We were leaving the bar in the city Centre at 10:37pm. We had not eaten anything when we started drinking, which means the few beers I had swilled, made every woman in the vicinity look like Scarlet Johansson. My younger, but richer friend, was to drop me home.
Then he took a wrong turn. May be it was the beer. May be I overplayed my paranoia, but I shouted at him, “Where are you taking me?”
See, my friend’s wealth is of the dubious type. He is the kind who says he is into ‘biasharaz,’ but will never disclose what business he does. I have heard of human sacrifices, and I was concerned. No one knew where I was at that time.
The headline, ‘Missing journalist found murdered in...” flashed through my mind.
“I’m buying Lucy some pizza on the way,” he answered as we sped towards a pizzeria in the upper sides of the CBD.
“Why pizza? Hasn’t she cooked?” I asked, relieved after that sissy moment. He threw his hand in the air resignedly. Quiet. We got to the pizzeria, he bought the largest pizza available, topped with whatever Lucy liked.
He bought some fries and chicken parts that looked like they were rolled in the sand, and off we went.
Relieved that I was not being kidnapped, I sobered up to the fact that my friend’s wife had not cooked and had instructed him to come home with some pizza.
And the poor son of a woman was going to eat fries and chicken plastered with dry, spiced wheat paste.
My friend kidnapped this woman from college and they have been together for five years. The parents are scarcely aware of the union.
Together, they have a daughter and are, for all intents and purposes, married. But the woman is yet to make the mental transition from being a girlfriend to being the woman of the house. The wife.
I have seen her before insisting on accompanying us on a night out and spoiling the party for everyone.
It got me thinking. There is a breed of women who eight years into marriage, are still demanding to be treated like girlfriends. You go for dates. Go to clubs. Demand pizza. Expect flowers. And want to be checked on every hour of the day.
Guys, marriage is all about growing up. Unfortunately, men and women of my generation barely grow up after marriage.
Women of our generation never want to settle down.
Yet, marriage calls for certain mental adjustments to cope with the biological changes wrought on our bodies by age, childbirth and parental stress.
But now, we have a generation of women who were breastfed on trashy Mexican soaps and weaned on tasteless Hollywood series who cannot even adjust their wardrobe to suit that of a mother and a lovely wife.
I have seen some married women in extremely short and provocative skirts, and heels so high, they can hawk mandazis and njugu karanga to passengers in planes!
Why bother with all these? A woman needs to be just decent, more comfortable at home and church, away from the work place. A woman must ensure that she nourishes her husband. Of course, every once in a while (twice a year at most) eating out is necessary.
A married woman who wants her marriage to work must never ever know the inside of a bar.
Alcohol ruins homes. When a man is an alcoholic, it is bad. But when the wife too insists on imbibing, that marriage is doomed to fail.
When women learn to be contented and realise that everything changes as they grow older, half the world’s problems will be solved.
If you elect to be married, there are certain sacrifices to be made.
Alternatively, you can choose to be single, and live with your dog in your 30s or worse, marry young men who are only interested in your money.