Wednesday, 10 June 2009

Behind the African woman

I am so thankful to have been born an African. If not for our vibrant natures (since the current state of affairs in our continent does not quite cut it) then, at least, it is because of the other gender that share a common heritage with me – the African woman. There is a saying that the pretty people were made on a Monday, the first day of creation, with God still fresh. The ugly ones on Saturday – just before he rested. If we transferred this to race groups then the African woman, given her features, was definitely created on the Monday. That is the much I know, you place the other race groups in days as you deem appropriate. Now this is where I begin to thread with caution for I stand to lose all the wide smiling fans I have just made if I carry on to the point I am aiming for without some form of justification beforehand. Bear with me.
How many women have I had to explain to? That it is just not the man’s fault when he swivels his head for a fleeting admiration of some well endowed damsel. He appreciates you sweetheart but that madam that just walked past was fascinating and he just wanted to admire. God, in his infinite wisdom, decided that man be visually stimulated by woman and heaven knows just how well the women know this for all the trouble they go through making sure that their best parts are accentuated. I only ever achieve one thing when I tell this to an irritated female – a long argument. It isn’t that the ladies do not know that showing off hot legs below a knee-shy skirt is bound to attract stares, they just don’t understand why the men should allow themselves be drawn. The thing is damned if the men know it themselves. It is just one of those things. The example I readily give is women drooling over the latest designer styles (without the foggiest of intentions to purchase) in a boutique – a mystery to men. The ladies can identify with that feeling at least. Granted, women are not things and granted, there are a good many men who wouldn’t let even a jalabia (think well clad Muslim lady) get in the way of their lewd, rude, no holds barred stares. But for the next man, it is just acknowledging the effort the woman made in looking good or hot…okay it could also be a pre-ask-her-out-for-a-date assessment. That is allowed for the single guys. Girls, be truthful, behind that ‘I don’t know what they are all looking at.’ Your feel-good feeling rises with every additional admiring glance you attract. So why restrict your man and rob the other girls of what they are due? Besides you must have heard the saying ‘It doesn’t matter where you get your appetite from long as you eat at home.’ Okay, no arguments, no arguments (I have an article to finish here).
Right, that is me, clean as a confessed parishioner on Saturday night – just before the first girl walks past. I can now continue. Most guys are labeled by the part of a woman that arrests their attention so that we have leg men, breast men, hair men, fingernail men (don’t ask) and the whatnots. For the afore mentioned and the weirder ones, only they know what they see in all that. Fair play to them. I happily take my place front row with other guys glaringly branded with another category – the category that draws attention to the smooth contour between a woman’s spinal cord and her thighs. Yes, the derriere. Looking at some fine backsides you would not believe that that could ever unleash anything foul – but let’s not go there. So we have established that everyman has a fetish for some part of the female body that holds him spellbound when they stroll pass (yes, Isaac lied to you). No one should shoot moral pellets in my direction when I admit that I do look at a good few behinds when I find myself in the midst of plenty, smothered in tight skirts, tight jeans and bubbling in unison to catwalks, slow walks, all walks. So yeah, I have seen a plethora of the feminine backside. Note: this is not out of habit but as I took time out to outline earlier, I am on autopilot, admiring unconsciously. As much as this does not make me a guru in back-study (now that is a word for you), I know a good behind when I see one. And the prize for the most well sculpted behind (by a mile…well a few inches actually) is that of the African woman. Guys you know what I am talking about. That budge jutting out of tight jeans at the end of long legs propped on high heels, my my, unbeatable (calm down, Aaron, calm down). Why brothers go for other girls is hard to fathom but that is their own, if they prefer unsatisfying pancakes to the real deal. Behind a successful man – as the clich├ęd saying goes – is a woman (only God knows what she is doing there). And behind an African woman are at least half a dozen men craning their necks for a better view. A few will get a whack from the missus, poor buggers. I am fully licensed as I am yet unattached. No such problem for me. I should get back to it soon as I cure this neck ache. Right, time to take my pills. Excuse me…