Failing is good enough.

I find myself once again, staring at the blank page, like a programmer coding on a piano, not knowing how to continue.  

It all started back when... yes yes, it's going to be one of those pieces... I was in school. I was always a turbulent little shithead, finding any reason to snap back needlessly at authority and rules. Rock music was my go-to and at the time, my family was half broken and it reflected in my character. I used to pick up fights with kids and bunk class to play football. I was never a dumb kid though. You know. Those who cannot even if they tried. 

The final year of primary school (grade 6), I had this teacher that had terrified me in grade 1 to the point of giving me childhood PTSD, assigned back to my class. He was vegetarian, had a moustache and a temper to go with. Mind you, grade 1 in my country, I was 6. Grade 6, I am now 11. This was to be my final year in this school and depending on my results, I'd go to a good high school or a not a so good one. Grade 1, I once witnessed a girl blanking out on the blackboard and him just grabbing her ponytail and shaking her like a wet towel. Also saw a big chunky Chad lad trying to talk back to him in front of the class. Kid must have been around 70 kg same as the teacher, who was a bit taller by maybe 10 cm. He did not say a word just listened to the chubby rat-faced inbred and all we saw next was the kid flying over a desk and slamming on another. The sheer fucking strength. I remember pondering on how the fuck did he send this fat fucker flying. Vegetarian my ass. I remember these vividly, thus me using the term "witnessed". If I ever have to testify on this though, I won't. 

When he was assigned to our class in 2011, we all were praying that he had changed, somehow got married to some crazy bimbo, found love, had a kid, stopped being a vegetarian. But alas, the first week went by and all we'd learned from the rumours were that he had not changed one bit. We were in for a tough year.

Surprisingly, as the weeks rolled by, he hadn't hit anyone, not even raised his voice. I couldn't understand it. He took a liking to me for some reason. I was trusted with the task of going out of school during lunch to buy him lunch (he was still maidenless you see) in this nearby bar. Bold move to give a kid you teach the task of handling your lunch. I mean, you know, kids are disgusting and fucking abominable. They'd piss in it without giving a second thought. I did not though, I respected him. At the time, it was for just taking our class. We were the worst-performing of the 4 grade 6 classes, and we never topped the school, taking our class was a bad career move. We'd been abandoned by 5 teachers in grade 5.

Throughout that year, we were taught differently from what we were used to, he never used the books, taught us every possible question, or combinations of, we might have in our final exams, taught us how to write a 200-word essay by writing exactly 200 words. He had analysed all the past papers and taught us what he thought was going to come out. And, at the end of the year, I fucking do not remember how many of us passed but I sure broke the records in my rural School. 

That was, a long time ago. I do remember one other thing. A few years later, when I went back to see my father, he took me to see that teacher. We just dropped by his house unannounced and knocked on the door. He came out, looking almost exactly as I remember him, a bit skinnier but the same. Still had not found a woman, or tried some meat. Dude can send a kid flying 2 meters but meat is a line he won't cross. Fair enough, I do not particularly like kids either. 

As he was standing by the door, I heard an old crackling voice calling out "Rohee, who is it?" It was his father, old, hooked up to a wheelchair and these medical liquid packs, I forgot the word for it. I had just a glimpse before the door was closed behind him as he came out to greet us. I was still in my teens, maybe 14-15, not one to be able to hold a conversation so I just stood there, I was just glad he was still alive. My father was kind of friends with him I guess (both alcoholics), I don't know for sure. My father was a very extrovert and easy to talk to kind of person, unlike me. From their 5 min conversation, what I could gather was... Women are a headache, but you need headaches from time to time to know that you still have a head. I don't know what to make of that. And also, vegetarianism is the true way of any self-respecting Hindu. I forgot to mention my father was also vegetarian. Just before the end of their conversation, I jumped in, rather awkwardly, trying to act all confident and grown-up, but the fact was that it was just out of curiosity. I had to know, why he had taken our class for its final year. To which, instead of the typical answer I was expecting which was " you will understand when you grow up." He just said, "I had to finish what I started." moving his hand to shuffle my hair. I half-expected him to slap me, I swear. 

That was the last I saw of him. Fast-forward a few years, I was now in high school, full on my teen years, hormones, hair, drugs, pussy, tits, alcohol. The whole lot. Teenage years. Never in class, seldom even at school. Uniform? What the fuck is that? Detention? Yeah, what else can you do? Suspend me? More days at home for not coming to school? Yeah, nice move Einstein...

I was a typical bad boy. One thing I did not do though, was make fun of teachers. Though headteachers are another type of animal I'd argue. They do not teach, they are the same breed as managers, just here to control, report, watch stats, shit like that. I have no respect for the kind.

There was this 50-something English teacher, short fella, very calm, white hair white moustache, always in shirt and trousers. Everyone among the staff respected and admired him. Heck, even students respected him. He had perfect English, both written and spoken, and could make a fool out of you with a mere sentence. He was the epitome of intelligence for us. He seemed to have been here for a long time, was a laureate in his time, was also a part-time university professor of English. God damn, I thought, dude sure knows his words. 

By the time I got to 16-17, he took over my English class. He did teach my class when I was 13-14 too but I was a mere overgrown sperm back then. His was the only class I'd actually go to. The others I just plain bunked or stayed home, I did not care. 

We used to write essays in class for tests and exams and it was mandatory. I remember writing them while not giving two fucks and still getting marks of around 20-21 on 25. He never gave anyone 25/25, always saying he had never read a perfect essay and never would. One time, I actually gave less fucks while writing, so much that I was graded 8/25. I did not think twice of it while being handed out the essay, but he did mind. Standing in front of the classroom I remember him saying that he felt insulted that I'd half-assed this, and as a punishment, I'd be given another essay to write. He took two seconds, said the first 3 words off the top of his head: park, bark, dark. That was it, I'd have to write a 500-word essay on this. I remember thinking to myself, bro, what the fuck?

I dropped off the piece I'd written on his table in the staff room the following day, hoping he'd just read and let this thing go without humiliating me in front of the class. 

The next class we had, he came in, as usual, put his things on the table and took out a few sheets of paper. It was my essay, I was in for a bashing I thought. Without an explanation, he started reading it in front of the whole class. When he finished. He just stood for a few seconds. And said: "If this was a graded essay, I'd have given this a 24." Cheeky bastard. "But this being a punishment I cannot grade it, but I will say this. If you can pull this off on a mere 3 completely random words. Well, I'm not going to spell out the rest for you." 

Later that same year, there was this essay competition for the whole of the commonwealth countries and our school was to participate as usual. It was to write an 800-1000 word essay, typed on A4. He had requested that I participate. Being a teenage dickhead, I'd had forgotten all about it. The day of the submission came along and I bumped into him in the schoolyard. He asked where was the essay. To which I explained that I had already written it, and I just had to go type it in the computer lab, print it out and give it to him. I'd written fuck all as you can probably guess. He said that I had until the end of the day. I rushed to the computer lab, churned out a 1000 word piece about "an interview with an animal in your locality", and gave it to him. I expected nothing out of this honestly. 

Couple months later, during the morning assembly, I heard my name being called out by the headteacher. Having not been paying attention I had no idea why my name was being called out. I had done nothing this time. Yeah, a few days back, I had thrown a condom full of water from the 3rd floor on the head mistress' head, but nobody saw me, I was sure of it. Was it the firecrackers lit and thrown under the door of the headteacher's office? Fuck me, it was anybody's guess at this point. 

Fearing the worst-case scenario, I just sunk in my chair and made myself invisible and that was it. They thought I was just absent. 

You can probably guess at this point... Next English class I had, first thing he asked me was why I did not go take my certificate and prize. To which I was completely lost. After realising what had happened, I just thought to myself. The one fucking time! 

I never really got around to go ask for my prize or certificate, the smile my teacher gave me when he announced that I'd come out 3rd or something was enough. 

These are all bits from my past, I am 27 now, still maidenless, thankfully not a vegetarian and employed too.

All of these, are nothing but hints, pats on back thrown on me while I was too young to notice. It may not amount to something great, but it does demand that I give it a shot. I come from a small island off the coast of Africa, English is not even my first language, I have no way of publishing this book, but I do get this feeling that there is something I need to do. Something I have to try. It's been lingering at the back of my head since I started working at the age of 19. Fuck, I'll self publish it I don't care. I will fail, but that's not the reason for doing it. I'm doing it to be at peace.

It took me a while to understand, whatever I write, will not be perfect. My first attempt will not be a critical hit.

But it does not matter, I owe it to the people who always believed in me, and myself. I have to get this out of the way.

There is one thing I do know for sure though, now that I am halfway through finishing my first (probably only) book, even if it is good, bad, conventional, original, cliche, whatever, I will get to say. That I tried.

Can you?