DIARY OF A CAMPUS PLAYER

By Lau Lawi

When I came to this institution, I was a good man. But the freedom I experienced moulded me into what I am today. I never wanted to be like this but I had no other way of proving that I am a campus man. I never meant to hurt anyone but in the course of being myself, I have hurt and broken many hearts. I have decided to tell my story so that others may not follow my route to self-destruction.

When I came here I didn't even have a girlfriend. I was a shy boy from the village. I later metamorphosed into an animate creature that many like calling ‘a player’. I never intended to be this way but the pressure was too much. I vividly remember when I approached a girl in our class with the intention of starting a relationship. She brushed me off with a sheepish grin and told me “Mimi na wewe . . . hahahhha! Haiwezekani, you are not of my type and class . . . nkt!”

I was distraught by the way she had turned me off. I swore to myself that I would work on my ‘type and class’ to make it to the top of each girl’s wish list. I started by borrowing money which I invested in trendy clothes and an income generating activity. I had enough coins in my pocket every time, enough to take a girl out. I sold ‘ ngumus’ and mandazi in my room. By the end of the first semester I was a force to reckon with in the business corridors of Hostel C where I was a resident.

Mostly, I invested my free time in reading stuff about women and understanding their psychology. Within no time I could guess a woman’s next move with precision. The problem is that I still had that fear in me. I started frequenting church and fellowships. In those meetings, I identified possible targets for my new “profession”.

They did not suspect me for I was always quiet and prayerful (praying to God that I hit without missing). I secretly crept to stage on Friday nights where I could make my observations on the ladies who frequented that place. I observed them from a distance and even mapped their routine. Some could come and perch themselves on high stools waiting for dudes to come and hit on them. They never paid for their own drinks because the dudes always took care of that. These ladies were my experimental specimen. It’s easier to chips funga a drunken lady than a fasting sister from church.

I identified my first target one Friday evening at one of the bars at stage. She looked mentally unstable and she was drinking with enthusiasm. She was a bit stressed. I approached her and perched myself on the next stool. I threw a smile her way and she returned it with glittering eyes. I pulled my stool closer to her and we started chatting the night away. I paid for the drinks and we left at around midnight.

She accidentally dropped her keys as we staggered along the academic highway. I picked them without her knowledge and told her that she could spend the night at my place then we would look for them the next morning. She reluctantly agreed and she made me promise that I would not make a move on her. The rest is history for I never lived up to the promise.

My next target was Lydiah, a church girl whom I had befriended in my many ‘scouting’ trips to the church. I couldn’t wait for long before making my move; lest another brother of the cloth saw what I had seen in her . . .

To be continued next week . . .