I’m here in the little home office, writing this column and smiling. I’m in a grand mood right now and nothing can get me depressed, for two weeks at least anyway. It’s now late in the afternoon and I’m still in my pajamas, I’ve just woken up from my after-lunch siesta, and I have nothing urgent to do. That is, of course, other than finishing this piece before today’s deadline.

Last week, I was cursing the gods and the heavens, but I’m now all smiley and mushy inside…”what dramatic occurrence happened these last seven days to make the OB such a happy camper,” you ask? That’s easy to explain. No, I’ve not started dating a Tyra Banks look-alike….nor have I discovered the holy grail of beer lovers…the ‘Never-Ending Glass of Mutzig.

I’ve simply, FINALLY, got done with Butare. Yes, I’m no longer numbered among the chaps who survive on the mercy of SFAR. I’ve no longer any need to neither read French notes nor kowtow to lecturers I don’t really like. And guess what? It feels GREAT!

I feel like going back memory lane. I remember just how frightened I was, as a senior six candidate, as I went to do my finals. I remember thinking that, if I could pass those damn things, I would be so thankful. Well, I passed them (and quite well actually) and then came the infamous ingando. Kids these days have it too easy; they sit on sits, in a tiled conference hall, eat rice and beans and go home three weeks later.

Well, back in 2002, things weren’t that easy. We sat on backbreaking wooden benches, ran about 4 kilometers each cold morning, ate a horrible mix of beans and maize, were harassed by people like Sergeant Slaughter (that’s we called him anyway) and having to stand it for a good two months.

Seriously, by the third week I wished I’d failed the damn exams…I mean; they should have taken the chaps who failed to the camp to put the fear of further failure into them!

Well, I survived the sixty days, barely, and off to Butare I went. I got there on a Saturday evening and two things hit me. The cold…and the fact that the nightclub was impossible tiny and shady looking…but Sombrero actually ended up being my hangout every Friday night.

So, one can never know. The campus, to my high-school eyes, was impossibly interesting and the epitome of cool. That is, of course, until I started having to study. I had to attend French classes for an entire year, which was pretty cool. Problem was that the classes were right across town. I tried to get up at six each morning for the first month until enough was enough.

I started skipping classes and soon acquired the moniker ‘phantom’…because I was never there. Luckily, the teacher was cool and despite my best efforts, he didn’t flunk me. So, to first year I went.

I was pretty confident that I’d be a great law student; that is, until I met the course ‘Introduction to Law’. Wow, I never knew that French was such a tricky language…especially when spoken with a Congolese accent.

Needless to say, I failed the course and barely scraped by on the second sitting. Second year, wasn’t that eventful but then came third. I got suspended for a year by the same guy who failed me in Introduction to Law because I embarrassed him before the rest of the class.

It would have been a bad thing; but there was silver lining. The year wasn’t wasted…I dated numerous lovely ladies and drunk myself silly. So, all wasn’t lost. Anyway, I can’t bare all in a single column…so, tune in next week to find out what happened in third year (I had to do it again) and fourth.

Contact: madogz2002@yahoo.ca