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I Am A Columnist

I am a columnist. Well, ok maybe not a columnist in the real sense, but I do on a weekly basis submit a written article punctuated by silliness and downright idiocy to this newspaper.

This useful feedback I got from a very helpful reader this past week who was actually very animated and had really solid advice on how to make it better.

The chat was very long and one-sided. At the end of the chat COVID-19 had been discovered, a state of emergency had been declared and government had taken a decision to craft a policy for people whose only attempt at conversation was to send a callback.

But basically at the end of the charade, I drew two major conclusions from the one-way chat:

You are a complete idiot;

Keep the idiocy level high as that is what makes me read your column.

Mum is also in on it. My mum actually thinks being a columnist is a great deal. She has one of the editions tucked away in her house specifically for showing off to her visitors and friends how big her son is on the media front. A visit to her goes through a 3-step process.  Exchange of pleasantries

Hauling out an edition to The Monitor to show off her son. A discussion (usually one way) of how I am the next big thing after Mmaboipelego.

Several of her bewildered visitors have been put through this process quite a few times courtesy of a mild onset of dementia.

Of course not many share her excitement, but mum is the type that milks any opportunity to the hilt.

Mum is the type that you need in your cheerleader troop. You know the type that would still be shouting their voice hoarse even when the game is left with a few minutes and your team is trailing by a

big margin. The type that cheers faster and louder than you can play. 

In terms of releasing energy, mum’s cheering is the equivalent of throwing a live squirrel into a room containing 23 million pitbulls.

So in my village I am a celebrity of sorts. Please note this is just on the side of the village where my mother stays.

Next time I am in the village I intend to bring her a fresh copy of my column as the one she has is now faded and many cannot make out the picture.  As a columnist you want people to stop you in the street and say something like ‘Oh you are the guy in the newspaper’. 

The frequency of this is waning now and I blame it on the copy my mother has with a faded picture.

But I also need to keep my ego in check – something more difficult than attaining world peace. You want that epitaph to say something like ‘Here lies a humble man’. But pseudo-columnists, because of a tragic genetic flaw, are constantly battling with ego issues.

The thing I like best about being a columnist, aside from being able to flip through 40 TV channels while working, is that sometimes, through walking our streets and meeting helpful readers, I can come across a story that can really help the reader gain a better understanding of how you can attack and kill a pitbull with your bare hands.

I haven’t gotten to the sign-an-autograph, can-I-take-a-picture-with-you status yet. But I am getting there though. At the pace of a snail with arthritis!

(For comments, feedback and insults email

Ink Spills



Ke letlile mathaka a neng a dira matlakala ko airport

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