I have been the worst struggling self pro-claimed blogger. I went on holiday and forgot about my die-hard internet fan base, I even went ahead and forgot my blog password.
Side note: I have neither a fan base nor have I set foot outside my good old man’s homestead. I just happen to have a very highly imaginative brain. I have also realized that instead of wasting my brain away imagining I am one of those anorexic rich kids in IG, I should have instead enrolled in a course that teach people how not to use so many I’s in one post. But what do you know.
Let’s get straight to my comeback. And there’s no good way to do this than to write about the i-wanna-apply-for-an-asylum-lesbian-Biological Clock! No joke. You can alter your days and their entirety, run away from your family, hide from your cats, and do all other things we do when we get depressed. You will gain a lot of weight.
Photo courtesy of killerchicks.org
She is a thirty year old hard boiled closeted Kenyan lesbian. Society and other mundane crap written by gods know which other drank villager dictates that you, beautiful African woman with all your nappy hair glory cannot and will not be unmarried and childless at age thirty.
They have the woman biological clock strategically placed next to the wall calendars. The good old chestnut that is marriage is the ultimate rubber stamp on all your degrees. The vast village of women will use the word leso as an euphemism for my twenty year old married niece is heavy with her second child now and what in God’s name are you thinking wearing these ‘’small small clothes of yours’’ while you should be tucked in your husband’s house wearing maxi dresses making him tea and watering his daffodils! For my non Kenyan readers, Leso is a garment tied around the waist by women when they are doing homestead chores, or to just mark their homestead territory. Show me a village woman worth her salt who doesn’t own a leso. It’s more of a -I am the woman of this house- symbol. During dowries, it is the ultimate gift to the village women from the soon to be married woman. They did not shake their African bums and sweat their armpits for nothing. The leso is the quid pro quo. These women will lock all your village gates until you supply them with enough lesos to last them a lifetime, or until another girl in the village bites the dust.
The Leso: Photo courtesy of ngishili.com
So the women will say to you, when I am I getting my leso?
You get the drift right? I hope you do cuz if you are like me and you have a slow brain, then I might as well consider taking this post down, which won’t be a good thing considering I’m not a queen of semantics. Writing is a struggle.
Let’s call her Brenda. Dilemma is her second name. She got good education in her head, her fuel guzzling car with its eternal new-car smell, air conditioned apartment. She does late night shopping and eats apples every day. The works. Or in other words, the typical Kenyan version of middle class citizens. We envy her. By we, I mean the rest of the unhip losers still feeding on our parent’s retirement age money. We go for sleep over’s in her air conditioned apartment just to tell her how much we love her antiques collection and can we steal borrow them for a day to go impress our broke friends?
Take the same scenario and place it in the hands of a straight woman. She has the option of having heterosexual sex with one of her macho male buddies and boom, a cherubic son is born. Comfortably playing the hand she was dealt. At least she has that option.
As for Brenda, the closest she has come to a dick is while bathing her nephews and her assortment of multi-speed sex toys. She has the option of doing In Vitro Fertilization but boy, is the process expensive, complicated and time consuming! Plausibly, she will have to take a plane to such a country where such is offered. Her options are running thin.
The village folk are still chanting dowry songs.
Will she a) Change her cell phone number and forget about her family in the village, b) Relocate to a neighboring country (which might be the homophobic Uganda in this case), c) convert her sexuality (of course this is not an option), d) adopt a kid.
The latter seems okay, but Brenda craves for her very own little baby. Every fibre of her womanhood yearns to get that feeling of spending sleepless nights listening to her very own wailing toddler, the proverbial nine yards.
Every straight person might be thinking, how hard is it for a lesbian woman to spread her legs and have good sex with a man like every normal woman right? You see, sex is a three letter word, but wait. They didn’t teach you about emotional connection, sex sparks, the butterflies, the knee buckles et al, did they? Those are some of the ingredients that culminate to sex, and Brenda finds that with women. I’m sure they told you the bit where women don’t come with penises.
Brenda’s wish is to ignore the village and its upheavals. But she is sucking up to every call from her mother and aunt. She is so tangled up in the whole mess.
This experience has become fodder for my brain; I’m rummaging my brain trying to come up with some invaluable advice, to tell her the right words, words that resonate with her. I’m still finding those words…
On her part, Brenda waits. Perhaps there is a child dropping lightning that strike lesbian women at night, she says.