I’ve been gone for a long time, in search for what could possibly make an insatiable woman with changing interests, desires and confusing wants like myself happy.
It’s undisputed that every creature is complex but one is more complex than all, and that’s the woman—especially the contemporary African woman who’s caged in between different layers of ideas; some westernized, most personalized and a few “culturalized”.
I am a sexual libertarian which can loosely be interpreted to mean that, I believe a woman should be allowed to fuck every KOD, FlashKick and Kojo Yankson she wants—and society shouldn’t lose sleep over this or have a goddam say about it.
My moral compass is inherently weak, perhaps, non-existent. This springs out of my obsession with the notion and legal jurisprudence of bodily autonomy, the libertarian idea that we own our bodies and we should be able to whatever the heck we want with it.
My cousin, Adwoa Owusuaa Ansah, an equally educated contemporary Ghanaian woman is a conservative Christian, even though she studied Philosophy for her masters’ degree, believes the body is the temple of some celestial father, God, and it should not be soiled as judgement day awaits anyone who taints God’s holy temple.
I decided some years ago that I was going to fuck my way to the top in life and while trying to do this, I watch a lot of pornography in-between, for entertainment and also to see if new acrobatics have been invented by the desperate hell going souls, worthy of learning.
My mother, a woman with a pussy too, is the leader of the Women’s Followership at her church and anytime she catches me with one of the exciting dirty videos which guide my unquenchable self-pleasuring habit, she gets mad and coils back into her prayer room—for hours of prayers, aimed at delivering me from something I consciously choose to do, all because she does not agree with it. She claims she knows what’s best for me, even at my adult age.
All my life, this same mother of mine has been a housewife. She has a University education but decided to become a housewife when she got married to my Dad so that she could spend more time with her children and help shape them to becoming graceful adults. She surely has done a good with that, because I turned out exactly the opposite, making choices she detests.
I suspect my friend, Gladys, is a lesbian. Apart from the way she touches me, I once saw a conversation she was having with a client of hers—backed by the exchanged of nudes. I guess she prefers licking coochies to sucking mandigos, like the last one which nearly pulled my oesophagus out.
Beyond the diverging wants and desires of women, which I have poorly illustrated with the few examples above, lies our dissimilar experiences, worldviews, fears, goals and even what turns us on.
Despite all these, a bunch of bitches, who call themselves feminists, claim to be the spokespersons for every woman, including my sexual hyper self, my menopause heaven seeking mother, uncomfortable lesbian friend and sex-starved cousin. They claim to know what’s good for all of us, despite our contradicting aspirations, wants, desires and even life goals.
Just like my mother, who has never had a career, a choice, I respect a lot, they know what’s best for me and every other woman, irrespective of our unique experiences, positions, demons and battles. They have this pseudo-utopian concept, build on their own narratives, scripted ideas or pulled out of books, placed as what the Ghanaian woman in Kumasi wants, which is positioned as same for the Nigerian woman in Lagos, then photocopied to be somewhat the standard, every woman ought to aspire to achieve, live with or a behavior we ought to accept.
Before anyone speaks for another, claims she knows what everyone wants and what’s good for every woman, shouldn’t that person be appointed by those they claim to represent or speak for? That’s a basic democratic or people’s representation principle.
But that’s not the case here. None of these people knows my story, my direction and even my true inner desires—therefore, how can they have an idea of what’s good for me, except uproot ideas from books and carve their perception as the ultimate benchmark for a woman, or even the man.
It deeply upsets me and destabilizes the acidic content of my vagina’s fluid when any woman represents her worldview, her experience, warped logic and empty understanding of others as what every woman wants, the ultimate—or that which we ought to accept as being good for every woman.
It’s even made worse by the marginalizing of the choices of other women, such as my mother, who has all her life decided to make her ultimate goal, family-making; her husband and children, irrespective of whatever satisfaction or social status a different choice of career brings to others.
We have a dictatorial celestial Father already deciding what’s good for us; and now we have some self-glorifying women mapping their views out on the graph, as representative of every woman? They even want to tell us what shape our relationships with men ought to take—relationships that they are not part of, have no real idea of what goes into them?
I’m tired of people, mostly idiots who cannot appreciate the value of choice, seeking to tell me what’s right for me or others.
You may not want a husband and wouldn’t regard such a want as ultimate. That’s your choice and that’s all it is. My friend Gladys’ ultimate goal and purpose in life, as she says, is to find for herself a husband and make babies for him, be submissive to the snap of his fingers and worship him. Once again, that’s her choice—and nothing more than that.
Amongst these two choices, none is universally ultimate, objectively more valid than the other and this because no two women are the same, want the same things and should not even dream of having the same goal or purpose.
Anytime you hear any bitch claiming to speak for women under the umbrella of feminism or any of those generalized and imposed movements, ask the person this; who appointed you as the spokesperson for all women? And how many women voted for you to present your own views on issues, as that of every woman or many women? And if she’s unable to answer, bitch slap her, from behind.
For me, none of those bitches calling themselves feminists have a clue about my struggles, my demons, my fantasy, the type of men I meet or want, the kind of relationship I deem fit, my unique ultimate goal and perspective on things—and therefore do not represent even a fraction of me or my ideas.
Enough of little idiots trying to play goddesses, and imposing their opinions as that of every woman.
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