At the end of four years in the university, the boy child will be sat on a stool. The village elders will circle him and ask, “Kijana, you were to come with two degrees. Where is your wife?” He will scratch his head and answer, “The campus girl is not a wife.” For the first time in his existence, he will be right
The campus girl is eons away from the wives our mothers are. She has slowly and surely evolved into a chemist that has experimented with all morning-after pills. When she is not doing that, she is absorbing sweat from someone’s father or husband. You have not tasted hell until you taste food cooked by the campus girl. Their chapatis are harder than the average Kenyan’s life. As a matter of fact, the only meal a campus girl can cook effortlessly is noodles. Doubtless, the easiest way to get into a campus girl’s pants is through unimpressive cheap liquor. Buy that girl two shots of this liquor and pants will drop. She will not only call you daddy but also granddaddy. Campus girls are so easy to get these days, what with the permissiveness in campus and sexual fluidity. Books are almost foreign to campus girls. Weekends are spent participating in adultery and weekdays, sleeping off the sin. At the end of the semester, she will sit next to the boy and copy away.
How can this female be anyone’s wife? How can she be domesticated?
The campus girl chugs beer faster than the village drunkard. Still, she does not stagger. She is easy to please and quick to please others. Campus girls share clothes in the name of being trendy and call each other ‘siz’ because they share the same man’s body fluids. On Sunday, that occasional Sunday that finds them in church because they are on their period, they sing at the top of their voices masking their debaucherous selves.
The campus girl is conniving, calculating and sneaky while at it. No one has a greater M-pesa balance than the average campus girl. This is because she has very many inflows: parents, sponsors and the foolish campus boys and her outflows are taken care of at the sight of her body parts. Ultimately, the campus man cannot make a wife of this woman, not with that womb that has seen abortions and her poor culinary skills or lack thereof. Her manners are nothing to write home about and her mouth so foul you wonder if or how she addresses her parents.
If I were a campus boy, I would find a village woman of virtue and forget the manner-less intellectual that yells feminism yet bends over as her bits are rubbed against in bars.