I was watching this movie, Money Monster, where this broke man has taken a whole TV station hostage to find out why his USD60,000 investment in a certain company has gone down the toilet.
Imagine if you seized your bank manager at gunpoint, marched him to a broadcasting studio and asked for a reasonable explanation for the sky rocketing interest rates on your mortgage.
A judge recently summarized it wonderfully. Local banks are not just vultures on trees, waiting patiently for their victim to die.
They are also like hit men, who then insist over the family’s wishes, on being pallbearers and carrying the casket to the grave to make sure you are really dead.
If you make even the slightest movement — that is, if they suspect you have a hidden asset — they will strip the Cadini suit off your corpse and sell it to settle their cadaverous debt. That is why the president must sign the bill to tame them.
But I digress. The cops bring in the hostage-taker’s wife, as they do in movies, to talk him out of the situation.
Instead, she gives him a truthful earful — telling him what a loser he is, how he thought he was smart betting his mom’s small inheritance on stock markets he pretends to understand, and that he just ought to just blow himself up.
To make matters worse, she tells him, on live TV, that he is such a wimp that every time they make love, he weeps. The lady speaking is pregnant with his child, by the way.
And at this point, you are thinking – kill yourself already, dude.
In the week leading up to the celebration of the Constitution we promulgated six years ago, there are men out there who wish a new Katiba could find its way under the mabati and into their homes.
All men want admiration. The fastest way to finish a fellow, as a female, is by attacking his ego; making him feel smaller in many ways than the next man (see, women, the weapon I am handing you, on the sly, in this space)?
Then men would want women to stop nagging. Telling a fellow the same thing once, twice, thrice, ten times, will not make him do it. It is not like he didn’t hear you the first time round.
Next door to me lives this guy whose wife has to engage him in a high pitched quarrel half the night, every three days. Ni ka ni dawa – ‘quarrel, once, every three days. If irritations persist, consult a divorce lawyer.’
Then there is the third group of millenialls who cannot cook to save their man’s life.
And, worse, proud of it and post it on social media. Imagine a CV where you brag to a prospective employer — ‘I am lazy, cannot absolutely work without major supervision, and my academic qualifications are down to Mwakenyas, sleeping with lecturers, and the rampant KCSE stealing of October 2010.’
Matiang’i forbid! Yet this is what the ‘no cook’ posts on Facebook are, and any intelligent African man should rightfully regard you as hit-and-run and not ‘keeper’ material.
In short, give your man respect, peace and space. If he wants to go and watch soccer on Saturday afternoon, fine.
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