Here! Have our kids! Eat our wives! We offer thee this sacrifice of our souls! Give us Money! Sell us things! We need! We Want! We will let you stare at our cleavage! Hell, you can even touch them while we are sleeping!
You can look at my cleavage, but don’t make it too apparent, buy me dinner first, take my elected leader to a dark hotel room and make a pimp of him first, show me your constitution that I may copy it word for word without wondering why you are not going to be a superpower in half a century.
The mother continent is a pot of energy, she is undergoing a phase where she is not sure what her mood is, or whether the feelings are real. She is unsure about the acne, but she has boobs, they are perky and firm at last, and men are beginning to notice and salivate. She might be 15, but she is sure that hot gangster guy from her hood was checking out her chest when they ‘met’ (he was an ocean away, but it does not matter).
It doesn’t matter if our mother says we are beautiful; we want outside validation. We want to hear the strange man who looks lives across the street tell us our breasts are attractive. We want to hear him tell us sweet nothings, that we are now of age, that we can now indulge. He wants us to go to the houses he built, where we will be too distracted to remember that breasts are not everything.
The next Vicar of Christ should come from Africa? The next successor of St. Peter should not be from the cradle of humankind? Kofi Annan’s two terms in the UN did not do any magic for Africa, nor would a Vicar of Christ who is a son of the motherland. He would not increase the number of souls going to St. Peter, nor would he canonize more Africans to satisfy our growing need for validation and recognition. He would not make Christians of our problems, nor would he do anything but dress in uncomfortable robes and be driven around in a silly-looking bullet-proof car, because what is faith without action?
We had Kofi Annan at the United Nations, and Boutros Ghali before him; but I guess the latter does not count because he did not have the skin tone our mothers told us to marry. Actually, North of the Sahara is a no-go zone, unless they dress in robes and give us money and things, then we can lay prostate and call them kings.
While we continue to demand for a seat at the high table, we assume that getting the top positions will validate our right to eat; our turn to eat. Whether it’s the papacy, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the UN, European soccer leagues, American basketball-Africa is slowly ‘taking over the world’ or so we like to assume.
We are like the youngling who falls in love with the sugar daddy, the vastly experienced man with more around his stomach than gravity should allow. He knows he is fat and wobbly, and too quick to shoot, but he knows money and a good life can cure all. What does the young thing know anyway? What does she know about this murky business of global politics? I will let her yell in the bar around my friends, make her a secretary, even let her tell me what to wear and why I should go to church. If I let her yell at me during our dinner date, she will most likely agree to my advances. Oh her perky breasts…
We want to play in ‘the big leagues’, even poking our brothers to go and whore their talent. There is nothing here at home for you, dear, you must venture into the world [read anywhere but here] and make all of us proud. You must win and only come home to play for country and charity- also, send us things, and don’t, under any circumstances, marry anyone who does not bear the marks of our tribe.
We feel that we have now come of age, that ourbreasts are now firm and perky, and that the rest of the world must notice. They are all over us, courting us, buying us flowers and weapons so we can let them tap our oil (implied pun wholly intended) and suck our resources. While they have been at it all along, we now know enough to make a conscious decision.
In fact, at this tender age in our development, we have become gold-diggers, looking for the highest bidder to whom to sell our souls and the futures of our children unborn. We import from each other, but as one Obbo notes ‘one who marries his neighbor is not considered to be adventurous…” We will run, and win, and get paid, in your city marathons. We will play, and win in your leagues, and only go home to sleep after the walk of sh(f)ame. We will not read your newspapers or listen to the stories you tell your boys in the club as we perch on your thighs, until you say something racist- then we will use call all our friends, text our acquaintance ‘Oh no he didn’t!’ and gang up to lynch your ass with your computers, your internet, your patents, your money, your motel room key.
So our perky breasts are the talk of town, courtiers now fill father’s hands with goats, and fake polythene and drugs, and some take a dump in our backyard while we are too distracted to notice. They lace our food with drugs and take from us to give to us. Africa, young sassy Africa, has been conditioned to believe she cannot be beautiful without validation-that a safari should only matter if it’s the strange ones who don khakis and seek the thrill. She won’t scale her mountains, wash her own hair, she won’t even cut her nails, without waiting for Big Brother’s opinion.
We now know how to hide our acne under shades of gray, taught to us through soap operas and imported literature. So we fill our streets with foreign literature at a throwaway price, while we place our best minds in the friend zone, the never-to-be-seen-as-anything-but-a-symbol-of-brotherly-love zone where there is no sunlight but the tight hug and the occasional kiss on the cheek. No one wants what they have anyway, at least not in the age we are in.
We are boiling with energy, raring to go, eager to please, excited to experiment, craving for attention. We have discarded the previous generation of bras in favor of push-ups, to make sure the rest of the world cannot act like our cleavage is not the best thing before sliced bread and hot showers. We want a version of everything made for us, intended for our needs, and not for your first wives, mh. Mh. We are young and we do not care, who needs love anyway, give us money for food for the few, and the evening, and a glass of wine, a candlelit dinner, and enough attention, and we will not even ask whether you bothered to carry condoms.
Now we are demanding the Vicar of Christ’s seat, because that will most definitely make sure you cannot ignore our nipples. We had the UN seat, and a North African once held the Papacy but they are not ‘African enough.’ African must be dark as coal, with hair as brittle as a twig; African must be strong and sturdy, hefty, buff, with piercing eyes and a heavy accent. Anything else and you are getting duped, those breasts are fake, yes, you might have noticed, because your wife’s are too, but who really cares.
The old man, tired from fighting unnecessary wars, stealing wives, playing with money and doing things that only come with age, is mesmerized by this new young thing. Damn! Was she always this hot and sassy? How come I never noticed it when she was sprouting? Here Africa, have these things so I can have those juicy-looking things!
So we are standing here now, at this spot where you want the value for your money and I am ready to cry foul and scream I never saw this coming, I thought you were a nice guy who merely noticed my boobs and hunger and wanted to feed me. I will act shocked as you give me all the top seats and take away all my land, virginity, oil, resources, life, nipples, love, confidence, and destroy my idea of men. I will cry and wail and yell neo-colonialism yet I opened the door for you late at night and even caressed you, sending you delegations of foreplay to attract you to come visit me.
At this point where we are now, or will be standing soon, I am wearing nothing but the clothes you gave me before you turned into ‘just another guy’ (the fact that your grandfather did the same thing to mine notwithstanding). There are no lessons from history, people change, the world is different now, and I can have ice-cream and do drugs with the fun girls! I can be president! I can be Vicar! I can be a Bra Model! Who cares for Common sense anyway?
Last modified: March 21, 2015