O ti o
Ngh Ngh Ngh
One has found the panacea to a few societal problems and it involves members of the female species taking matters into their palms and singing:
O ti o
Ngh Ngh Ngh
And no, the above isn’t Vietnamese (or whatever the heck those slash-eyed fellows of Vietnam speak.) You might need a Yoruba friend to decipher it and these days, even your Yoruba friend might need a panel of other Yoruba friends to decipher his own language. You might also need to exercise your epiglottis a wee bit on “ngh”.
O ti o
Ngh Ngh Ngh
For the purpose of this piece, one’ll convince oneself that one is a flag-waving advocate for gender equality, although one admits the real meaning of “gender equality” has always managed to elude one, same way as anything placed above 6 feet or so eludes one’s reach. One’ll hazard a reason why: there’s superhuman strength in womanhood, subtle strength that forces its way with as little as mere appearance. One is more likely to catch Bruno Mars’ grenade for a woman with the knowhow than help one’s fellow dude fetch a cup of water from a tap a mere two metres from one. True story. Why anyone wants to trade that for the overt show of strength – and the attendant blubber – men are accustomed to baffles the little horned devils out of me. As that sage, Sasha Fierce, asked and answered, “Who run the world? Girls.”
Best believe it.
That said, the solution to Nigeria’s security problem is women. This solution is genius really and one wonders why one hasn’t ever been co-opted into any of the ubiquitous money-spinning committees that dot our landscape. We have female servicemen – in the Army, Navy, Air Force, Police and etc – and one imagines that they are never sent into operations theatres (not the ones with green people, forbidding machines and big fluorescent lights) because errr, we operate in a society where women’s guts are not supposed to be blown sky high. It does not escape one’s notice that this perk is one of the many perks of femaledom that chest-thumping females this part of the world never mention. How a man will disintegrate from a grenade being tossed his way, perhaps a woman might disintegrate better? After all, what a strapping lad can do, can not a lassie (strapping or subtle) do better? Deploying women to operations theatres may serve a few purposes:
- In the chosen religion of Nigerian security’s Nothern nemesis, women are seen as delicate property that may be owned by the barrel. One imagines himself as a Boko Haram sharpshooter and one imagines seeing pieces of boobs (holy smokes!) flying as one puts a particularly vicious high velocity bullet through the body of a woman soldier (or just “soldier”, for the delicate sensibilities of the PC brigade). One imagines oneself screaming haram or something close and vowing never to shoot at a woman again, even if she outstrips one for muscle and tots weapons of mass destruction. And thus, slowly, the war against Boko Haram will be won. By women; women who Mama Blue says run the world.
What’s an haram
but a trifling fling
- And on the vexatious subject of intelligence gathering in Nigeria, wouldn’t the use of woman bear profound results? Imagine an “appropriately clad” young woman interrogating the umpteenth Abu Qaqa, and imagine the excitement with which this umpteenth Abu Qaqa will divulge his ruling passions and the many nefarious plans of his exploding sect, something that perhaps may never happen with men with their many tools of mindless torture.
What’s your ruling passion?
*wink* *winketty* *wink*
Is it a throbbing schtick?
Divulge your deepest Haramey secrets
and maybe dive my gripping clamming depths
*coquettish grimace* *wink*
Intelligence gathered; no problem. You may still have 99 other problems, but Boko Haram sure won’t be one. Over to you JonaBoy.
- Because women are infinitely more sensitive than men, atrocities such as Zagon Kataf, Odi and the daily realities in parts of the North East will never have happened. One puts one’s self in high heeled jackboots, padded bras and lacy thongs and one comes to the conclusion that one would never kill an innocent child for being kinsboy or kinsgirl with dastardly criminals, or burn down entire villages in vengeance. That will not happen.
O ti o
It won’t happen
Ngh Ngh Ngh
And there you have it; three particularly vexatious problems handled in one fell swoon.
And because one likes the panicky escapist flutterings of pigeons when cats are thrown amongst them, one will proceed to throw cats among pigeons. One envisages a day when tit-thumping females will demand a right to share the biggest stages in football. Try hard as it does, female/women football does not quite carry the glamour of the men’s game and this must be seen as another instance of the gender inequality. Well, except the powers that be in women’s football take fat old Sepp Blatter’s sagely advice about tighter shorts (and as one’s addition, jersey tops that show some godawesome cleavage!) Men’s football will instantly become a non-event; you can take one’s word to Keystone Bank.
One is sure men will be quite open to having women share the same pitch with them, what with all the pushing and shoving and pulling that goes on in the game. For starters, one is. And for a change, one wouldn’t be seeing men caressing Andrey Arshavin’s robust but still manly buttocks or tugging at Tom Huddlestone’s mitties (men titties) but instead at actual, female titties, as God or the Big Bang (whichever one you serve) meant titties to be. As one can easily pass for an U-15 footballer (of course after subjecting one’s offending beards to laser shaving), one would so easily begin a career in football just to be able to bump into the bum of Nicki Minaj bumalikes, on the pretext of wanting to get the ball off of her. And upon official intervention, one would merely offer: C’mon Ref Massey, she gets the fuckin’ balls all the time.
Goals will be plentier and a lot of wetness will appear in places they normally shouldn’t appear during a football match.
And what football fan in his right senses will want to miss an on-pitch bust up between girls – who by then will make up half of any football team – as they rip off each other’s clothes (the universal symbol of female-female strife)? Who wouldn’t want to see 36 years-old Luis Suarez nibble on the nipple of Anna Sharapova, Chelsea’s laden star centre half, instead of biting down on Branislav Ivanovic’s Serbian arm like a newly turned vampire? Who? One will sell off one’s father, half of one’s mother and a quarter each of one’s two siblings to watch football live then, even under the nostrils of Kim Jong Deux, who will by then be Supreme Leader of the Trapped Hordes of North Korea, after the death of his father, Psy (a.k.a Kim Jong Un).
Keep it equalitish.
Please note: The “O ti o/Ngh ngh ngh” racket was derived from Wole Soyinka’s Opera Wonyosi.