Dating in the Village
Dating in the village is a cat and mouse affair, an intricate dance performed by the roadside and inside bushes, one chasing after the other, the other learning to hide. It is akin to a rooster and hen scenario, where the rooster chases the hen till they are both tired, or till she yields and lays down on the ground in submission. Girls with heavily oiled faces and tightly held handkerchiefs stand by the roadside, shifting from one foot to the other as they await men with their bicycles to pop by, to serenade them with songs from old battered phones or Bluetooth speakers, of songs that have been around so long that they have bleached, and there they stand, hair like roosters, astute on their badly shaped heads, vague beauty hidden under layers placed on their faces by life and responsibilities. The young men arrive in baggy jeans at times and t-shirts with Chelsea logos and colours and Reebok shoes, half their body still on their bicycles, and as the songs begin, so do the words, then Bluetooth comes on on both side, and as songs travel from one phone to another, so do numbers and rhymes. It does not take long and giggles can be picked from the conversations about the weather and glittering legs and pipe dreams of cars they would drive someday, and of love meant to last the time, and many are swooned by the prince charming, taken by life and all it has brought to them. Many are taken in by the strategic words, and a lucky man might just bag a beauty. Dating in the village is about marking territories like a dog does, knowing what is yours and what is not. A man good enough in his craft can have so many territories, the unlucky having to do with scraps used and thrown away by time, or mangled beyond measure. It is about love that is brewed by the roadside, two clueless people, and they leave to start a life not so far away. The lucky few manage to leave the area, but for some, their beauty slowly fades with time as they discover the new life of being wives, separating yourself from your mother. Mud from smearing the house takes over the place that used to house cheap make-up, and bent backs from all the digging and fetching water take over, and the love that was between them is gone, and mutual understanding takes its place. The dreams they had fade into darkness and it becomes a war, a war to survive life, to scrape by one day after the other, a tough road, a tough life, but one that has to be lived to the end. In the end, the rooster and hen become one, and he that conquered and was conquered all sit to partake in the dusts that put them together, for better, for worse, mostly for worse.
Dating in the village is a cat and mouse affair, an intricate dance performed by the roadside and inside bushes, one chasing after the other, the other learning to hide. It is akin to a rooster and hen scenario, where the rooster chases the hen till they are both tired, or till she yields and lays down on the ground in submission. Girls with heavily oiled faces and tightly held handkerchiefs stand by the roadside, shifting from one foot to the other as they await men with their bicycles to pop by, to serenade them with songs from old battered phones or Bluetooth speakers, of songs that have been around so long that they have bleached, and there they stand, hair like roosters, astute on their badly shaped heads, vague beauty hidden under layers placed on their faces by life and responsibilities. The young men arrive in baggy jeans at times and t-shirts with Chelsea logos and colours and Reebok shoes, half their body still on their bicycles, and as the songs begin, so do the words, then Bluetooth comes on on both side, and as songs travel from one phone to another, so do numbers and rhymes. It does not take long and giggles can be picked from the conversations about the weather and glittering legs and pipe dreams of cars they would drive someday, and of love meant to last the time, and many are swooned by the prince charming, taken by life and all it has brought to them. Many are taken in by the strategic words, and a lucky man might just bag a beauty. Dating in the village is about marking territories like a dog does, knowing what is yours and what is not. A man good enough in his craft can have so many territories, the unlucky having to do with scraps used and thrown away by time, or mangled beyond measure. It is about love that is brewed by the roadside, two clueless people, and they leave to start a life not so far away. The lucky few manage to leave the area, but for some, their beauty slowly fades with time as they discover the new life of being wives, separating yourself from your mother. Mud from smearing the house takes over the place that used to house cheap make-up, and bent backs from all the digging and fetching water take over, and the love that was between them is gone, and mutual understanding takes its place. The dreams they had fade into darkness and it becomes a war, a war to survive life, to scrape by one day after the other, a tough road, a tough life, but one that has to be lived to the end. In the end, the rooster and hen become one, and he that conquered and was conquered all sit to partake in the dusts that put them together, for better, for worse, mostly for worse.
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