School’s out so my comrades are on the loose
A woman hangs on an Embassava bus on Tom Mboya Street in Nairobi during a protest dubbed "My Dress, My Choice" on November 17, 2014. I totally support this #MyDressMyChoice thingy, but Grandpa Richard believes that when in Bumula, one must dress like the people of Bumula. PHOTO | BILLY MUTAI |
What you need to know:
- Luckily, my comrades are show-offs whom no one will ever take seriously. They strut around the village listening to music via their phones’ loudspeakers and taking selfies at every bend on the footpath.
- And on Sunday, the same lasses will show up in church with skirts so short they would cause topsy-turvy in a Githurai bus and raise pandemonium at the Embassava bus stop.
- Some of my comrades hold the misguided belief that once one joins university, they become too sophisticated for menial labour.
School’s out so my comrades are on the loose
My comrades have just been paroled from the schooling system and like the proverbial chicken, they’re all jostling for tickets at “Machakos Airport”, heading to their respective villages to roost. With the festive season here, Grandpa Richard is dreading the unfolding of mindless vandalism and unbridled hooliganism in his otherwise genteel village.
Whenever they visit the countryside, my comrades expect to be revered just by virtue of attending college far from home. Their egos, which run from Muchatha to Timbuktu, anticipate that villagers will bow down and stare in wonder whenever they pass by. How asinine!
Just because they’re pursuing some nondescript diploma in a city institution, comrades see themselves as demigods in the rural areas. They believe that when they sneeze, the entire hamlet should catch a cold. It is this haughtiness that sees them advance a tacit coup against the likes of Grandpa Richard, arrogating themselves the roles of village elders and opinion shapers.
Luckily, my comrades are show-offs whom no one will ever take seriously. They strut around the village listening to music via their phones’ loudspeakers and taking selfies at every bend on the footpath.
I totally support this #MyDressMyChoice thingy, but Grandpa Richard believes that when in Bumula, one must dress the way the people of Bumula dress. I agree with Grandpa; young people should learn how to dress without terrifying old folks.
The boys show up dressed like gender-confused circus-clowns, sporting garish multi-coloured hairstyles and studs that’ll make Grandpa recoil. And despite the muddy village paths, girls will insist on wearing heels high enough to make a giraffe turn green with envy. And on Sunday, the same lasses will show up in church with skirts so short they would cause topsy-turvy in a Githurai bus and raise pandemonium at the Embassava bus stop.
Some of my comrades hold the misguided belief that once one joins university, they become too sophisticated for menial labour. As a result, they will not raise a finger as their old folks struggle to fetch water from the well and dig up potatoes for breakfast.
“In my days, school holidays were a time for the youth to build gabions and dig dams for the community,” recalls my old man, Grandpa Richard.
The girls will spurn all advances from well-meaning village folks, claiming they’re too posh for the village that held a harambee to send them to college Conversely, my male comrades will bestride the village dating scene like colossuses. Taking no prisoners in their quest to prove their machismo, they’ll deflower many girls and leave in their wake irreversible destruction.
Grandpa Richard would send them running back to the city with their tails between their legs but they always have an aura of violence about them. If he rebukes their unsavoury behaviour, Grandpa is likely to find his dog violated, his avocados looted or worse, my comrades might introduce him to what they smoke!
Merry Christmas, Comrades.
@JowalJones; [email protected]; www.facebook.com/jowaljon
