A few weeks ago, a noble suggestion was mooted that university students be clothed in uniforms. In their usual fashion of opposing everything that has a lick of common sense, my comrades received the proposal with hue and cry.
“The reprehensible nonsense that passes for dressing nowadays is a brazen violation of freedom of expression,” Complains my old man Grandpa Richard. “Time has come for a strong-worded letter to the Ministry of Education to urge them to enforce laws that will stop students from putting on clothes that spring from Satan’s own closet,” Adds the fashionable pensioner.
I agree. Once kids get to campus, they digress to the lower rungs of fashion. Comrades are busy aping dressing codes from the likes of Miley Cyrus and other Western celebrities whom they watch on the portal for the perverse (read television). In the meantime, our own African dressing that promotes decency is being pushed the way of the dodo and Malaysian airplanes.
A perambulation across any institution of higher learning will leave you convinced that our girls are in a dressing competition with fifty-bob hookers. They are always exposing generous chunks of their cleavages and butt-cracks, and their skirts are so short that they could give a midget a run for his money. Their dressing (or lack of it) is the reason why I never allow Grandpa Richard to visit me on campus. A heart attack isn’t an honourable way for a man to pass on.
Girls have devised a method of drawing attention to their boobs and booties by wearing tight outfits with phrases emblazoned on top of these ‘fundamentals.’ Words like “First lady” written across the derrière of a girl’s hipster are pornographic and false advertising to boot.
If you thought the sagging culture was dead and buried, you obviously haven’t been around a college since Moody Awori was VP. There’s something that was invented a few centuries ago called a belt, which my comrades seem to be oblivious about. A comrade would strut around with the waistline of his trousers around his knees, exposing a badly worn-out multi-coloured boxer that’s torn right in the middle. (Excuse the imagery; I know it’s a bit disconcerting.) Such a comrade will top it up with a T-shirt bearing the words “My money grows like grass.” You get the irony, don’t you?
If they’re not putting it on baggy, then they’re wearing their jeans tighter than President Kenyatta’s security detail. I bet those brightly coloured skinny jeans come with a lubricant to aid in putting them on and taking them off. Grandpa looks at them from a point of the glass being half full, saying the jeans will prevent the boys from polluting the gene pool by chocking the life out of their ‘manhood’.
A legitimate fear is that if the current asinine trends continue unchecked, then my comrades will continue having as many chances of getting employed as Oscar Pistorious getting athlete’s foot. Maybe uniforms are what we all need.