Welcome. Have a seat. Man to man – including my esteemed female friends who consume chips mwitu, avocado ya twenty plus mayai boilo na kachumbari ya chilli before washing down the light snack by drinking Guinness kubwa and later on ‘remove’ cheeky air from their tempting behinds whilst shaking their bum bum to Flavour and Akothee’s Give it to me hit. You too have a seat. You are a brother.
So, as I was saying, man to man, I am in search of a lady I met five years ago during the 2012 schools and colleges drama festivals in Kakamega. She was light as a feather. Funnier than Mayweather (the one on an NTV show) and she touched my heart with a feather, you must know that ticklish, tingling whisky feeling. That’s the touch I mean.
You see, that girl handcuffed my attention without using her face or behind – and they were powerful forces my friend. Never mind that the ache for a female touch, after being bullied by the presence of not so eye friendly females in school for months on end, was now raging in my skinny thorax, making childish demands for dialogue with the opposite side, sorry- the opposite sex, the way CORD did last year.
Just like that. Simple as hammering a D- in CRE during this trying Matiang’I times, I was hooked. There on that lawn, on a queue to a makeshift VCT (she’d allow a conversation only if I accompanied her and also got tested), dapper I, thin and worried, in a muted attempt at exciting this girl from Loreto Limuru, ile ya chocolate, while feigning Walker Texas ranger’s bravery met the first girl fashioned out of silver.
We had an intelligent conversation. Her wit was seductive. Her insights slippery and humorous. She made me laugh. And the tight knot in my tummy unwound. The sweat wandering in my armpits dried and what the heck! I offered to buy us lunch! She beat me to it stating; ‘ladies first. Be a gentle man and let me buy us the first meal. This is a date you know’. And trust you me, in my third year in campus, I’m yet to come across a lady like her.
Years ago, when stern and beautiful mama yelled, ‘surely Collins. You must learn to use your money wisely’, it meant a beating was hovering around me the way MCA’s hover around allowances that tie them on a shooting squad poll, ready for execution. I hear that yell whenever a girl walks over, grabs my shoulder, giggles like a tipsy cat then coolly adds, ‘aki Osanya nibuyie…’
I was taught to spend wisely. For a good cause which excludes spoiling one booty baby with cans of Guarana and Flirt Vodka shots that send her flirting with those boys clad in torn jeans and red caps who drink one bottle of All sops beer the whole night in a club, walking around like the trouser sagging, foul mouthed buffoons in hip hop music videos whose songs (…nothing can stop me I’m all the way up…) make me feel like my name is Osanya Poverty Collins.
But that’s beside the point. Biology, that bastard that gave men the x and y chromosomes put men in one hell of a tight spot. He gave women the power of the booty and with it the unspoken, at times foolish, audacity to ask for anything she wants from a man. And to men, this mean fellow gave muscles, which I’m yet to receive, to be used in pleasing, fending and taking care of women and an ego plus lust that drives us downhill.
But I refuse to bow under the pressure of biology. No girl, my pocket won’t urinate a dime on you just because you own a pair of pant dropping booty. And campus is full of this ladies who don’t work hard for their money but whose life style is big like the mouth of a certain politician. This divas, who cake their pretty faces with second generation make up, want to get turned up with a guy who won’t spend less than six thousand shillings on them in a night. Girl, I’m no thief. My pops is a news editor whose sickly vehicle I can’t even accept as a gift. And certainly, my mom didn’t benefit from any NYS proceedings. So, I am a stingy man. Pesa yangu huli.
If I didn’t spend a dime during drama festivals on a lady who owned jackpot assets, didn’t twang and could correctly spell the word embarrass, of which most of you are, why should I waste my meagre resources on financing your ill-informed appetite for things you are not qualified to own, yet?
This jokes of campus boys buying ladies lunch, pizza (I’ve never eaten that thing), necklaces and goodies should stop. If she wants them, let her get a job or a sponsor and get them by herself because dude, you are an Uber ride, delivering this lady to the man she’ll marry in a very comfortable ride. Let her hop onto a matatu (getting an education) like you do so that you get this good things in life. And lady, no campus man endured cold nights, inhuman strokes of the cane and insolent arithmetic problems to arrive in campus so that he may spoil you with gifts, kindness and love ndio upeane loyalty. This buy me this, buy me that demon in our girls should be exorcised. May our CU brothers begin the prayers. I am sending a dispatch to the Kiunas. From my end, all I can say is riswa! Shetani afanye nini?