Cynthia Ng'ang'a

Cyn the Kenyan Wordsmith

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December 2018
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Harvesting the flowers

By on December 5, 2018


With only a few more days left until we can leave this prison- also known as school- even the most focused academic angels cannot help but fantasize about all the ecstacies of the free world. Forgive me for being clich√© but like most form four almost leavers, I’m thinking about the movies, the alcohol, parties and most importantly, finally getting laid!

Yes, yes, I said it and all you form four virgins can drop your virgin Mary veils. We all know the reason you’ve supposedly not done ‘ it’ yet is because you didn’t want to lose your chairs of honor at the Gossip Those Who Are Not Virgins committee. But don’t worry because guess what? Nobody cares anymore which makes your little long-nosed committee obsolete! Ha! Ha! Ha! (Read that as an evil laugh).

Like the good philosopher I am – if I do say so myself – I have though long and hard about this virginity matter and I have come to the conclusion that I need my flower harvested with immediate effect! However, there are a few things that are hindering me fro achieving my …uhm…uhm harvested state. I have dubbed this barriers hymen activists and they consist of Mr. Who Will Do It, Miss Where Will It Be Done and Reverend Pastor Guilty Conscience. However, as a staunch believer in the sexual liberation of some – these are the words I use to convince myself that I’m not a whore- I shall not allow this so called hymen activists to get between me and my destiny! I shall forge on no matter the odds and finally emerge victoriously broken! ( Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for the applause Mr. Lust and Miss Mental Illness you two are real comrades!) I have done my research; adult movies, erotic novels, illicit conversations with like minded people… And I’m almost a hundred per cent sure that contrary to what the youth pastor Mr I-am-a-forty-year-old-man-who-knows-19th-century-sheng who went to Nowhere Institution of Guidance and Counselling, I am in fact ready both mind and body, to go through with this deflowering- no that sounds degratory- with this harvesting affair.

Wait, wait before you burst my ear drums hear me out okay? I won’t get pregnant or sick – modern technology took care of all that. Trust me I’ve thought about this over a gazillion times and this is how I think it will go ¬†down:

He will be a tall, slender,olive-skinned poet whose words are like honey combs from heaven. With his soft pianist-like hands, he will lead me to the lush green riverside where under the blanket of large twinkling stars, with the rushing of the water as the background music to the poems he will be continuously be whispering in my ear, we will make excruciatingly sweet love and the rest, like they say, will be history; the good host like the end of the war and the formation of the UN.

But I’m not dumb or delusional. This is most probably how it will go down:

He will be a… a… well let’s say fairly handsome guy who raps – though I don’t know why I get a headache the minute he starts spitting (literally spitting) Quavo’s lines. Such an unusual coincidence. With his iPhone he will text me like: ‘ Beshte yangu ako na keja Eastleigh ameniachia so we can hook up there but we have to hurry coz anarudi.’ And so, under bedbug infested blankets with a large stereo blaring crunk music – a mechanism to drown out his pig like grunts- I will have rushed unsatisfactory sex and the rest, like they say, will be history; bad history like how you enter form one knowing you are beautifully an wonderfully made in God’s image and likeness only to later find out that the only thing who’s image and likeness you have ia an ape with a name you can’t pronounce.

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