UNIVERSITY DIRECTORY www.braincollege.com SISTERS ONLY

Sisters, welcome. There's a flame of joy in my heart each time I have the
opportunity to rub minds with my fellow sisters and the flame is even
brighter and warmer this day. It's holiday and the flood gates have been
left ajar. Restrictions have fallen as books have closed. It's like hurray,
hurray...
But sis, I have a problem. I don't know if anyone out there suffers this kind
of trouble. The first two-three weeks of the long summer holidays are my
worst period! Puzzled? I'll tell you why.
A lot of senior adults think we dash into holiday with blistering excitement
and a truckload of mischief to display in the yard. But...that's the old
daddy mentality. Look, my worst period of the summer holidays is the first
three weeks. Sisters who cause a stare know exactly what I'm getting at.
The first three weeks are full of dull interruptions in a sister's life.
Boys-ones I'll not take a second look at in the next century-gang the
neighbourhood hoping to catch your attention. There's some civility in
that at least. But then, every Tom and Dick spits a cat call, says "excuse
me, can I talk to you for a while?" They have a silly idea that as surely as
you are out of the school walls, you'll want to catch up time with a quick
silly relationship.
Men are terrible. I'll tell you why. They secretly treat us like consumer
goods. In the first three weeks, you get all sorts of approaches. They
reason "It's time to grab a chick before all the boys from far and near fill
the place like flies." It's good to make haste before all the holiday makers
realise there's juice in the hood. They hasten up while the competition is
small; a consumer attitude vis-a-vis us. For me the story ends with an
incorruptible "NO", spelt out in the air in case he pretends not to hear
me.
That's where the sad story begins for many of my sisters. These boys, old
and young, in a bazaar of shapes and sizes-all men think they are at least
as qualified as R Kelly-keep coming. Then they meet sisters who are wrong
material.
What material are you, sister? How would you live in the hood this
vacation. Will you walk the place at the beginning of September and look
every man in the eyes with lion-pride without blinking or will you hide
your face in shame.
Sister, I have a dream for you. I have a dream that this summer, you
assembled all the flirt-happy men in your and read out to them a poem
entitled "Who is HIV". Sister, I have a dream that in your rendition, the
faces of your audience grew pale. Many of them felt uneasy. Your poem
had rhythm, the verses came in silky resonance and your tongue bore the
truth with a burning fairness. A cock offered to buy you a drink so you
could stop, but you refused. He was sad. Another cock said all the fair
women had sang his glory and he needn't hear your poem. You refused to
stop. Someone asked if you could change the title of the poem from "Who
is HIV" to "What's A Croissant" but you told him your father's bakery had
enough croissants for all the girls in Asia.
My heart raced. All the men were attentive. Your verses burned their
flesh like sulphur. Hell was raining on Sodom and Gomorrah and then
suddenly, a fleshy cock who spoke with his nose rose and said "I wanna
hear this poem no more! He pointed to his Hummer Jeep and offered you
a ride to the savanna wonders of the north, the sunny beaches of Kribi
and a concert at Hilton. Your voice wasn't impressed. You were in your
third stanza. HIV had grown a little older. He didn't have means and so he
was coughing up all over the place if he wasn't messing the toilet. Many
cocks in your audience were sweating profusely. An old combless cock
with a pot belly stood up heavily. He said your poem was great but that
he could improve your talent by sending you to a special school of arts in
a European city-Vienna, place of the great musicians. You recognise this
cock, yes, its offspring is your classmate. What a coincidence! See how
luck comes. You wonder for a moment and just when you were about to
stop the poem, you remembered "But the offspring of this cock, couldn't
he send her to Vienna? After all she's first in Literature, I'm only second
best." You don't stop...
HIV had now changed his name. It was one letter longer. He lay all day in
bed, pale, ugly, abandoned, embittered, with only a Samaritan cousin to
sing for him. Sister, I have a dream for you...all the cocks stood up like
one man and screamed "She's an angel! She's an angel!" You were
surprised and so you asked: "Who, me?"
"Yes! You!"
Sister, I have a dream. I have a dream for you. I dream that you are angel
material and crowds talked at length about your virtues. Sister, you
should be angel material. No less.