…someday when I grow up

‘What do you want to be in future?’

I blinked. Eight simple words on the board. English class. Two miserable periods of lousy lighting, stuffy ventilation, and Miss Q’s eyes burning into us. Eighty minutes till the bell boy graced our senses with the distant sound of tolling bell.

‘Start work,’ went the Q woman’s voice, an incredible mix of deep and hoarse for a woman as ant-sized as her. I sighed. It felt like I was acting Exam, cross out favourable conditions.

I stared at the board, leaned a cheek against my left fist, my pen drumming an incoherent rhythm on the table. What did I want to be in future?

The answer must’ve been stuck somewhere in another life, so I busied myself with looking around. My gaze flicked over classmates seriously scratching the surface of their sheets with the tips of their pens, and I could not help wishing I had half that much drive right now. My eyes fell on Peter Mitsubishi. He was probably writing that he wanted to work at NASA, or own Microsoft. And why not? The lowest he’d come on the merit list was first.

Then there was Joan Katahena, with her dreams of someday rubbing shoulders with Missy Elliott and Lil Kim. I didn’t see that happening—she’d more likely be arrested for having the most forgettable punch lines—but maybe it was just my ears.

I exhaled. At least these people knew what they wanted to be. What did I want to be?

I leaned back, looked out my window, forced the feel of imaginary wind coming to life in my non-existent hair and switched my mental jukebox on, Adele’s Set Fire to the Rain kicking in. I smiled wryly. Adele, whose inspiration was heartbreak. Whoever had broken the girl’s heart had made her rich. Maybe I should—

Someone cleared her throat behind me—too close—and I knew who it was before I turned. Miss Quarcoo. Glasses, blue pantsuit, hair in a strict bun. I almost suggested Willow Smith on her playlist, except the Q woman did not look like the playlist kind, at least not for that kind of music. A military march song, perhaps. ‘We do understand the question, don’t we?’ she asked me. I could not miss the underlying patronizing tone.

I nodded. She patrolled on. In her own words, pardon her modesty, she was an example of success. I shook my head at her receding back. Success. Who were those successful people I’d like to—

My parents! Of course. They were successful. My Mom owned one of those Montessori schools, for goodness sake. She reeled in money quicker than a worm would fish. My Dad? P.R.O. of Zenith bank. Success was my parents' thing.

Then I bit my lip. No, I didn’t want my future looking like theirs. I could not remember when last I’d not been snuggled against my large stuffed Dalmatian, in my room, unsuccessfully drowning out the sound of their arguments with Bon Jovi. My parents were not satisfied.

Grandma popped into my mind then. All the chubby woman had to her name was a hut in Kibi, and the garden behind it. Yet her eyes always sparkled, a kind word waited to fall from within her lips, her arms ready to pull you in for that bear hug that smelled like ginger and pepper and sweat and Alice powder and shea butter all at once, and soothed in its own way. Grandma wasn’t rich, but in her own way, she was successful. She was content. She was happy.

Suddenly I knew what I wanted to be. Beneath my name, on my paper, I scrawled in large print, ‘I want to be happy.’ And I dropped my Biro, fulfilled. Miss Q would tell me I didn’t understand the question. But I’d be prepared. 

I’d tell her she didn’t understand life.