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KINGWA KAMENCU: Why I’ll not offer my body to any man on Valentine’s Day

For some reason, Valentine’s does not register in my psyche with the profundity it should. Indeed, that exalted day of February the 14th does not swoop down on me with trumpets and cymbals, flashing lights and stars, if anything, it is probably the most boring day in my annual calendar.

It isn’t anything about the date itself, I suspect, but more of what we are told the day should be. Every woman should be showered with chocolates, swathed with roses, receive elegant gifts of champagne and caviar (I don’t think I’ve even tasted that!) by the truck load.

Every woman should wear red, every woman should have up to five dates lined up, every woman should be calm, docile, composed, and ready to offer her body that evening.

Well, I have nothing against such women but I will not offer myself to any man. Every society has a group of people of which when told to go left, immediately head right; when asked to jump, look around for the nicest patch of grass to sit on; when instructed to listen, immediately plug shut their ears. I am one of those, it would appear.

But even as I look forward to a day locked up in my house, phone shut off (to prevent me from insulting any would-be suitors that would have the temerity to call me on that day), I am tired of waging this battle alone.

No, I lie, I have not been waging a battle, the more honest confession is that I have been a victim of the valentines onslaught, guilelessly taking its beatings year in year out with nothing more than a whimper.

Coming to think about it, even the idea of me locking myself up in my house all day brings to mind the image of someone under siege, barricading themselves from the danger outside.

FIX THINGS

The way I have looked at it in the past, the choice has been between to play the game by wearing red and being as cheerful as everyone else, pretending that yes, it is a special day, and love is in the air, or walking around grouchily like scrooge, insulting anyone that dares ask you what your plans for the evening are.

But this year I am having none of that. I am tired, I have had it, things have to change. From this valentine’s day 2015 to the one of my death, I will no longer play the victim to the inanity of it all. I have therefore decided that I am going to fix things.

This February 14th, I will rise early and leave my house at the break of dawn, with a well sharpened scissors in my hand. I live near town so I do not have to take a matatu to get in, but I will deliberately go looking for a matatu to get into, after which I will immediately slash off the clothes of the first person I see wearing red.

Friends may be worried that this may get me in some trouble, but do not worry, I have planned it all out. I will be wearing sneakers and hence will be able to make a quick get-away in case things get thick.

Having torn off the clothes off as many red-wearers as I can, I will then cast my eye out for people carrying flowers. Anyone holding a bouquet of red roses will be tackled to the ground, hair pulled, flowers stamped on, and cheesy grin wiped off their face. I will carry a large bag on that day so that I can exchange the sneakers for thick hard platform shoes, which will ensure that the flowers are stamped to nothingness.

As for chocolates, here I will not only be happy to inflict the same horror Valentine’s days celebrators have inflicted upon me in the past, I will also profit from it.

I will grab the chocolates of anyone that has the temerity to hold them in their hands in front of me and speed off with them, and sell them to my friends that operate a tuck shop somewhere in town.

GRAND PLAN

I have also set up a grand plan to carry out a guerrilla in the major supermarkets where dressed head to toe in black (including requisite balaclava mask), I will swoop down and raid the Valentine’s Day chocolate stands, throwing all pieces of chocolate into earlier said big bag. These chocolates will also find their way to my friendly tuck shop friends.

The best part of it all perhaps, will be in the evening where I have painstakingly staked out the most high-profile restaurants where “Valentines Dinner and Dance” is set to take place.

Shrouded in a voluminous kanga, when I approach the doors of these establishments, I will immediately drop said garment and stride boldly in my birthday suit, towards the revellers.

As I evade the bouncers whom these establishments will be sure to send, I will stand on one of the tables and dance a long and fine jig.

On occasion, I will jump into the laps of one of the revellers (man or woman!) and pretend to be the “extra entertainment” for the night.

The idea here is that the revellers will flee the establishment without looking back, after which I will be left picking up the uneaten (and even the eaten!) food on the tables, the chocolates dropped mid-flight on the floor, the roses, champagne and caviar (I will finally eat this) that the horrified couples will have surely left behind in their bid to flee.

With that, news of this Valentine’s insurrection will storm the world, and out of fear of similar break-outs on a global scale, governments will declare an official end to the scourge, and incursion, of this massively overhyped and irritating, Valentine’s Day.