Previously on Scandal, press play. Ignore the rumbling blonde, Enters Columbus Short looking like a fresh fountain of dark chocolate- Columbus Short with lips that whisper- take me and take me now, Columbus short with… Okay you are right, I am having impure thoughts about Columbus short. I will type my confession to some online pastor and explain my sudden heat rush at the mention of Columbus Short…oh damn! Two minutes later, already hot and bothered, enters Olivia Pope in all her glory, spitting fire like the naked boy urinating at the judiciary, spitting venom like R Kelly in that sex tape, okay I am typing my confession now – father forgive me for I have sinned – calm down. I get it, why all women want to be Olivia pope when they grow up. She got it. She holds it down – whatever that means and whatever that is- She is on the top of her game. She is fine, rocking all those Brazilian weaves and silk blouses, and grey power suits and black heels and a smart phone that does not hang – I have to wait for three minutes before my Samsung phone can display caller identity – and she is not fat, which makes her fast paced walking very sexy and she does not cry, her cute little house is all white, and she gets to swing on Mr. President’s ‘Pipi’ .yes indeed – she is all that. Today on Scandal, reasons why I do not want to be Olivia Pope when I grow up.
I want my very own penis
Every woman wants her very own exclusive ‘bad manners’. We want to be able to point out at some man on the streets and say – that man is mine and so is everything he owns. We want to be able to wake up on any random day and run our feet between his thighs just to confirm that our goods are still there. We want to own our very own constant supply of protein seed and Sunday morning glory. We want to sashay our fine selves in church- late- just to let the congregation know, that we were late because ‘My man was watering my gardens’ We want to be able to stand proudly in any ‘chamaa’ meeting bloated with pregnancy just so that the other women know that your man has been flipping you left right and centre like it is your constitutional right, which it is.
We want to travel back to the village and shame his mother by letting her know that even if she spent two hours pushing his son out, every night and sometimes during the day we have to condone – four hours- his vigorous attempts to get back to the womb by ripping out our thighs. We do not want to be relegated to a stolen quickie on top of some white house desk, or some white house carpet, or some white house wall, or some white house window, or some white house garden…we do not want to pull up our skirts and pray our skirts are not creased as we get hammered on some wall, we want to get naked and run wild, we want to swing on those ‘bad manners’ until morning comes, then we want to sleep and awake happily- next to our men before proceeding to insert our bodily parts in each other, again.
We want a constant –consistent- uninterrupted- guaranteed supply of penis- preferably one penis- for life. And F.Y.I women are not interested in being wined and dined and flown on private jets to some exotic locations protected by bodyguards …Okay, am lying women are interested in all that, but the point is, women are keen on effort, a man who tries, a man who works hard, women want to own and love that man in all fifty shades of loving, I want that king of man with my very own ‘digoigo’.
Consequently, I want my Saturday morning- afternoon- and evening glory.
I saw Olivia pope being humped by Mr. President in some electrical cable room and cried. I cried because they did not realize how close they were to being electrocuted, had they been killed in the act what could the headlines have read? Some Nyeri paper would have rung the alarm – Marishikwo na thitima makifanyana. I can’t be that girl. I want my Saturday morning love, served hot and fat every day. I do not want a time table which sets out preferable dates when I can get laid, No. I want to comfortably know that I can hit and be hit at anytime. I have no business contemplating when I think it should happen; my business is to feed the said man with enough groundnuts and tea to make it happen full stop.
I want a man I can parade around town
If I am letting you munch on my cookie, it also means I must be able to put you on window for display with a title marked- My Official cookie monster- I want to be able to walk with you on the streets, to idle with you on some supermarket –going up and down the escalator. I want to be able to let you hold you hold my hand as I get my pap smear test done in Karen hospital. I want to be able to publicly feed you, to be the reason why your belly bulges, I want to shame your mother by bloating you with wheat and porridge until you acquire that manly size. I want my friends to know you, I want them to see your face and in your tight jeans I want them to lust after ‘bad manners’ machinery. I want you to meet my mother and have her scrutinize you, I want her to hint to you about her sudden need for grandchildren. I want you to meet my father and stand accountable for my vagina. I want you to promise to him and all my Mukurweini elders just how good you will take care of it –not so fast, not so slow.
I cannot be your secret
I cannot be your secret. I cannot be your secret. I am black, I glow in the dark like a vengeful Nigerian ghost, I cannot stay hidden. You want me, you have to discovery me, you have to reveal and flaunt me, and everyone in your life must know me. From the sufuria down to the toilet bowl my name must be on everything that matters to you – yes, including your piece of land that you bought from Gakuyo real estate situated at kitengela.I will not stay wrapped up waiting for you to call me in the middle of night from a secure white house line to rain your emotional torment on my soul. You will no visit me in the middle of the same night to jump on me like a hyena, No you will not. You will buy me cake and flood my gut with Guarana for all to see, and you will not call me ‘Bae’. You will flood your social networks with my face, sing about me to your mother, haunt you friends with my details, and lose all your female friends because of me, aki! I cannot be Olivia Pope whose dream is to make Jam for her man, I have bigger dreams. I want to make smoothies and my very own Apple cider and Vinegar Juice, I want to be able to make Masala tea from your kitchen, everyday.
I must be the number one woman in your life- you must choose me.
I, in all my Mukurweini finesse, am not about to wait for you forever. It is not enough that you claim to love me, you must show me you love me. I want a huge piece of fine scrap metal on my finger, I want you to visit my clan in a convoy of thirty public service vehicles complete with cows and goats and your National ODM or TNA chairperson depending on which divide you fall on. I will expect you to shame my clan with rice and cabbage and Fanta orange sodas during the day and crates of summit during the night for six days. I will expect you to make a formal application to my clan detailing in totality why they should consider giving you me. I do not care, where you have been, with whom you have been with- the moment I step in your life, it must become all about me. This means that you cannot continue loving the girl you lost your virginity to in 1993 behind the cattle dip on Christmas eve, you cannot continue to be sprung on that girl at Sabina joy who played with your pole for a fee, hey I will give you memories, new memories and if need be, I will travel with you to the cattle dip and you can lose my virginity again. I will not be your second, I will not be your other Option, Honey, I have potential to gift you a generation, to grant you titles, stability, wealth and a loyal ‘bad manners’ I am as good as it gets, I will not be taken for granted.
I am not your fix
If you want a repair man you can call the minister of works. If you want to hump someone to feel better about yourself just claim be rich on facebook. If you want a cook, hire one. If you want to win an election, Hire Ngunyi. I am not your fixer; to fix you or your things, twi hamwe?
There, I said it!
Picture Sourced from abc.go.com