Love (or what we tend to think it is,) and other disasters- (PART ONE)

This amazing piece is written by one of my best friends (Mercy Kish☆). She’s a gorgeous person, very focused on encouraging girls out there going through “stuff” they think they can’t pull through. Scroll down. You’ll learn a thing or two. I promise!

You grow up in a perfect home setting. You know, the one where mom loves dad and you and your siblings don’t try to maul each other’s heads as a past time because you’ve grown up in church where you should love one other and in Sunday school you sing “ we’re marching to heaven, beautiful beautiful heaven,” and because no child wants to get left behind in this band wagon, you behave appropriately, respect your elders, finish your vegetables(hehe) and love each other because Jesus loves obedient children and watoto wabaya wataenda kwa shetani (bad ill mannered children will go to hell), as your mum would tell you every time you started flying off tangent. So basically you were raised right as a child.
At primary school you are a smart pupil. A teacher’s pet if you may; and you make your parents so proud with your stellar performances. When Your parents’ friends ask what you’d like to be when you grow up you proudly say a doctor. Your science grades back you up; you believe it too because watching grey’s anatomy only fuels the fire within you. I mean, come on, if you’ve watched greys’ anatomy and have neeever ever considered being a surgeon and going to med school for 5 years and then doing your internships and becoming a resident doctor if you pass the boards exam to then proceed to being a fellow in the specialty of your choice and finally you’re an attending, did you really watch greys? I think not. I really do not think you did.

Wait, what were we talking about again?

Being a primary school teacher’s pet. Right. So you are a good pupil and at this point in life boys are stupid and you turn your nose when looking at them. In fact it used to be your worst nightmare having a boy as a desk mate. You’d draw a line on the desk. A literal line, metaphoric too and should he cross it he’d be treated with disdain and contempt. And if he really crossed the line (both, or sometimes just one) you’d report him to teacher. Teachaa rather. Oh primary school teachers, they really are worth their weight in gold. They act as judges in those mini courtrooms called classes. Lower primary especially.
“ teachaa look at this one!” a girl moans after a boy is looking in her direction.
Ok I promise I’m going somewhere with this so please don’t leave just yet. Not while there’s so much I’m yet to tell you. Interesting stuff I promise, okay?
To cut straight to the chase, boys were stupid in primary and all that mattered was that you were a high flier (not the book, the person,) and self confidence was instilled in you since you were young.

Enter high school.
Here you meet people from all walks of life. Those who get 10,000(only) as pocket money, those who get a tithe of that as their pocket money and those who get a tithe of the tither, those who know tomato as a fruit and those who know it as a vegetable (irrelevant). The smart ones and the not so, girls who have been circumcised as tradition and are now ‘women’, and girls who believe that the same is a crime against humanity. (I agree)
So basically it’s a dead pool, er, I meant deep pool of diversity and culture. It is here that you are introduced to life. It is here that your girl friends talk about boys and the experiences they have had with them. Being the prude that you are, most of the times yours is to play spectator ion in these story telling sessions which mostly happen on weekend afternoons on top of a  creaky bunk as you nibble on your crisps or whichever snacks you are allowed. Your friends sound happy and excited like they are living a life you didn’t know existed.
So gradually you start changing your perspective towards boys. Maybe they aren’t so stupid after all. Maybe just maybe you could start being more friendly to their advances and give them your time of day… or night. You see, your friends call you uptight and slowly it starts getting to you. At first you took it to mean that you have very high standards and don’t have time for meaningless interactions. Which in essence is true if you look at it; but now it seems like being uncool and nobody likes uncool, certainly not in high school where people are trying to be cool. (See what I did there?)
So funkies started coming up and you try finding a way to be in the leave out form so you can go ye forth and be cool. You team up with the ‘funky experts’ who know how to talk to boys and where to find the hotties and basically the dos and don’ts of funkies. Apparently you can’t fully be yourself in a funkie, ha-ha not when you want to hang with the cool kids. After a few rounds you meet a guy. Introductions happen but then ten minutes into it you realize there’s nothing very constructive you two are talking about. You are not a small talk kind of girl. You would rather be talking constructive things; it’s worse if you’re an introvert because it means the act of talking to the stranger is tedious itself. And no, it’s not because you’re moody because it’s that time of the month. (Boys really need to stop always jumping to that conclusion just because you said you’re not in the mood to talk much. For all we know it could be because you’re boring, ha-ha!) With the way things are going you decide to come up with a flimsy excuse to go because your stomach is getting bloated with all the gas that’s filling it with all the pretense laughing that you’ve been doing. You chat with a few more. Same results, bloating.
End of the day comes and people exchange funky stories as usual during night preps. You feel shortchanged when you listen to how your friends had fun while all you had was phony conversations. Come next funky you’re determined to have your own share of exciting stories. So you do some eye makeup that was sneaked in on opening day in ingenious places and they only emerge on the day of the function then sublime back to where they were hid. You don a mini skirt and push up bra to enhance your barely existing bosom and off you go. Only that your expectations are waned at the end of the day because you hardly had many people vibing you. Slowly by slowly doubts start creeping in and pulling up a chair in your head. I’m I not pretty enough? Hippy enough? Do these marks on my forehead make me less attractive? Before you know it, these thoughts have already made themselves comfortable in your smart head and have in fact, poured themselves up a cup of tea for good measure. More experiences like these only drain away your confidence, the confidence that your dear old parents and teachers had spent years building. All in the name of wanting to fit into the crowd of being famous with the boys, forgetting that it comes at the expensive cost of trading your dignity and morals because really, what are those boys really after while you’re still in high school.  Marriage? A soul mate? A long time friend with no benefits perhaps? Methinks they’re after an easy lay to quench their insatiable raging teenage hormonal desires, a trophy girlfriend to earn bragging rights among their peers. But what do I know? I’m not a day older than 21 anyway.


Author: laurahstar

Poetry.Deep musings.Just thoughts that might help one day

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