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Thursday 24 January 2019
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Maara who is MfK?

Good morning to you all – whatever time it is now. That is how I have no regards to time to start off. Who I am in writing has been the million dollar question for a while now, but I am too broke afford a nipple of an answer. This question is often dropped in my inbox of all my devises. There are those who have time to pull their lips with disgust when they read my work while others just cannot wait for Friday to grab their copy of The Patriot newspaper to get their bulb eyes on my work. Those ladies given money to go buy morning-after pills even think twice before going to purchase because they have to make sure they have data bundles for Friday. Either way, they still read my shit including you.
I started writing these confessions last year when I was still a lover-boy who cut short high school girls lives with my brother’s car. I called myself Kasi Casanova and it then became strictly about what I did in the company of some of your sisters, brothers and maybe your boyfriend too. I wrote about the life in the Kasi and how the wind blows anything hanging from the waist down. That which has a zip has even more sexual gravity to the ground. Everything falls.
I was raised in the streets where you had so many living testimonies of lives gone wrong. To make it even worse, those in the knowhow still gave zero f*cks with educating the few who still knew how to spell the word hope. The kasi had chicks from the ‘Send Me 2 NAD’ school of thought and graduating from the ‘What Can You Offer’ University of Blessees. Similarly, the guys’ wallets have more condoms than money and they would do anything to buy the cookie (it’s never expensive really).
The above has shaped the character in writing of me in so many ways. My circumstances have influenced my decision-making from all angles such as the ability to have a handful of first-aid kits or what you call them ATMs (Assistant To Madam). So in a nutshell, I am that brother you really love to never have. I now have grown into a new character that of the child with zero manners MfK. Many have attributed the acronym to bedroom insults but just like life, everyone has room to realise their disability at a later stage.
I have realized that Kasi Casanova was too kind and often funny which castrates the ability to say some painful truths which only a child with no manners can tell. Because really, what do you do to a child who is just destined to be trouble? That’s me.
I’m the child who will tell you that your level of thinking has experienced some sort of stunted growth and that’s why it still needs to catch up with your age. I am the one in a few who will tell you that you have a misplaced sex organ called balls because it has been dormant in producing semen that washes real gentlemen. I am that idiot who will tell you that you deserve to be heartbroken (that’s if you even have a heart) because you applied for it since day one. I will also tell you that, your talks about abstaining and being faithful is a release of unwanted Carbon Dioxide because no one listens in this country. Just like rumours will open, legs will spread either way (it’s actually the other way around). You can get angry maar wat sal jy maak?
MfK is a narrative of some truths people want to elbow to the side like a side chick and expect us all to kama think everything is possible in the presence of telenovela dreams and panty-baptised pastors. Unlike the civilized education, MfK gives you the option to choose to be on the receiving end of getting screwed or waking up and realizing that your life is much more than just a reserve. I will blatantly tell you kutya the same way she cheated on his ex with you is the same way that termite is going to end your situationship. There is no difference or even better. Similarly, this idiot is going to take you for nothing but padkos for his journey.
The only difference between me and a few other men or children is that I have a very big truthful mouth. I have the little balls to tell you that you will k*k very soon if you are to continue playing “huisikies” with naughty boys. It’s surely none of my business but I guess I just love you enough to tell you that. There are many of us out there so pray we do not cross because lessons end with a sharpies at the end. What happens after this is not up to me.
Sharpies…
Facebook: The Undisciplined Child-MfK




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