This is a good story. And am a good guy. Sometimes you have to be the good guy in this story for it to make sense. For one to comfortably project similes unseemingly, ooze metaphors with grandiose, portray sage unwittingly. But still make sense, y’know?
Petronilla is a nice chic. I like her. And she knows that I like her. That is why she displays a naseauting sense of following me everywhere. Everywhere, everywhere. In class, in ghetto’s cul-de-sacs, under a shack dealing with flies-dripping muturas, in churches. Everywhere.
This chic is bright. As bright as brightness can be described. She can read, write and make jokes. And, oh my! she can laugh. Pearls of purified laughter can decorate the varsity’s compound for miles no end.
That leads us to the unfortunate part of this story; THE PLOT. Not everyone appreciate Petronilla’s sight. I call her Pet. It sounds a lil’bit sweeter to thine ears. Few people can condone Pet’s presence. It has to do with her awkward long name.
Or her over-emphasized girth. It would take a wise-ass of a lawyer an incredible amount of his valuable time to adequately convince an experienced mid-wife that Pet is not triples.
Then we have her face. Pet has a fugged-up face. Fat and dark. Pretty dark and dull as Erebus. Jagged dinosaur-like teeth jut from her wallop-y lips. And when she laughs, that laughter I so eloquently described afore, disastrous torments arise.
So Pet has an incredulous physical un-proportionality. But I like her. Because she is bright. She can read, write and make jokes. And, oh my! she can laugh. I like her because I know her; the purity of her heart and the spirited soul of a cherub.
Here I am with Pet, in my room, seated on a stark Kenpoly chair, the only furniture around. She is talking incessantly, as she always does, with vocal pronouncements of rapids, cataracts and waterfalls. Heaving and sighing and shouting and whispering. Gesturing and pacing and stamping of foot. She suddenly stops and stares at me, almost extracting my soul. That unnerves me. Then she says something.
Ok, she is talking fast. But my, I can almost catch each and every word oozing from her lips. In fact, I can almost see each word before I can hear them. This chic, I tell you, has serious guts. I swear, this time her confidence has gone overboard. I pinch my ears to shake my wax off, and yes, I had heard right.
‘John, I wanna contest for the upcoming Mr and Miss JKUAT Beauty Pageant.’
Y’know, as shrinks advices, it is wise to express your deepest reaction no matter how ugly it is. You can laugh raucously like a chimp on heat, gasp and snigger in disbelief or just pretend you have heard nothing. I did neither. I just stared back.
You see Pet has serious issues. She has reverse inferiority complex. And that brings us to another part of this story: THE CONFLICT. She thinks she has Christina Milan’s angelic face, Angelina’s lips and Beyonce’s curves. She believes so much in her physical composition illusion to the point of frivolity.
I have always condoned her (in)security? In fact, I have always encouraged it because this is a serious mental phenomenon that to appreciated as a blessing other than a curse. I have seen lasses going under a knife to pimp their faces, boobs and booties due to low self-esteem. Not this Pet. Pet has let his brain lie to her and having abetted her to that psycho-thought esteem, she has managed to survive in this tumultuous world of looks and deception.
The silence of the room savagely attacked my conscience down to the spine. She was obviously waiting for my reply, probably a positive feedback, a crazy cat dance and a fuzzy hug to acknowledge her impeccable sense of wisdom. I would never tell her that she would be a laughing stock to the institution, a good recipe for the school’s media taunts and in a million years would she ever, ever, ever make it past auditions. No, that would be mean to her. And am not that mean.
My brain cogs are doing a nasty twisting and it is tormenting. A crazy mental over-spin and am sure I will be the youngest stroke patient in history. So I grab onto something I know not, like a divine intervention, like a sudden Solomonic wisdom, just to prevent my larynx from tearing itself apart. I beckon her to sit next to me on the bed, which she jovially does. And I say:
'Petronilla, dear, you are an awesome person. Awfully awesome. As awesome as the finest whiskey in this world. You elicit grandiose and ennoblement that is rare as a pink poodle. You have chutzpah and character and the desire to succeed. Few people can show such enthusiasm.
'But Alas, in this mediocre state of brilliance and certainty, you are bound to exude your extraordinary abilities to all and sundry. That is an acceptable step, dea, to court acceptance and recognizance among peers. Do not push though; be subtle.
'Everyone loves you Petronilla. From the highs of lecturers to the lows of freshers, guys sing your pretty name in drones. You are an elixir to multitudes, a mover of mountains, a giver of hopes. Dear, with all that resume under your –um your belt–you do not need to prove it. You are much better than that dear.
'They do not deserve your greatness dea. Not at all. There are other channels to prove your salt, Pet. Your goodness brightens the dull atmosphere that surrounds our environment. Enjoy your current role in the society, dea, and yearn not for more.'
She is staring at me with that look of incredulity and wonder. Her forehead creases as if to ascertain the purpose of my speech. She then smiles, as if satisfied, and it dawns to me that sagacity had permeated through her cranium.
‘John,’ she is over-excited. ‘I knew you would be there for me. You are the only one who cares for me. Thank you for supporting my idea to compete for the beauty pageant. Mwaaah!’
WHAM!!!
Petronilla is a nice chic. I like her. And she knows that I like her. That is why she displays a naseauting sense of following me everywhere. Everywhere, everywhere. In class, in ghetto’s cul-de-sacs, under a shack dealing with flies-dripping muturas, in churches. Everywhere.
This chic is bright. As bright as brightness can be described. She can read, write and make jokes. And, oh my! she can laugh. Pearls of purified laughter can decorate the varsity’s compound for miles no end.
That leads us to the unfortunate part of this story; THE PLOT. Not everyone appreciate Petronilla’s sight. I call her Pet. It sounds a lil’bit sweeter to thine ears. Few people can condone Pet’s presence. It has to do with her awkward long name.
Or her over-emphasized girth. It would take a wise-ass of a lawyer an incredible amount of his valuable time to adequately convince an experienced mid-wife that Pet is not triples.
So Pet has an incredulous physical un-proportionality. But I like her. Because she is bright. She can read, write and make jokes. And, oh my! she can laugh. I like her because I know her; the purity of her heart and the spirited soul of a cherub.
Here I am with Pet, in my room, seated on a stark Kenpoly chair, the only furniture around. She is talking incessantly, as she always does, with vocal pronouncements of rapids, cataracts and waterfalls. Heaving and sighing and shouting and whispering. Gesturing and pacing and stamping of foot. She suddenly stops and stares at me, almost extracting my soul. That unnerves me. Then she says something.
Ok, she is talking fast. But my, I can almost catch each and every word oozing from her lips. In fact, I can almost see each word before I can hear them. This chic, I tell you, has serious guts. I swear, this time her confidence has gone overboard. I pinch my ears to shake my wax off, and yes, I had heard right.
‘John, I wanna contest for the upcoming Mr and Miss JKUAT Beauty Pageant.’
Y’know, as shrinks advices, it is wise to express your deepest reaction no matter how ugly it is. You can laugh raucously like a chimp on heat, gasp and snigger in disbelief or just pretend you have heard nothing. I did neither. I just stared back.
You see Pet has serious issues. She has reverse inferiority complex. And that brings us to another part of this story: THE CONFLICT. She thinks she has Christina Milan’s angelic face, Angelina’s lips and Beyonce’s curves. She believes so much in her physical composition illusion to the point of frivolity.
I have always condoned her (in)security? In fact, I have always encouraged it because this is a serious mental phenomenon that to appreciated as a blessing other than a curse. I have seen lasses going under a knife to pimp their faces, boobs and booties due to low self-esteem. Not this Pet. Pet has let his brain lie to her and having abetted her to that psycho-thought esteem, she has managed to survive in this tumultuous world of looks and deception.
The silence of the room savagely attacked my conscience down to the spine. She was obviously waiting for my reply, probably a positive feedback, a crazy cat dance and a fuzzy hug to acknowledge her impeccable sense of wisdom. I would never tell her that she would be a laughing stock to the institution, a good recipe for the school’s media taunts and in a million years would she ever, ever, ever make it past auditions. No, that would be mean to her. And am not that mean.
My brain cogs are doing a nasty twisting and it is tormenting. A crazy mental over-spin and am sure I will be the youngest stroke patient in history. So I grab onto something I know not, like a divine intervention, like a sudden Solomonic wisdom, just to prevent my larynx from tearing itself apart. I beckon her to sit next to me on the bed, which she jovially does. And I say:
'Petronilla, dear, you are an awesome person. Awfully awesome. As awesome as the finest whiskey in this world. You elicit grandiose and ennoblement that is rare as a pink poodle. You have chutzpah and character and the desire to succeed. Few people can show such enthusiasm.
'But Alas, in this mediocre state of brilliance and certainty, you are bound to exude your extraordinary abilities to all and sundry. That is an acceptable step, dea, to court acceptance and recognizance among peers. Do not push though; be subtle.
'Everyone loves you Petronilla. From the highs of lecturers to the lows of freshers, guys sing your pretty name in drones. You are an elixir to multitudes, a mover of mountains, a giver of hopes. Dear, with all that resume under your –um your belt–you do not need to prove it. You are much better than that dear.
'They do not deserve your greatness dea. Not at all. There are other channels to prove your salt, Pet. Your goodness brightens the dull atmosphere that surrounds our environment. Enjoy your current role in the society, dea, and yearn not for more.'
She is staring at me with that look of incredulity and wonder. Her forehead creases as if to ascertain the purpose of my speech. She then smiles, as if satisfied, and it dawns to me that sagacity had permeated through her cranium.
‘John,’ she is over-excited. ‘I knew you would be there for me. You are the only one who cares for me. Thank you for supporting my idea to compete for the beauty pageant. Mwaaah!’
WHAM!!!
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