Me Vs. Editor

Some time ago, Baz wrote a brilliant blog on editor-writer wars. And while I found it hillarious, that was about as far as my consideration of it went. I never thought I would find myself in a situation where his words would actually come true.

My editor is a very personable fellow. Well, most of the time amyway. She lets me get away with the most atrocious deadline violations ever, she never hesitates to show her appreciation when something I write is actually good, and she is really cute, as in REALLY cute, but that is besides the point.

But today, a mere two days after valentine, the thought of her very cute face doesn't fill my heart with much cheer. In fact, the tingling that used to come to my lower lip every time this image would come to my mind has inexplicably been transferred to my fists.

The reason for this is, of course, what editors do. They EDIT, and by doing that, transform whatever magic you may have thought you've woven into something else.

Last thursday,this is what I wrote:

Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Panadol Omusala. He really does exist, but I assume you already understand that for purposes of privacy, names had to be changed.

Anyway, When Panadol was born, Ksh. 513/- was all the money his dad had between him and his next paycheck. But so happy was the old man at finally having sired a son that after clearing with Pumwani Maternity, he threw all fiscal prudence into the wind, bought five crates of beer and a goat, and celebrated all night with his friends at his house in Dagoretti.

I know Five hundred shillings can't get you half a crate of the cheapest beer around, let alone bid for even the most seriously unhealthy goat. This of course introduces credible grounds for doubt as to the veracity of my analogy.

But since you're aware that lying doesn't feature very prominently in the very short list of vices I am prone to, then you've probably deduced that Panadol's birth must have co-incided with a very rosy period for the Kenyan economy. And working with the prices I've just quoted, then you should have arrived at the very obvious conclusion that Panadol was born during independent Kenya's first administration.

I am not at liberty to quote Panadol's exact age, but of course by now you know he is well past his twenties, and he has lived through a lot of changes; not least of which being a cost of living which has discovered an affinity for the stratosphere. He has also acquired an education, a well-paying job and twin grandchildren for his mother.

But one thing which has not changed throughout that time is Panadol's address. He still lives-along with his two kids [but NOT with their mother]- in the same Dagoretti house that hosted a beer-and- goat party the night he was born. And no matter how constantly his friends and the women he dates pester him to move out and settle in his own house, Panadol won't have any of it.

With the possible exception of none, I'm very sure all women out there would find Panadol's behaviour revolting. A man in his thirties, and with kids to boot, still living with his mother? Like the mother of Panadol's kids, they will probably put it down to a stubborn refusal on his part to just grow up. They will wonder why the hell his dad celebrated his birth. This isn't a man, they will claim. Just a baby masquerading in a man's body!

I am however of a very different opinion. Much as I wouldn't mind seeing him finding a nice house and moving out of his mother's place with his kids, I happen to find absolutely nothing wrong with his continued residience in his mother's abode. Too many people in my opinion pressure themselves into leaving the roost too early, resulting in the proliferation of slums to carter for the needs of these unready adults, children growing up in unhealthy environments and, eventually, hopelessness.

I totally agree with Panadol because for starters, his mother doesn't mind seeing him around. And since she is the legal owner of the premises following her husband's unfortunate demise ten years ago, then I don't think anyone else has a say on the matter except maybe Panadol himself. And judging by his continued residence there, I think he agrees with his mother.

Secondly, he is a very responsible parent to his two children, all thanks to the steadying influence of his mother who I'm sure in another life would have been a best-selling guide book on good parenting. His children are well-behaved, good-natured, honest, kind and neat, traits which are directly attributable to the warm, affectionate figure in their life that is their grandmother.

Of course a misguided section of the public would opine that the children should have grown up with their mother, but the children's mother is the very one who left Panadol because he wouldn't desert the comfortable recesses of his mother's three bedroomed house in Dagoretti for a two-room shack in Kawangware, which was what my friend could afford at the time she gave birth to his kids.

I will never condemn anyone who lives with their parents despite a relatively advanced age. That is unless, of course, you are a lazy mooching oaf that causes your parents nothing but grief and contribute zero towards household expenses, in which case you really do need to move out and louse your life away elsewhere.

But if like Panadol you take care of your own bills, you respect your parents, you handle your responsibilities and, above all, your parents have no quarrels with you staying with them, then by all means, live with them forever if you want to!

Today, this is what came out.