My Name Is Not Toby

Happy Friday Readers, Happy Friday!

I was going to take this space to bitch and moan about this stupid UGA graduate who grates on my nerves with her moronic whining monotone and dumbass questions, but it’s Friday and Pandora is playing Sheena E.

Life is good.

Have you ever worked so hard that you feel like you might as well be picking cotton? That’s how I’ve been feeling these last 3 months. I work pretty much 7 days a week. Mon-Fri writing about pressure gauges and Sat-Sun sellin’ shoes. Initially, the prospect of spending my weeks engulfed in a combination of my two passions – writing and shoes – seemed exciting…almost fulfilling, in fact. But nothing lasts forever, not even that level of optimism. Both jobs have been working me harder than a 17th century  Gambian slave; and I’m pretty tired of it. I’m declaring my own emancipation!

April 30th will be my last day working at either job; my very own Juneteenth. I’ve already determined that nothing or no one is going to ruin that for me. So when my phone rang last night and I saw 770-998-xxxx on the caller ID of my phone, I knew what awaited me on the other line: Some slacker looking for me to cover their shift at the shoe shop. Nuh uh.


The person on the other line was gabbing to someone else instead of paying attention to the person on the other end of the receiver (me).

“Hell – o?!” I repeated.

“Oh. Hey Malaka,” the caller said.

“Hey,” I returned, “no, I can’t work for you.”

She was taken aback and turned defensive.

“Oh. Ok. Thanks. Bye.”

“Uh huh. BYE.”

 I don’t know who it was calling or what her circumstances were, nor did I care. My name this week is Kunta Kinte, a proud and self-directed individual. I’m not playing Toby this weekend – beaten and weary from excessive drudgery!

Give us us free, daggonit. Ise tired. Ise throwing off m’ shackles!

If someone has been whippin’ YOU this week, make ’em stop. You don’t have to take it…You don’t have to take it at all!

Have a great weekend.