The Prophecy

She brags of a brain so good it wrote one of the best dissertations in her year. She graduated with a second class honors, upper division. And it was not just any other second upper; it was one of 65 points. You see, when you are in UoN law school, trying to get a first class is like attempting to kayak your way out of a sand storm. So when you graduate with 65 points, you consider yourself worthy of a medal of honor.  You deserve a beer, and your mother owes you a big ass party on graduation. Of course 95% credit for that success goes to the Google brothers, your best friend whose assignments you copied, and the classmates who signed your attendance for classes you missed.

In some cases, part of the credit is due to the lecturer who sold you an A grade, in exchange of a night at a motel….or a raunchy quickie in his/her office or car. The other 5% goes to coffee makers and your ability to memorize a semester’s worth of coursework in 6 hours.

It doesn’t matter, the end justifies the means.

There is no telling the percentage allocation for everyone. There are those whose lives revolve around the hostels, classrooms and library. But those ones are outliers. Special cases.

When it comes to her, giving due consideration to her quick rise to fame, I am at a loss trying to figure out how she landed the 65 points. For one, I know her from high school. At Maranda High, we were considered the academic muscle of the region, and that came with a few privileges; the most important one at the time being an overzealous attention from the neighbouring school girls.

There were the girls in turquoise skirts from the other side of the green pond, Nyamira Girls. These girls saw the worst of us every evening when we bathed behind prickly thickets. They witnessed our incessant struggles with livestock in a scramble for this pond water. Yet they loved us nonetheless. If you want a girl who will stick with you come hell or high water, date a girl from Nyamira Girls.

Down the Bondo- Usenge road, a dozen kilometres south of Nyapietho, were the damsels in maroon. Most of them were girls from Wich Lum village (directly translates to ‘Head of Grass’) who were lucky enough not to be married off after primary school. This was Nyamonye Girls, and any guy who ever received a missive from this school meant he had no game. Zero. These were girls we settled for, when Lwak Girls High School lassies were experiencing their time of the month.

Lwak Girls were the girls Maranda blokes eyed with a dripping appetite. They were our girls. We paid bride price for Lwak tails. Thus, Ian Arunga and his peeps from Barding Boys Secondary School were excused to drive in on their lanes i.e. Bar Chando Mixed Secondary School. By the way Waithera, bar is luo for market or shopping center. So Arunga’s school was named after a market called Ding– Ding market. The nomenclature makes you view things in perspective- that no matter where you’re schooled in, your dreams are valid.

Out from the red and white sea of Lwak tails, hailed a lady called Kwamboka. She was a year ahead of me, and she was famous for kicking Maranda ass during regional exams. I never met her, because form threes were never invite to prize awarding ceremonies for form four exams. But I knew her because we had a principal who made a point of taking a swing at the old boys’ manhood at assembly. Mr. Enos Magwa had no respect for a man who could be beaten by a lady in anything, including birth giving. How can a girl, from a local school that dresses its student like butchery attendants (red and white), beat the refined gentlemen of Maranda? It didn’t make sense to him that a woman could give a man a run for his money during exams.

Fate would later allow me to meet this Kwamboka in campus, law school. And yes, if your head is still stuck at 40% buffering, I am (have been) talking about Corazon. The one who has now risen to ignominy for the racy photos doing laps on Facebook and Twitter.  For and for the longest time, the girth of her bum has been the genesis of male gossip and lustful cat calls. I remember a friend of mine (Looney Jim) called her aside one day and told her tongue-in-cheek, that her fundamentals will take her places. His words, not mine. And it did. It took her to Buoart.

Corazon has become a socialite in the Kenyanese sense of the word. Prophet Looney Jim’s prophecy has come to pass. Perhaps she remembered what my friend’s divination, and decided to make a go for it. It might have taken her a while, but finally a light bulb went on in her head on  day in the wash-room. She discovered a niche, the same niche that quail egg entrepreneurs realized. It dawned on her that we people from West Kenya have been sitting on goldmines (literally hehehe). Goldmines worth a fortune. Back in Kisumu quail is a poor man’s dish, because the affluent ones can afford chicken. Why? Because they are common worthless fowls.

Same logic with doozy ass.

West Kenya is dripping with hefty hips rounding into perfection, into excellence. But past the Great Rift Valley, a bumper like Corazon’s is a rarity. It stops (and causes) traffic. City dwellers are even willing to part with a good sum to see or touch one. With the aid of a good camera and a photo editor, she went down the beaten path of racy photo models. Buoart gentrified an ordinary Lwak tail into a Hottentot Venus.

Aware of the stench of struggle and desperation diffusing through our online spaces, Corazon Kwamboka and company have raised Valhalla on social media. There are the pious ones who sniff the air for harsh judgement as if they are the epitome of morality. All the while secretly ignoring the beginning of their own erections. The most honest amongst us retweet and comment voraciously on every new lewd photo she releases- not knowing that such attention is nutritious to the growth and development of a socialite. Buoart leaks a photo, and then sits on pins and needles in anticipation of feeding frenzies from idle back seat drivers. And boy does he loves the cacophony that ensues.

What Kwamboka is doing right now is no different from what Miss Maura Malanga did. Here is the fantastic coincidence; both of these ladies are from UoN School of Law, and at one point in their lives, they have modelled to become Miss Parklands. Now the leading law school in the country has achieved another button on its jacket; an eerie aptitude to churn online attention-thirsty mannequins.

I am certain these two ladies had a dream to become famous. But they barked up the wrong tree. Miss Kwamboka here, with all the brains she is blessed with, was clearly destined for greatness at some point. Even Looney Jim’s drunken prophecy gave credence to that fact. She was among the top 20 students with the best written dissertations in her year. She graduated with a second class honours, upper division. She has a sexy brain- a brain with an ass.

That sitting equipment coupled with such a gorgeous brain, cannot go unnoticed, especially along the corridors of justice. So clearly, her road to fame was already in blue print. But I guess she became impatient. She lost her way. And that is what happens when we attend universities that teach us to believe in the notion that ‘the end justifies the means’.

From the prophecy and tale of one Corazon Kwamboka, one important moral lesson is found. That indeed beauty lies in the talent of the photoshopper.

One question still lingers in my conscience though; I cannot get past it however much I try: Why does a person need to endure the pains of the entire 8-4-4 system, if all she wanted to become was a ‘socialite’? I mean, do you really need a law degree to pose half-nude for a living?