Don’t wait to be loved, love yourself!

Lavenda Amunga

Written, courtesy of #CreativesKenya (new blog alert!)

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He bolted. Talk of Usain Bolt sprinting for Jamaica in the 200meters relay, my knight in shining amour of many years also bolted, and never thought to look back. To think that I had a bun in the oven was a predicament he could not decipher. So what he saw best to do, despite the preaching on love he gave that finally made me agree to be his; despite the manifesto he presented to me in the days he claimed he had seen the sole fish in Lake Victoria, he ran. Left me to handle my own pickle as if the sinful deed had been committed by me alone.

Well fellow readers, love is just a fancy word for pain. When an Adonis walks to you and presents his well detailed manifesto -what he will do when you down your tools and let him in- piece of advice, run! Take off and never look back lest you turn into a pillar of salt! Love is an unwanted affair; and sad thing is that this thing called love is quite overrated. Men, when you see that lass who appears to blow your mind away with just one glance, my friend call upon your God and He will answer. Ask him for guidance as you take off like the whirlwind; because love is pain.

A moment of silence for those of us persons that have been lied to; played like mere cards; treated worse than the garbage we trample on every day. As we all take a journey into this amazing world of creativity www.creativeskenya.com , let us all remember that it is only us that can make ourselves better people. Life is full of ups and downs; today you are in school, the next day a long unending strike looms! Thus, stay woke and please yourself where you can. For if you do not, nobody will. Just as my colleagues have decided to come up with #CreativesKenya for you, why not try finding yourself in their awesome articles? They are the best!

It is only in #CreativesKenya where when you feel like your whole world is crumbling before your very eyes, you take a breath then sit down to marvel at creativity! CreativesKenya gives you a tip of better days to look forward to. Read through and get a chance to marvel at how pleasing yourself doesn’t have to include doing what you would have done had you been in a those God forbidden relationships, rather, it shows you that it involves an easy activity such as going through entertaining yet informative articles once in a while! About the bun in the oven, well, check out #CampusSnapshots to find out! www.campussnapshotsblog.wordpress.com

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Men of the 21st are total emotional retards who need Jesus!

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By Benzo & Lavender.A.

One of Kenya’s best columnists – Oyunga Pala, once wrote this about men and emotions. He said “Masculinity means to be stoic, in control and strong, all the time. Femininity means to be emotional, vulnerable and weak.”   We men like to sit and talk among ourselves how our women respect and adore us more because we can take care of business without hinting about how we feel about it. This is something we took pride in, we wore the stoicism like a freaking badge of honor. We all knew that our women will always have something to protest about but never the fact that we are emotionally stable. However, that’s not the case. Not by a long shot. It happens that all efforts to save our women from the sight of hearing us bicker about every single emotion that crosses our mind is misconstrued as emotional retarded-ness . What we consider emotional stability is a sign that we are slowly transforming into robots. And they (Women) do not appreciate that, they want to hear and know what we think when we are staring at the ceiling and how we feel about the neighbor’s housemaid walking around in short skirts. In short, they just want to relate with humans. They are confident they can handle it.  Personally, I think it is a trap. They want to take over everything; they have taken over our hearts, our homes, our children, the movie guys and the gateman. The only two things we still run – barely, is our kinyozi man and our emotions. I think men repressing emotions is good for world peace. But again my judgment is biased since I’m a man. I’ll let our resident feminist Lavender tell you why she thinks we’re a generation of emotionally stunted men. I have to admit her simple, humorous and subtle way she presented the issue almost got me. So men be on the alert, if you start feeling doubt for the course take a minute to breath, maybe catch a cold one then continue. This war we must win.

Lavender, you’re up.

Whatever drove us milennials into a state of emotional retardation, only the man upstairs understands! I am inclined to believe that it is only in this generation where people avoid expressing their emotions openly for fear of being judged and/or are even ignorant to the levels of emotion that they may be faced with.  I further believe that the men within this generation are even more emotionally retarded than us ladies!

You ask why? Well, take a look at this guy who is quite smitten by a lass at school. He has known her for quite a while now, but because he is afraid to concede his true feelings towards her, he convinces himself otherwise. All this is since he is troubled by how she will react when he displays his true affection. Men are identified by a great number as the people who might experience a great loss in their lives yet fail to shed a tear. It is this bunch of milennials that will not know what to do with their girlfriends during an emotional situation and thus see it fit to be on their way. While at a graduation ceremony of an ally of mine last year, I could not help but notice a colleague of hers (a man) nearby, shaking hands with his father as a form of ‘congratulations’! I mean, it is only men that will fail to publicly display their emotions for they believe they will be judged.

All this verbosity takes me back to those days when I had decided to love. Here were moments when I could get up and not speak at all to my man. No eye contact, no utterances, just a hunch back, doing my chores, acting as if my one and only never existed in the room. Guess what he would do? Get up, put on some loud music and busy himself with his phone till the time I would decide to speak up! That is exactly what we call emotional retardation! What happened to our men? A bunch of emotionally handicap persons who will only react when you inform them by word of mouth that things are not fine. This is so different from what happens to my parents; chap will know his wife is not fine the moment he enters the home and the house is silent. And he will make sure his soul mate eventually gives him a toothy smile!

What irks me in all this is that this emotionally retarded generation always want things done their way. They want to have their feel and when this does not happen, they become a pack of wild dogs who destroy everything in their way. An emotional retarded chap can cause much harm to those around him when his desires are not met. They fail to explain themselves in a logical way to those around them and this causes more harm rather than good. See, it is only such a person who during his lone time, when the lass beside him decides to pressure that he speaks his mind will he get quite agitated and frantic for having been ‘forced’ to do what he does not want to and will eventually even demand that the relationship come to an end as his lass is very ‘naggy and clingy’.

Clearly, the major thing emotional retardation affects is relations with other people. It is not wrong to keep your emotions to yourself, but once in a while it is good to let it out just so people can help you offload your pain or thoughts. Well, the belief these retards have of people judging them for expressing themselves is actually pathetic; for show me a man who lacks moments in life when he has felt the need to give in to death and I will give you the desires of your heart, ha!

In short, milennials need to reach a point where they will realize expressing their emotions is very normal- in fact, very mature. We ladies need persons in our lives who will be willing to let go; to express their emotions when need be, for after all, we are always going to comprehend. Trust me, if a man wants to truly communicate with a woman, he must enter her world of emotions!

 

 

 

 

To fall in love while in campus is to attempt suicide

Collins Osanya
Years ago, my uncle, then a UoN Kabete Campus fellow, in his dealings as an entrepreneurial student leader stumbled into a pretty church girl in campus, liked her and made the foolish decision to fall in love. Their Romeo and Juliet dalliance went on after campus, with the lady accompanying him to family only events, she holding his hands and him introducing her as wife. They were two silly, sad, soon to be adults unknowingly drowning in a pool of something they called love.

When the time came, the pretty church girl who hails from the land of Watermelons, kalonzod my uncle. Not even the scriptures she read quite often could have her join my uncle in holy matrimony so that the two could be one. My uncle, fresh from campus, unemployed, heartbroken and in pain, lay on bed the whole day until one cold or sunny evening- I can’t quite remember- when he manned up and managed to say fwakin and moved on.

Yours truly also fell in love two years ago. When I dumped her, my heart almost fell in my pancreas. The pain was so intense that I couldn’t walk, eat, smoke or watch a movie. The girl from Migori had momentarily held my confidence and happiness at ransom. Then, like my uncle, I said fwakin! And moved on. Here is a poem I wrote during those turbulent days. Smile!

My lakeside love had a bubbly bottom and frantic front bombs.

She spoke with a twang, Walked with a swing
And eeey! Luscious were her things.

My lakeside love had a bubbly bottom and frantic front bombs.

She could not satiate. Not with a smile. Not with I.
Not with her boy owner of a locomotive.
She’s a freebie girl. She kissed another man in my presence.
Oh, my lakeside love, what a symbol of concupiscence.

My lakeside love,
With her bubbly bottom and frantic front bombs
Slipped me in a tomb.

She smelled of angels. Smiled like a baby.
And cooed like a cat. She was quite a catch.

My lakeside love had another lover.
Her bubbly bottom duped me.
Her frantic front bombs fooled me.

She was a vortex. A bouquet of poison Ivy.
She charmed me into submission.
Threw me into confusion.
What a symbol of concupiscence.

Ooh… But how I loved that dholuo maiden.
She was most things. But key, a bottle of Heineken.

Enticing in look. Shocking in price. Appetizing in taste.
But regretful in after taste. Eeey! My dholuo love.

Were I a girl, there are men I’d never give two shits about!

Collins Osanya
No girl studying a degree course, not even under the influence of witchcraft or ovulation should flirt with, kiss, text back (unless it’s strictly classwork) or hung around a male campus MC, DJ, dancer, musician/music producer, photographer or model for more than two minutes unless she wants to be eaten kimandazi, cheated on, have her heart broken or her womb filled with a baby whose daddy is sharp idiot only capable of reasoning through that thing in his loins.

These fellows appear chic and suave, even moneyed. They stand at a higher rung on the campus life ladder, owning an amount of influence in university fairs but they are a threat to a young girls’ tertiary education, happiness, emotional and physical health. Especially now that ladies in first, second even third year are teenagers easily preyed upon by petty womanizers that these folks are.

A model pal of mine, we’ll name him Mark, has since our days in first year to date broken the hearts of more than fifteen girls. I’ve witnessed as he snaked his cunning self into the pants of chicks- some so smart I’d like- smitten by his trendy (borrowed) suits and coastal charm only to be forgotten once he’d eaten their fruits. And intriguing enough, chicks kept going back for a tasty test of his spear (shared life a frying pan in an estate in Nyalenda, Kisumu) which in most times left them ‘bleeding’ and hurt. I wonder, a model?

A man who just catwalks? Come on girls! You don’t study physics in high school only to fall in love with home science in campus. But we cool Mark, hehe, you still a bro.

As a flaw in character, I don’t take seriously any girl whose boyfriend is a dancer. Because I know she’s being cheated on and she’s either drunk in love or too foolish to know that her bae isn’t just dancing in her hall but many halls. Can I be proved wrong? MCs, DJs and photographers are wannabe cool guys. The sort who sip Carlsberg or Heineken while dancers twanga one Guinness the whole night in a club. They are corny fellows who ride on their hype to get laid, chicks as I’ve come to learn, love glamour, something flashy. And girls, the worst flashy men to bed are these, as a girl I once liked would say, are a joke of a man.

So girls, be women, sensible. If you must spread your legs for any of these fellows, compare his character and attributes to your dad, then go ahead and have fun. You’ve been warned

‘Yaliyo ndwele sipite!’

Lavenda Amunga

Based on true story of Bill Owiti

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…but again, the new sage on the block, Wavinya Ndeti, was actually right when she meticulously came up with the adage that goes, ” Yaliyo ndwele sipite.” Come to think of it, there is a meaning.

Ladies are a people I would never want to be associated with, ever again. Sadly, thanks to them, i lay on my bed distraught, broken and without a care of the world any longer when in real sense, i ought to be psyched up for the coming best general election of all time.

Phena, you were my kryptonite. When i set my eyes on you at the swimming pool, your skin glowing perfectly in the sun, your kinky hair already bringing an incredible image of how our kids would resemble. How i wanted to see you those eggshell white teeth once again. My heart gave in when i saw you a second time after class. You took my breathe away in that sexy outfit. You were my revelation of a great future after I had sworn never to fall in love again. You changed my perspective on ladies completely. I adored you Phena.

Love, how i spit in spite at the thought of it. Just like everyone else you were a green snake in green grass. I curse vehemently the day i continually posted your lovely breathtaking photos on social media and changed my status to ‘In a relationship’. Why would you even agree to a date if you were not head over hills for me in the first place? After I struggled to acquire your number from your friend, after I begged you for a week to go out with me before you finally agreed! I  mean, if mother nature knew that the son she left at Multimedia University of Kenya to study for his future was in the streets begging a mere girl to go out with him, she would slap the lights out of me.

When I would skip a meal to take you out for the time of your life… Oh! I used to see those guys as a bunch of miserable losers until the song they sang felt like my messed up life (Uliza Kiatu!) I never thought I could say this but, you broke me girl.

I bitterly shut my eyes and remember that not-jovial-you that stood in front of me, with no sense of humor and without bluffing blurted out: Love for you died. I don’t feel you no more. Just because I was the silent type who did not converse often like you wanted. Just because I took you to my cousin’s house yet you expected me to take you to my place. I mean, girl, I felt you were worth a bigger place unlike my bedsitter! You were a diamond that deserved to be placed carefully in its rightful place, but i guess you did not see that.

It is quite disappointing that we only lasted 3 weeks. Instead of giving these girls room to break me further, I’d rather ponder over my predicaments at school, for I have made up my mind: #MUNGUNAMASOMO.

So when Wavinya Ndeti opened her mouth and uttered those words, she made sense, to me especially, that what happened in the past should always be a wake up call.

Take me back

Don Benzo

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All humans are social beings. It is in our nature to look for companionship and love in our time on earth. We all need someone at some point in our lives, be it for procreation, recreation or just friendship. No man is an island. I hope up to there we are in agreement. The problem comes when commitment is thrown into the works. Commitments is the mother of all lies, heartbreaks and disappointments. I do not in any way condone cheating, I’m just saying it happens. It’s one of those bitter realities of life. One day, someone you love will break your heart, crash your soul and shake the core of your entire existence. That’s life, what I have a problem with is the persistent lying even after you’re caught. Walking around with a self-righteous swagger leaving a trail of skeletons long enough to make the Nazis look like saints. Karma is a fickle mistress. Bearing that in mind, I have decided to write my future scorned girlfriend a letter. It’s not that I’m planning to cheat, but in case it happens I want to be prepared.

This letter will take an unfamiliar format, with the heading loaded refreshing honesty of Christopher Martin a Jamaican musician and the body littered with insolent banality of an inexperienced Kenyan teenager. Here goes nothing.

Will you take me back, I know I broke your heart. I know I promised heaven, took you in circles then left you in hell. I know I promised not to be like everyone else but ended up to be the exact replica of the cliché blueprint. I know I promised to be there for you when you are down but I let you fall on the hard rock of my empty promises and broken lies. I know I promised our relationship will be bliss but it ended up being a petri dish full of heart ache and misery. I know I came in your life kicked everything upside down in the name of spontaneity just to leave you in a turmoil unable to find your way back to happiness. I also know I can’t make all this wrongs and disappointments right, even if I write a million poems. All I can ask is for you to allow me to make you one more promise. After all the broken promises I know it comes off ironic, but if you take me back, in your life I will never cheat again.

And if you tell me that, I will dedicate my life solely to making you happy. Wipe your tears and help piece back together your heart which I broke to a million pieces. I will pick every shard of your heart and fix it in its place even if it means cutting myself in the process. And those Rose flowers that you like so much, I will make sure you get a bouquet every morning you wake. I know I said they are a cliché, thorny and they smelled funny but now I understand why you love them. They are supposed to remind me that you might appear ordinary and mundane but if I run my fingers through the branches I will find your edges and thorns. Thorns that make you unique, you and a gem to be valued.  Now I know that, your absence has made my heart to grow fonder for you, knowing that I caused you sorrow wrinkles my soul. Please forgive me, and I will value you for the gold bricks that you are and not dimes that I took you for before. Say the word, and you’re mine, I won’t deceive again.

So if you take me back what’s mine will be yours.  You will be like my window, giving me clear view of the good things that lie in my future and I will be like the rain ready to fall and wash your pain away. We will hold hands and face the world together. Remember when we first met? It was us against the world, will we ever find our way back there? I want us to try again. Let’s find US again. Remember when we sat at the balcony and watched clouds envelop the moon? We sat there blissfully unaware of time as it passed by, as the cold faded away overpowered by the beating of two hearts merging into oneness. Do you remember that time we filled an empty wine bottle with Coca-Cola, dimmed the lights and  lit a candle pretended to be in a savvy hotel in Vienna having an expensive romantic dinner. I remember all that. I miss all that. I want all that back. There is only one person I want it with. YOU. I know I am the one who put all this in jeopardy but I promise never again. But if I can’t keep my promise. I will do my best never to be caught again.

 

 

​A high school girl is like smoked beef. When you delay, some funny guy eats her

Collins Osanya

One Sunday in October, after a week of swallowing antibiotics, the dose ended. I rushed to the wines duka and ordered Kimani to sell me the most toxic bottle of affordable whisky. Minutes later, tipsy like a nosy fish, I sauntered home tunefully whistling wanyaboro wanyaboro, behaving like my bank was otuch. I even bought sweet ya fimbo for my caretaker’s grandchild and yelled an exaggerated goodwill greeting to mama Leshan, my neighbour who beats stories with the mboch from second floor till their stories rudely break into my ka house and slap me out of sleep.

So, there was I, in my house and tumbling fast into the pit of intoxication. I needed food. Meat. Not rice or minji, those things remind me of a short teacher of biology in high school. Fellow drew fun from thrashing his students. He never gave my stomach peace, talk of anxiety, always looking over your shoulder, wondering if you had wrongly spelled salmonella typhi (it means typhoid for those who went to Maranda, by the way). I staggered to the kitchen and lo!

Crates of soda borrowed from the caretaker’s shop were all over. Three years into campus and I’m yet to get HELB (so I haven’t bought seats. Crates do the honours). Visitors were around. All my utensils, three sufurias, two plates, one mwiko and my haggard looking spoons told the story of an ‘Escape from Sobibo’ gone badly. They were dirty. Violated. Used. My eyes darted to the upper cabin on the wall. In earnest search for the smoked beef mama sent from shags and which I’d picked from Easy Coach the previous day. I’d saved the beef for such a moment, after clearing my antibiotics dose.

Another look at the utensils in the sink and my fears were confirmed. The smoker, my roommate, had invited his walevi friends and feasted on my beef. Imagine! They didn’t even leave behind a stranded piece. Very mean. Very inconsiderate.

Years ago, I was chasing this sweet luo-luhya girl who was in high school whilst I was a campo man. Her waist was 24. Her hips were 42. She was fine! Fine! She’d have made me chop my money! So, like the good mannered boy I became after lots of Sunday school lessons. I let her grow up. Finish her war with chemistry upon which she’d land into my open hands. And I’d wipe her wounds with my tongue. Drink her tears. Look into her eyes and like Enrique Iglesias sung, sing to her, ‘…I can be your hero babie, I can kiss away the pain, I will stand by your forever…’

To cut the short story short. She, like my preserved smoked beef was eaten, just when I was ready to prepare her for a nice meal. And guess by who. One of those (bad man seeming) young boys who dance to that panda panda hiphop song, who put on tight jeans trousers that squeeze the air out of their testicles and beckon impotence. I’m certain she is searching for tonsils in his post teenage mouth at this very moment.

You guys will recluse me from sharing Matiang’i jokes. Because last year’s results announcement heralded the loss of my smoked beef. For those campo men who have been zero grazing high school chilles, the war is on. Some funny fellow, with a baby face, might just eat her now.

 

But she just laughed

Collins Osanya

When the wind ruffled her hair, and

Her skirt rose past her knees and

Her eyes half closed, collided with mine

She just laughed.
But she just laughed,

When I talked of the sun in her eyes,

The glitter in her laugh and the dare in

Her smile. She just laughed.
But when our hearts clutched,

And pressed upon mine her breadth,

And my heart beat brazenly, and her

I tried to kiss. She just laughed.
But she just laughed,

For little did she know, that

Each smile me she did show, had

These feelings crisply snow, and this crush grow.
But she just laughed,

When I wrote sad poems,

When I wrote of her braids,

Of the spring in her walk…

Of the safety in her stare

For little did she know, that

I’ll love her till the sea dries…

Because she just laughs…

Talk with the man who stole her

Collins Osanya

The semester was polite. Like those quiet girls who seat at the front of the class during CATs. The year has been tough. I’ve been broke. I’ve almost cried. I’ve been heartbroken. I’ve met a cute girl who writes as well as she spews insults. I’ve lost a cousin to HIV/ AIDS. I’ve failed to fall in love, I’ve staggered along the edge of a whisky glass and I’ve survived. I’m travelling to shags on Tuesday. And I’m burdened.

A young man needs a friend. A girlfriend. A curvaceous lady with the smile of Christmas in whose eyes, he is safe. He needs a companion, a witness. A lover. A guide. A confidant. A protective female, in whose arms- when the toughest going has gone rough, he can hide in and cry. He needs a lady who’ll make him mad and when he’s shivering with from a cold anger say, ‘I miss my lady. I love her.’

I had one shot at that lady. She, if Bruno Mars was sober when writing that grenade song, would have been the one I’d throw myself in front a train for. But as cunning as a warm beer can be, life denied me her love, companionship and attention. She forgot about me. Just like that. The way a drunk urinates all the six beers he’s downed and moves to sip the seventh one in utmost care, class and greed. TODAY IN A TALK WITH THE MAN WHO STOLE HER I REMEMBER HER IN THIS PIECE.  

Heck! I don’t know how to say this. A cigarette? Oh, sorry. You don’t smoke. She can’t date a smoker. Let’s drink then. I’ll order whisky. No, I insist. Just a few tots, you’ll be okay. She won’t mind. Yes, neat. I’m sorry, pardon my manners. I’m James. The loser you stole her from.

I know this is weird. But tell me, how did you do it? Did you make her laugh? I also did that. Oh yes, she’s a fab girl! On that we agree. I hope you know she’s a catch. She’s special. It announces itself when she laughs. And yes! In how she talks, especially when she says ‘hello’ on answering a call.

Let’s have another round. A few more. Trust me, you’ll be fine. Help a brother accept defeat. You are a jolly good lad. Haha! Of course, I drink once in a while.  Well, I drink whenever I can. I quit trying to quit. Tell me, how did you make her yours? You are one lucky fool. You stole her from me.

She used to call me her linguist, you know. And she was mine. My elusive jackpot. The blue in my sky. The passion in my Fanta. Heck! She was my mystery. She is a puzzle I don’t want solved. 

But you stole her from me. Yes we never did date. Yes she and I never did kiss. But you stole her from me. She’s a damn fab girl! I wish she’d have let me love her. More whisky? Okay, I won’t insist. I met her three days ago. And guess what her first words were… ‘I’m a bit sweaty…been in bed all day.’ She’s unpredictable. She’s my wonder woman! We hugged. Tentatively, touching but not touching. 

You understand she’s special right? I hope you kiss her good. I hope you tell her you love her as often. Is she great in bed? Oh sorry. I think I’m high. I shouldn’t have asked that. But I’m sure she makes you happy. She’s no common girl. She is the needle in a haystack. And she’s yours.

I love her. I still do. You see, with her, it was unusual. Different. This feeling of want towards her comes and goes like a bad headache. It seeps into my pores like a ferocious heat and comes out as sweat. Watery, sticky, smelly, loud. And I hope you don’t cheat on her. I hope you tell her how special she is. You know, she’s a girl you make love to, not one you fuck.

I understand that. I know men cheat. Naaah! Please don’t compare her to Beyonce, she’s way prettier. Her face is music. Her face is a thrilling song, a masterpiece. Mozart like. 

 Pass me the ash tray please. Thank you. I think she saw the scared man behind this fellow who drinks and smokes ceaselessly. Oh, what I’d be if she’d let herself love me. We’d dice onions together. She, braless, in one of my shirts and only her undies below. We’d kiss from time to time. I’d look into her eyes, hold her at the waist. And kiss her just the way Brad Pitt Kissed Angelina Jolie in Mr and Mrs Smith. 

She’s the one who just phoned? You better be going then. Picturing her wait for you at Ambassador worries me. A butterfly like her in a beehive… You are a good man. Give her my love. Tell her, were a doctor to look into my eyes with a torch, he’d see a crowd of lonely feelings. Unrequited feelings pacing up and about on plane field. Tell her I think of her often, tell her she’s special. And you are lucky.  

Thinking before leaping

Amunga Lavenda

Tears racing down her cheeks, she continues recounting her ordeal, with so much pain and anguish written all over her face. Judging by the way she holds herself, it is quite clear that nobody will ever understand her point of view. In the distance, an owl howls, clearly a bad omen.
“I had to….there was no other way,” she tries defending herself, searching comfort and support in my eyes. You almost wish there would be a way to carry her burden, even for a second. As she drifts into her own thoughts, i can’t help but wonder how such cases are becoming so common in campuses.

One time when my father was a fan of reggae, he’d always hum to Alpha Blondy’s tune of ‘Abortion is a crime’ with so much enthusiasm you’d think he was trying to create awareness to the likes of his daughter. Still, this being a fact, students succumb to abortion today due to engagements in sexual activities that result in early pregnancies.

Who is to blame? Is it these naive girls just learning the ropes while at school or these pretentious boys who convince them of the basic need that they ought to fulfill? Or better yet the parents and teachers who never saw the need for sexual education lessons for these people? And does there reach a point where abortion can be considered and accepted as the best way out?

Looking at this girl whose life seems so bleak at the moment, it is indeed clear that these cases leave students in a terrible humiliating state, not sure of where their lives lay.