Third-year girls are hypocrites. They are wolves in sheepskin. They are not to be trusted. They’re the proverbial milk in a golden jar, milk laced with poison. I know a target worker when I see one.
Flashback first year.
Do you remember back in the day when you were a naive fresher straight from an upcountry school in Bulambuli, Mbale? You were in the Journalism class thanks to district quota intake. You managed to find a rental in one of the suburbs around university. Your first day in class, what do you see but the unmistakable chatter and clatter of a group of cool girls, swiping lazily across their smart phone screens, laughing heartily at the WhatsApp messages streaming in. You, meanwhile, ceased carrying your Chinese Techno phone to class for it’s ringtone would wake the dead. They were from traditional girls’ schools from the company they kept. They moved in packs, from hall or hostel whichever the case. They sat in the same proximity in class, they grew their hair long and spoke through their noses in what was supposed to be Kampala accent. When they reached their points of disembarkation out of a taxi;
‘Kendacta masss aawooo’ (read Masoo awo). In short; polished girls who spoke only and only to finalists not freshers or when they felt overwhelmed by pity, their dates from high school social events. They wore loud heels, that clanked across the lecture theatre every time they arrived late; which was basically daily.
On Fridays, cars parked and drove them away, returning them in the wee hours of the morning, they drunk like fish and smoked all shisha flavours; mangada flavour apple flavour to Kikomando flavour, they smoked shisha like prison chimneys. They played raunchy music off their speakers and dressed provocatively, showing flashy cleavage, navel revealing crop tops. They partied Thursday through Sunday. Their Facebook statuses were filled with ‘ You only live once ‘ photos of them at Guvnor and Casablanca. They were after all, young wild and free.
Flash forward. Today, the same girls, have sobered up. They frequent cell prayer groups and attend Phanero, their WhatsApp statuses implore ‘Jesus to take the wheel.’ They hardly ever wear any revealing clothes, their dresses are decent. Their eyebrows are normal, their lips aren’t bloody. The girls who spoke English to the rolex guy, now speak Mayiga- like Luganda to the taxi guy. They say morning to everyone in class, they wish everyone a goodnight. They smile at everyone in class. They spend their Sundays in church and Fridays nights in the Library. They sit in class early. They wear quiet rubber soled shoes. They are in short ‘ wife material.’ The same girls, look at shisha pots with mock disdain and disgust and masked envy!
Don’t be deceived by this sudden change in behaviour. These girls aren’t in any way related to Mother Mary, they’re not sisters of Judith Babirye, despite the fact Yesu beera nange is their caller tune. They’re target workers. They concede no man wants a crazy wife. They now seek a calm boy with a good CGPA, they seek a Christian choir boy, they seek an un-polluted church or library boy. They attend all class activities, these are wolves. You might not be told about the apparent change but don’t be deceived… don’t take home a woman who smokes shisha. Don’t be deceived by her volunteering to return your book at 11pm on a dark night, amid dark nimbus clouds, before you know it, she’ll be pregnant for you and you’ll be trapped to an unwanted marriage. And she’ll volunteer to keep the baby. The girls in third year are kiwaani just like the weaves they wore in first year. They are on a quest to leave campus with a man. Run my brother. run way. Swim to safety or sink. When the foxes in 3rd year approach you, look them straight in the eye and whisper in the sweetest of voices, “Gerrerahere, go behind me sitani.” I tell you these things for I know them.
Yours truly, Crazy Drone.
