don’t even get Sonni of Yummy magazine started on my lateness. My motto is if I can put it off a minute longer, I will. My system is geared for pressure. My organs were built for the last minute, which is complete irony because my impatience is legendary.
I seek camaraderie in the words of Bill Watterson, “You can’t just turn creativity on like a faucet, you have to be in the right mood. What mood is that? Last minute panic.” Or someone who said, “If it weren’t for the last minute, I wouldn’t get anything done.” Or “Procrastination always gives you something to look forward to.” Or – and I promise this is the last one – “I like work, it fascinates me, I can sit and look at it for hours.” Haha. I love that one.
By the way, this post today isn’t going anywhere, but please don’t leave. Don’t leave me here alone here with all these words, stay. Please.
As I was saying, I’m sick from procrastination. And sick of it. I ail from it. I need someone to find my vein and stick a drip in it. I need to have a doctor look into my eyes with a torch and see how procrastination has sucked up my hemoglobin. I’m pale from it. I don’t know if Resolution Health covers for procrastination. Do they cover it under “terminal illness?” It would be discriminatory if they didn’t. Immigration forms that ask us if we have been to any of those Ebola-prone countries should ask if we have been in contact with someone suffering from procrastination in the past three weeks. And if there ever is any heart at KRA, they should create a tax exemption for Procrastinators.
When I go to a doctor and he asks, “Any known family illnesses?” I’m always tempted to tell him “Yeah, procrastination, probably!”
“Any known allergies?”
“Yes, aspirin and efficiency.”
“Do you have any history of mental illnesses in your family, Jackson?”
“Is night-running under mental health or physical health?”
“Uhm, please don’t touch that, Mr. Jackson.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my foot!”
“But it’s wooden.”
“Yes, it’s called a prosthetic.”
“Oh.”
I postpone everything. Meeting people. Writing stories. Starting projects. Making peace with good people I have written about and offended massively (*cough*Caleb*cough*). Talking of which, sometimes I don’t plan to write about stuff people tell me. It just comes out. It’s the devil. I never mean ill. I’m a decent person. I’m SDA. In my defence I never think that people’s girlfriend’s or wives will read and think, “hey, hang on, this guy is writing about my man!” It’s not really my fault that you went and married or dated an intelligent woman. Besides, who am I to write about if I don’t write about the people I interact with? Come on, man.
OK, fine, I’m sorry Caleb.
Stop sulking. Put your toys back in the pram. We have come from far, boss. I knew you when you used to wear shoes with buckles, for chrissake. We are boys first. Boys! Tell madam that I’m an idiot and a buffoon and I’m sorry if I hurt her feelings by extension and that I need back in the invitee list of her lovely home. Tell her I said she looked stunning last time as usual, but more than anything else that she is a good person, a great soul, a child of God and God wants us to forgive idiots like me.
And this is a public apology. How sorry can a man be?
So? Drink? I’m buying. Explorer. Saape. Slims. I could say that you can even order those honey glazed chicken wings and fries that you love but you really need to watch that waistline. Hehe. No, seriously, don’t let me beg, boss. Don’t let me say that I miss you. Please don’t, not after I have already said that I want to come back as a dove and lay eggs.
Apologizing to Caleb isn’t the only thing I have procrastinated. There is also the StanChart marathon.
You know what I said last year? I would run the StanChart half marathon. I practiced for it. Ate right. Slept enough. I was ready. Then I kept saying I would register. I even put reminders on everything – my laptop, phone, everything. But I treat reminders like I treat those reminders MacBook sends us about updates which I just click, “Try tonight” and go on with my life. Suffice to say, the deadline for the StanChart marathon came and registrations closed. I called someone who knows someone at StanChart and asked them if I could get in and they said I couldn’t. Not even for double the fee.
This year might just be the same. I will wait until StanChart start screaming about deadlines and even extending the registration deadline, and what will I do – just sit pretty. Then when registration finally closes, I will look shocked. I know it’s coming. There are two weeks to close of registration, 31st August. But I’m Kenyan I don’t care for deadlines.
But I should register. I know I should but when I think that the deadline is two weeks away I feel like it will never come. Two weeks feels like two months. But it’s only 31st, literally around the bend. But somehow I can’t. I’m unable to. This sickness.
I will do it tomorrow. Hopefully.
***
The Bikozulu Writing Masterclass is now open for registration. The class will be between 7th to 9th September. We are only looking for 20 people. To register please send an email to [email protected] and a lovely lady will respond to you. She hates being called Flo so please call her Flo.