FABRIC OF OPPRESSION: A Post-colonial Fashion Autopsy

Hey guys? And tomboys. Gather your genitals here. Pronto.

This is my first blog post. And I do not come in peace—I’m a prophet of doom—and it chances that you’re ze first casualties in my field of fire. 

 

I’m about to pee in your Corn Flakes………

In every public building, out-door gathering, public (and/or) private transport, tv programme, movie (porn included) et al, suit-clad men are a permanent feature. The (men’s) suit is arguably the most ubiquitous and iconic nude-cover in fashion history.

It has for centuries been the phallic pictographl of power, dominance, ‘’wokeness’’ and style.

But the big Q is: What practical purpose does it serve? Does it deserve all the hype; nay–cultish idolation it commands?

The answer is, as Shakespeare might quip:

 

 

Thou art a fustian-hearted, lard-brained clotpoll! Dost thou truly believe that this mere vestment of fabric, the suit, doth possess the grandeur to warrant such slavish adoration? ‘Tis but a contrived masquerade, a padded codpiece to the true nature of the man beneath!

This so-called “phallic pictorial of power” is naught but a vile rag stitched by the craven fingers of vanity. Forsooth, its lineage, stretching back to the decree of the pudding-brained Charles II or even unto the Middle Ages, is fraught with the stench of oppression and the sweat of the common man’s drudgery! Kai-mugurukaga, ngoma-ici!

. Yet, I say unto thee, ’tis a mere prop, a hollow shell to bolster the illusion of ‘wokeness.’

And as for the question of its worthiness, I proclaim with the vigor of a thousand sonnets: “Fuck no!” It doth not deserve the incense that is heaped upon its threadbare shoulders.

Look thou upon my evidence, ye fawning sycophants of sartorial frivolity, and behold the truth laid bare like a whore in the stews of Karuma-indo!. The suit is a farce, a mere trifle to bedazzle the gullible eye.

So, let us not raise this garment upon a pedestal of undeserved reverence, lest we ourselves be seen as the besotted knaves and cockheads that we truly are.

Translation: The good man of books is crying from the grave: //What the fuck is ze matter wiz you, uniform-loving sheep? Goddamit//

 

THE CONSPIRACY:

Welcome to the most absurd, the most laughable, the most RIDICULOUS fashion conspiracy in human history – the suit. The corporate chains that’s less about looking good and more about blending in with the wallpaper of despair, hoping not to be noticed by the urban plantation patricians.

The suit, that stagnant pool of fabric that has been regurgitated onto the catwalks of mediocrity for centuries, is nothing but a glorified overall for the corporate zombies and social climbers who dare to call themselves ‘’kiongos’’ (Kenyalese for ‘’boss’’).. It’s a sad testament to humanity’s collective fashion IQ that we’ve allowed this shapeless rug to dictate our perception of power and style.

Let’s dissect this pathetic excuse for attire, shall we?

 

 

 

BRIEF HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

 

Shit:   

From circa 15th century, France was the fashion superpower in Europe. Meanwhile, the Brutish royalty–seething with envy and spite—did not take it lying low…..
So what do they go and do?

Of course they coaxed and cajoled their king to deal with direct accusations from nationalistic quarters of  royal Talibans that England was being dictated to by France in all matters, right down to regal underwear.

Well, in Oct. 15th 1666—Charles II responded swiftly on Twitter and told ze French, “Not today, madafuckers– new 100% tarrifs are in place!” and ordered ‘’invention’’ of the three-piece suit as a middle finger to Parisian fashion dominance. From then henceforth, English menswear declared independence—one waistcoat at a time.

In an era where clothing was political and every thread a statement, Charles II & ze Gang transformed royal wardrobes from French-inspired frippery to a distinctly British ensemble. By introducing the vest and coat, he wasn’t just changing clothes; he was crafting a national identity, weaving patriotic defiance into every stitch. It was a cunning move: instead of merely rejecting French styles, he modified them, at local Gikomba—creating a look that would become the blueprint for modern masculine attire and a symbol of English global dominance..

Tie/Cravat:

Wikipedia: //According to 1828 encyclopedic The art of tying the cravat: demonstrated in sixteen lessons, the Romans were the first to wear knotted kerchiefs around their necks, but the modern version of the cravat (French: la cravate) originated in the 1660s. During the Thirty Years’ War, King Louis XIV of France, enlisted Croatian mercenaries known for wearing a necktie called a tour de cou.[3] The traditional Croat military kit aroused Parisian curiosity[2] about the unusual, picturesque scarves distinctively knotted at the Croats’ necks:

In 1660 a regiment of Croats arrived in France — a part of their singular costume excited the greatest admiration, and was immediately and generally imitated; this was a tour de cou, made (for the private soldiers) of common lace, and of muslin or silk for the officers; the ends were arranged en rosette, or ornamented with a button or tuft, which hung gracefully on the breast. This new arrangement, which confined the throat but very slightly, was at first termed a Croat, since corrupted to Cravat. The Cravats of the officers and people of rank were extremely fine, and the ends were embroidered or trimmed with broad lace; those for the lower classes were subsequently made of cloth or cotton, or at the best of black taffeta, plaited: Which was tied round the neck by two small strings.[3]//

 

TRANSLATION:

A dick-measuring duel between colonial adversaries gradually became the global pandemic.

 

 

8 ELEPHANTS IN THE (bored)ROOM THAT EVERYONE PRETENDS NOT TO SEE 

1. Body Diversity Denial:

The suit is fashion’s way of saying, “You’re not welcome unless you’re built like a tombstone.” It’s a garment that insists on ignoring the delightful variety of human shapes and sizes, forcing everyone into a cookie-cutter mold that’s as comfortable as a pair of shoes three sizes too small.

 

2. The Economic Absurdity:

Investing in a quality suit is in the same WhatsApp as paying bribes to retired policemen. You can’t just wash that crap by-the-riverside using Kipande soap—or even use the services of Mama Fuas like other reliable ‘’dress-down’’ attire . Try spilling your soup or moonshine on it and see if your wallet doesn’t bleed at the dry-cleaning bill.

And for what—a bloody uniform?

You’re basically maintaining high-priced, hard-to-operate toy that requires special handling. Or else.

And who de fuck benefits from your misery?

-Italian designers

– European textile manufacturers

– Corporate psychological warfare overlords.

 

3. Climate Illiteracy:

 

This is where it gets really interesting.

Too thin for European winter—you could as well be wrapping yourself with wet newspapers while you freeze like a disoriented chihuahua, trapped in Ural mountains during rasputitsa.

In Afrika, you’re the Kenyan long-suffering,  under-paid school teacher: 

or mutumba vendor in Ka-wa-ngware:

Or a hard-working ambulance sprinter in Nyaikuru:

or even a man of god in Nigeria:

— sweltering in a wool suit that could only have been conceived by a sadistic, comfort-phobic Brutish aristoCraP   who took perverse pleasure in watching others melt like a cheap, condom-thin Sandak footwear of ze ‘80s.

Your attire isn’t just a fashion faux pas, it’s a declaration of war on your own body’s thermoregulatory system. You’re not just sweating buckets through your arse; you’re marinating in a stew of your own misguided conformity.

And Nairobi, oh Nairobi– where the suit is less of a choice and more of a genetic infection, passed down through generations of corporate serfs, each one more brain-dead than the last.

Gaaki.

 

In the Middle East, you’re the epitome of the Dubai financial district’s heat-induced masochism, sporting a three-piece oven that would make an engine-knock if you traded places with its block chamber.
. …..
You’re not fucking professional; you’re a walking, talking, sweating automaton.

.

4, DELUSIONS OF:GRANDEUR:

The suit is the ultimate illusion, promising to turn you into a professional powerhouse while quietly stealing your sense of self. It’s like wearing a business card that says, “I’m important, but also incredibly uncomfortable.”

NEWSFLASH: Your sHit  is an eyesore to anyone outside of your echo-chamber—it maketh you look like a corporate hostage …….. More controlled than a CNN propaganda anchor.

5. , Evolutionary TIME-WARP

In a world where creativity and individuality are king, the suit is the court jester—out of place and utterly ridiculous. It’s a costume that screams, “I’m playing the game, but I’ve forgotten how to be me.”

Fokoff

.

6: Military Design

Tailored to torment, these garments are a silent scream for help.
-The tight jacket that won’t let you lift your arms?
-Pockets for decorations as opposed to mini-bags for securing valuables like ingokho?
-Weight that a civillian can never really get used to?
Sweet Jeesus.

The jacket, which you’ve chosen to imprison your upper limbs in, is a masterstroke of misery. It seems crafted by the same cruel hands that designed the Iron Maiden, but with less regard for the human form and more for the art of restriction.

This garment is not a mere fashion statement, it is a declaration of war against comfort, a declaration that you’ve lost all sense of what it is to be human. It whispers of a soul crushed under the weight of vanity, a heart so cold it can only be reached by a tailor’s pin. Were it not for the very real possibility of asphyxiation, one might suspect that the aim was to preserve you in this rigid posture for the amusement of future generations, a grim reminder of the follies of our time.

.

7. Limited Color Palette:

The holly trinity of tedium—black, navy, and gray. It’s like a fashion High-Priest threw a color party and the only guests were Stasi, career polishitians and coffee farm managers.

8.Perpetuates Masculine Stereotypes  

It’s like wearing  a “Yes, I’m  boring, predictable and Tory’’ badge. Who knew that so much fabric could be so stifling for the modern man’s spirit?

 

 

 

PHILOSOPHICAL POST-MORTEM:

In the grand theater of global domination, clothing emerged as a weapon more subtle than guns—a la ze ‘’holly’’ bible— more penetrating than borders. The Brutish Empire, with its administrative precision, first crafted the suit as a uniform of psychological control – a fabric of conformity that stripped indigenous identities and re-imagined conquered peoples through a lens of European “civilization.”

The French, LEGENDS of cultural refinement, then added their distinctive touch. The tie – that silk noose dangling from the collar – became the ultimate symbol of imperial sophistication. Where Brutish pragmatism established structure, French elegance introduced performative submission. Each carefully knotted necktie was a silent declaration: “You are now part of our system.”

This was not merely fashion, but a complex machinery of cultural erasure. The suit transformed local administrators into pale imitations of European bureaucrats, their traditional dress replaced by tailored wool and pressed cotton. Every layer was a psychological barrier, every seam a boundary between the colonized and the colonizer.

And let’s not forget its “iconic” status. Iconic? Nyeff-nyeff.

The suit is as original as a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy of a fuckin’ photocopy. It’s the Toyota Fielder of clothing—everywhere you look, the same bland, insipid horse-pukey— and yet, here we are, still pretending it’s the height of style. It’s akin praising a particular tree in Kongo forest for being good at sitting pretty and blending in with other plants. Sure, it might keep your cock and testicles safe from ze elements–but so does a sisal-made gunia at Nyamakima or Wangigi—and at least that doesn’t cost an arm and a fucking leg..

The suit is the fashion equivalent of cabbage cooked by ill-bred, surly, inebriated Kenyan prisons’ chefs—devoid of flavor, color or rumour of salt.

It’s a sad reminder that the only thing that’s truly “woke” about it is how it puts people to sleep at weddings and funerals, and especially in Kenyan parliament. It’s a garment so uninspired, so devoid of any actual thought or imagination, that it maketh Scottish kilt look avant-garde. The only thing it truly represents is the soul-crushing conformity that has plagued humanity since the dawn of civilization—a silent scream of “I give up!” in the face of originality and individuality.

 

 

CONCLUSION:

The suit is nothing more than a corporate straitjacket, designed to squeeze the last drops of individuality out of men and transform them into faceless, soul-crushing drones in a sea of fabric-covered conformity. The tie, that ridiculous noose of neck adornment, is a silent scream of masculine submission, a declaration to the world that you’re willing to trade your real potential for 30 fucking pieces of Mazimbabwean bucks.

.

The bloody suit isn’t just a prison kunguru, it’s a symbol of societal castration, a silent declaration that you’ve traded your birthright to dress like a govt. veterinary for the dull, monochrome drudgery of a corporate Gulag.

The suit is not a choice, it’s a punishment. A declaration of your servitude to the corporate overlords who find joy in watching your skinny arse roast or freeze, all for the sake of their narrow-minded dress codes. It’s a declaration that you’ve been brainwashed by the very system that seeks to suffocate you, both literally and metaphorically.

As they say, ”YOU’RE NOT WEARING YOUR SUIT; YOUR BLOODY SUIT IS WEARING YOU”.

Your suit is a SCAM. A GLOBAL CON JOB designed to make you look “respectable” while crushing your psychological cojones.

You’re not dressed professionally.

YOU’RE WEARING A FABRIC CHAINS DESIGNED BY MANAGEMENT PSYCHOPATHS.

You, sir, are the living embodiment of the colonial fabric of dominion, a human pincushion stitched together by the very threads of oppression you so ignorantly flaunt. Your existence is a tragic testament to the perniciousness of imperialism, a walking, talking mannequin draped in the tattered vestments of a time when the sun never set on the tyranny of the needle and loom. The Brutish East India(Afrika) Company didn’t just trade in fabric; they peddled the very soul of cultural erosion, turning once-proud civilizations into a patchwork of their own warped reflection.

It is as if the very fabric of its existence were woven from the most distasteful threads of both Brutish nihilism and French vanity. It farts about like a photogenic trophy wife of a drug-lord—only not matching the appearance and mannerism—thinking itself the epitome of civilized attire, when in truth—it is but a garish testament to the fashion follies of its progenitors. The suit, you see, is the lovechild of a brutish empire and a nation obsessed with its own reflection, born from a tawdry affair between two cultural enemies who thought to outdo one another in the realm of male adornment. It is a tragicomedy of design, a grotesque amalgamation of the stiffness that defines English reserve and the flamboyance that oozes from every pore of Gallic pride.

I can not emphasize this enough: In its very essence, the suit is a contradiction, a spoilt bastard born of two worlds that have forever been at odds. The Brutish, with his penchant for the simple and the practical, sought to impose order upon the chaos of the human form, while the Frenchman, ever eager to flaunt his refined tastes, wished to wrap man in the finery of his own conceit. The result is a garment that is as confining as it is ostentatious, a silent scream of both “I shall not be moved” and “I can not behave–my dad can kick your dads’ posteriors”

Finally (because this rant can’t go on ad infinitum), In the grand stage of fashion, the suit is the thread that’s seen better days—a faded reminder of a time when conformity was celebrated and comfort was a four-letter word.

It’s high time for change. If you don’t, you run the risk of this level of permanent neck damage (PnD) – either presently or in your sunset days: 

Wajeni ufala.

 

CHANGE BEGINS WIZ YOU.

 

 

 

HELP SAVE YOUR FUCKING PLANET