I am sorry I cannot sum up the courage to walk up to you and spew all the spiel I have in mind for you. I therefore I am writing you this letter, hoping that at the very least, you frequent this space. That plus the fact that I have never been so angry (at a lassie) as to pick up a cane over a quill.
First, what did vowels ever do to you? You sent me a text message that sounded like Xhosa, and I can’t help but wonder what vowels ever do to you so bad that you have decided to lock them out of their home- your vocabulary. Pardon my backwardness, but I in my opinion, The Queen’s dialect was invented in England- not your hometown Nyapiedho. So since you do not own it, you have no standing to change it. Perhaps it is a Nyapiedho thing, I don’t know. Perhaps it is the latest thing to send messages swarming with consonants only; I must be stuck in the dark ages.
Second, I am tolerant person- or so I think I am. I can bear vocabulary that makes fun of your KCPE results slip. I can bear the T-shirt that says “What are brains for when I have these?” I can understand why you go to the pool side only to lie on the pavements and pretend that you are not being admired. I can stomach all that. We are all allowed a moment of vanity once in a while.
But the one thing I cannot bear is a fake American accent. It ticks me off. What churns my stomach is the fact that I have been with you since first year, and I know for sure you have never seen the boarders of Kenya. You picked it up that day when we had a joint fellowship with the rich folk from USIU. Pitchfork fellas like us do not say ‘gonna’ or ‘wanna’. We only use that on Twitter because of the limitation on characters.
I have seen you in the morning when you hurry to the washrooms; you are black- almost blue black. Alek Wek has nothing on you. But when we meet in class, you are almost yellow. Who you are is hidden beneath fifty shades of powder in this desperate attempt to appeal to the dudes who have caught the ‘yellow-yellow fever’.
Moreover, if you cannot walk in heels, please, it is never really that serious. We understand that your knees are at ten-past-ten. I know heels give ladies this sense of dominance for the few moments they tower above men. But then you gully-creeping six inches above me does not make my underbelly squirm much.
Feasibly if you were more true to your identity and spoke like an educated girl (albeit from Bondo), then you wouldn’t be single. We campus dudes do not care much for a girl who texts in Xhosa, speaks with a forced American slang and looks like a Kuria. If you actually rolled on the floor and laughed your butt off, instead of simply saying ROTFLMAO, someone would have noticed you, seeing as it is that you already have everything else working for you; your bright future from behind.
Campus dudes will stomach a fake accent and a vowel-less text long enough to get you to bed. Once we take a bite at the cherry, we take off with the wind. You are the kind whose day job is to fantasizing all day as you wait for your night job. And that is all on you- God never set you up that way, you did.
However, I imagine that if you gave me one good reason to remember your name the next morning, then maybe I would introduce you to my dog. Baby steps.