Here is a different way to celebrate Women's Day

Last Saturday, they celebrated International Women’s Day. I’m still sulking because none of my female friends bothered to invite me to the bash. How?

I had assumed there would be wild parties all over town where women would turn out dressed in the latest vitenge, pecking everyone in sight and sipping wine like water.

I thought the feeding would be a lot more sumptuous and healthy than the fattening and gout-inducing stuff that men feed themselves on during their version of International Men’s Day, which happens daily.  And what did I get? Nothing — not even a ‘XoXo’ text from the women in my life.

As a result, I have no idea what happened. But I’m assuming the ladies celebrated in style, and by style, this is what I mean.

First, I hope all women of goodwill arrived home at midnight on Friday night high as rockets. They made a racket at the door, waking up all the neighbours till mzee, who had slept only half an hour earlier after sending hundreds of ‘uko wapi?’ text messages, woke up.

I hope they remembered to discard their shoes in an untidy heap at the door, demand for supper, which they left virtually untouched after having downed a kilo of roast beef at the local. Then they threw up in the kitchen sink. Having done that, I hope the women remembered to collapse into bed fully clothed to snore like tractors.

The moment the clock struck midnight, I hope the women dragged the entire blanket away from their better halves. And when the baby sleeping in the next room woke up with a wild scream, they strung the blanket tighter around her head, meaning it was husbands who woke up to sort out the mess.

I’m assuming that in the morning, hubbies woke up at the crack of dawn, quarreled house helps over this or that, supervised laundry, made breakfast and only when the crispy pancakes were done did they wake up the wives as kids yelled, “Daddy this! Daddy that!”

Thereafter, I imagine they spent hours fixing school shoes, yelling at the children, snooping through their wives’ text messages, while the ladies launched on the sofa in tracksuits reading newspapers till lunch was served.

Thereafter, I hope the women began looking fidgety, then told one of the kids, “Bring me my sandals Brian.”  

“Kwani where are you going Suzy?” the men asked.

“I’m just reaching here…” the women answered vaguely.

“Si then you carry the gas cylinder? Gas is over and we also need some beef for dinner. You are not staying, are you?” the men posed.

“No, no, no — I will be right back. I’m just reaching here…” the women lied.

So I hope that on Saturday afternoon, while the men sat home listening to the mboch gossiping about the neighbours, sorting out the children’s homework and fights and waiting for gas and beef, the women vanished to the pub to savour the International Women’s day.

I hope they came back on Sunday night reeking of cologne, without gas, beef or a reasonable explanation as to why their phones had been off for 24 hours.