If there’s something I love about having breath its being aware. Watching kids playing and realizing that the boy who says “baba yangu ni mnoma kuliko baba yako” is actually just scared, intimidated and insecure that another kid might actually be better than him.
I’m especially fascinated by women. All ages; woman are all the same yet very different. The young ones walk pompously with an air of entitlement as if working a runway perhaps because they’re at the blooming age and everyone with a trouser is telling them they’re God’s gift to the world. They don’t know heartbreak—the world is their oyster and sometimes they let the smoke and mirrors chaps feed them go to their heads; they’re often fingering their smartphones chatting up about ten chaps on Whatsapp but somehow end up picking the douche-bag, someone with a sneaky smile always looking down their top who screws them over.
Older women are a whole different kettle of fish (That phrase kettle of fish sounds fishy, no?) older women are often well seasoned—above 30 pushing a stable job, they have been through the bumps and potholes of life and they know that things don’t always go your way. They have come across the jerk and the manipulative nice guy and all they want is a good guy. Someone that’s easy to love, someone they can tell their fears, someone they can grow old with. They’re not haughty like the twenty somethings. They want a man, yes. But they’re realistic about the man they want because they know men just like life are not perfect.
I’m a bachelor that means I’m more keen on sampling what’s on the shelf than actually buying (Ok that sounds wrong) and I have only used the word “shelf” because one of my lady friend told me her biggest fear was that she would remain on the shelf long after her friends were married and with families. I was taken a-back because she’s young and tender. I was also astonished that there is a shelf full of young and tender things that I haven’t been acquainted to—so please, if you have directions to this shelf be kind enough to drop the google maps on us so we can uber ourselves there.
She’s the girlish type and she sometimes hosts sleepovers (I must be the only dumb ass who thought sleepovers entailed watching a movie and actually sleeping) but as it turns out a sleepover is all about nyama and not the arosto nyama you find at Banda street. That place called Rayans where rats have found a home. (Also, lets not get emotional if I have bashed your favorite joint, I’m just highlighting what I saw; a lightning fast rodent) Back to sleepovers…they have good nyama that they marinate, fry and sometimes oven while they run around the house in their underthings. There’s also booze and they spend the better part of the night gossiping about who is sleeping with whom and who got cheated on. Who’s chap has a big equipment and does he know how to use it (scary shit, right?) they’ll even share sex positions and how to spice up their sex life and I feel sad for our gender because our goose is cooked long before we even approach a girl.
The much chaps do when they meet is fist bump or grab each other’s hand and bump shoulders before proceeding to talk about football with small breaks of leering lasciviously at the women passing by. See how far off the game we are? While we’re busy talking about Mourinho and Manchester united our women are in sleepovers cooking up love potions.
Sometimes we meet up and she tells me the things girls talk about in those sleepovers; the lies they love to hear from each other, the sense of belonging that comes with the feeling that they’re in the same boat even though some might have a life jacket. How women claim they can’t settle for a man who is shorter, earns less, doesn’t own a car the shebang…How they’re waiting for their Mr. Right who might only be real in La Mujer de mi vida—the scalding hot, macho, chivalrous Miguel that makes them giddy with excitement never mind hardworking, honest, imperfectly-perfect Karis is right there waiting to claim her but he’s been stashed away in the friendzone—relegated to listening to her sleepover stories over a coffee. Hehe
She tells me that as you get old you realize you don’t necessarily have to lower your standards but you might need to adjust them. Because everyone’s perfect man is not necessarily similar. One girl might want a tall man who buys her gifts, while another wants a short one who is handy, one that takes the trash out & changes burnt bulbs even though it might mean lifting him up on your shoulders so he can get to them.
And I agree, not about the lifting on shoulders bulbs thing but on the imperfectly-perfect man. I think women grow up being fed this idea of a “perfect man” by everyone and everything around them. Almost every TV show or ad has a male lead who is tall, moneyed, smart, charismatic, sexy and funny and most women grow up believing the hype till their friends start getting married and they’re the maid at the last of their unmarried besties wedding waiting to catch the bouquet. Your family and biological clock breathing down your neck doesn’t help either.
I say walk it off, pray on it, or just give Karis the imperfectly-perfect man a chance.
Guys, I was actually supposed to do a short story—it was sited pretty on my drafts and I started an intro on it and it spiraled into this, so see you next Wednesday for the short story.
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