Disclaimer: This is highly ‘Sapiosexual’. Enjoy!
If any word qualifies for “The Most Recently Widely Abused Word” in Legon, then it definitely would be “Sapiosexualism”. Just like all urban words, defining it becomes a little bit challenging. But from what I piece on urbandictionary.com, the word defines a person who finds intelligence and not a flawless face or busty bums as attractive and beautiful. So it becomes confusing when you see an Instagram account defining the owner as a Sapiosexual only to find the user commenting with water droplets and eggplant emoticons under the pictures of bikini cladded women. I guess just like we all use “I know right” erroneously, “Sapiosexual” is the latest victim of our struggles with the Queen’s language.
I find myself on that bandwagon of Sapiosexuals even though I feel like I have a considerable appreciation of the word. Do not get me wrong, I do believe beauty is priceless but I lust after a “deep” girl. The type that keeps you awake past the midnight stroke talking about mundane stuff but on a philosophical level. Arguing the principles underlying diurnal eccentricities and interspersed with contemporary issues.
Have I always been this weird with my preference in women? Obviously no. I started off as an average Joe looking for his extraordinary Jane. To be more accurate, I began as your everyday Mohammed looking for his standout Khadija. Gaining admission to UG was exciting for two reasons. One, I was going to Ghana’s premier university and two, UG was a land with a bevy of Ghana’s most beautiful.
For some reasons, Legon has always had a reputation for having some of the most attractive girls around. Maybe the numerous pageant winners who also happen to be students of the school lend credence to that assertion. But beyond that, the lecture halls of JQB and NNB are proof enough. Even if you lower your gaze for the entirety of the 2 hour lecture period, the one time you glance away from the marker board will have you catching sight of God’s finest handworks. And in the age of obsessive makeup use, bleaching creams, hair extensions and eyebrow manipulations, you might mistake your location in a lecture room for a music concert.
It was in those drab amphitheater shaped rooms that my search started and simultaneously curtailed. On those British Parliament like benches, you will come across faces and personalities of all strands in Ghana. There are the light skinned, “chocolate” skinned, Nubian skinned and the Michael Jackson skinned who trade their melanin for a cheap solution from Ivory Coast. You can find people in t shirts, cropped topped, dinner dresses, and dashikis. And then there are the eccentric hair dos. Most of the hair are not biologically owned by the ones on whose scalp they rest. The hair find their way from the mountains of Peru, favelas of Brazil, obscure shrines in India and cheap synthetic sweatshops in China. But there are also the nappy afros, permed hair and the cute short haircuts.
In the midst of all this was my Khadija. With hair covered and a long black robe, she seemed timid like every other fresher in that History class. Fidgeting with her phone and unaware of her surrounding, that moment was as picturesque as a Muslim Telenovela, if any such thing was ever produced. I just knew I had to sit next to her but little did it occur to me that this was a room full of ravenous young men. Before I made my way up to where she was seated, a guy with full grown beard had already found his place next to her and was already striking up a conversation after his “Salamun Alaikum”. Was I dejected? Of course yes. But it was my first attempt and I consoled myself with “There are plenty fish in the sea”. I also had a fledgling goatee at the time with sparse sideburns and so maybe “Big Beard” was always going to win the day given how crazy Muslim girls are about beards.
But the next time was not any successful. This Khadija was the stuck up type. After saying Salamun Alaikum and before I could use a “Halal” pickup line I had read on Facebook, she murmured something back and went her way. Did she leave because she wanted nothing to do with men? Highly doubtable. Just a few meters after she rushed passed me, she leapt into the embrace of another guy. *HEART CRUSHING*
All the other potential Khadijas who came after her were a variation of the first two. Either “too known” or attached. But the worst were the ones who placed you into the Zone! You see being placed in a zone sucks. But it is worse when a Khadija places you into the zone. Her zone is not just the Friend-Zone. It is the Muslim-Brother-Zone and that is the worse. Escaping it is as possible as finding a needle in the Sahara. You become her mini mufti, her moral compass and the brother she never had, or probably had but was never close to. You are her “bro for life”!
And so after 4 years of crushing clandestinely and occasionally being upfront about my feelings, I have decided to resign to my 4-0 fate. Finding love in Legon is too enduring and enervating. And did I forget to add how expensive it reportedly is? Maybe I am being too finicky and must start accommodating more variations to who Khadija must be.
For now, Sapiosexualism is the new black and a nerdy glasses wearing smarty pants is my Khadija.