Owing to the mean feminist arrows hurled towards yours truly Le’ crazy drone after the 3rd year female metamorphosis thesis that featured here, I in fear for life asked the queen bee to pen the male side of 3rd year metamorphosis. Let’s roll.
You were a fresh first year, oven fresh from some school in Jinja, Wakiso, let’s go with Wakiso, your short stint in vacation had enabled your hair grow, your private school outlawed growing hair more than an inch long, when you went to a salon, you paid 2000 for salon services now you pay 30k for retouch(how times change). You envied girls from Gayaza whose hair grew long. Your hair was nearly as long as high school obs, who found it cool to grow an Afro. Luckily for you, just a few boys grew their hair that long. Most fresher boys donned the ‘stamina hair cut’ mowahk, it was so dreadful, ( some boys still don the mohawk, the sight of mohawk on a grown up ass male will cause you yellow fever I tell you.) The stamina boys went ahead to wear brightly coloured pants, orange, green, pink and white in addition to super tight shirts, this gave them the appearance of a horned Carribean lizard that had endured the misfortune of falling in a tin of sadolin paint!
Other boys grew their hair long and it was neither washed nor combed, it had particles that you swore looked like dry grass. The hair was usually knotty like little butuutus.
You remember those days don’t you, that queer group of boys whistled at every passing lady, rudely stared at ladies. You certainly remember that bunch of boys that wore bling bling chains that looked like they’d been snatched off the leash of some unlucky neighbourhood dog. They wore arsenal jerseys, khaki shorts and boots to class, baseball caps on their heads and bright red Beats headphones around their neck. They walked with the swagger of a Brooklyn drug addict and used the four lettered word in every five words they spoke, they wore shirts that glorified weed and discussed loudly about a certain Balotelli and Wayne Rooney. They randomly sang rap songs in the corridors, there’s no girl they didn’t try to date. You remember seeing them at every event from bazaar to Legends, they seemed to have an opinion on everything. In short they were annoying yet they thought they were yippie, hip, cool and cheeky.
Their cousins from Kitende or Mengo meanwhile spoke Luganda everywhere, that Ghetto Bobi Wine Luganda that entails the employment of “story ki blood. Ka demu kanfeze mwana and Jamaican patois. These dudes gave “Wannabes” a whole new meaning.
Come third year, cool shirts, fresh cologne which would mean more showers and normal shirts! The hitherto crazy boys have turned into gentlemen over night. They have surrendered their football jerseys for neatly pressed gentle shirts, they occasionally wear a suit borrowed from a big brother. They purport to be extremely gentle in speech and formal in disposition. The room that once smelt like a rat hole will smell less of a rat hole. The boys that once exposed their stained boxers beneath sagging jeans, now neatly tuck in shirts. They realise that ruggedness and ruggamuffin lifestyles aren’t hip afterall. They seek to lift their grades.
These boys who once nursed hangovers on Sundays are devoted prayer warriors who intercede in class, learn the guitar. And hit the gym! Their ringtones bellowed songs like bedroom bully, the pretentious gentlemen now have smooth tones for their caller tunes. Time has caught up with them.
Inside their rooms they whisper the lyrics of “i’m a classic man.” hold up nigg**r you’re no classic man, wee iko conman! Girls, you’ll know, a pretentious gentleman when you see one, you might however have no choice, First girls find such gentlemen appealing, they know nothing of their turbulent past. My devout Christian friend says, you’ll know them by their fruits. Choose your hubby wisely, otherwise you’ll sire children who will divert their coaching fees to bars and betting houses.
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