There is this little fantasy I wish to dispel men of.
That money is not right at the very top of a woman’s thoughts, all the time, and always.
I saw a rather gross post by some supposed professor last weekend, where the crude feller complained that he had ‘found her (his ex wife) eating garbage in the streets of Nairobi, and rescued her … but now she wants to cajole (sic) me!’
I don’t know why these people like to speak in BIG words – and then use them in a wrong manner.
To cajole is to persuade by either flattery or deceit – and any decent Thesaurus will tell you it is to beguile or seduce someone into your way of thinking, by buttering them up through sweet or smooth talk.
I doubt Professor’s ex was trying to wheedle him by cosying up to the man.
So what he perhaps meant to say was ‘but now she wants to coerce me out of my money.’?
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Whether he married a chokora (ama that’s not what Prof meant by ‘eating garbage on the streets’) or a rich man’s daughter, in The End – and I mean ‘the end’ in a literal sense – it all boils down to Benjamins!
The editor here shared some favourite song lyrics with us, not long ago.
Here are some that are popular with women: ‘It’s all about the money, it’s all about the ho’ dough do us dun dumb’ (how money, from men, makes many women go very blonde).
This song is by Meja, the American singer, (not Mejja, our minor Kenyan musician celebrity).
Travis Titt sure got it right when he sang about how a handshake used to be, all you needed to make a deal, and how (because it’s all about the money) ‘as soon as you hit some hard times, all your good friends disappear.’
But now let us talk about a woman’s money!
Yes, the one she makes through her own hard work, that she may hide in a secret account as savings, or invest in a chamaa or a merry-go-round that you will never ever ride.
That, my brother, is money you can never touch, not because you don’t want to, but because even if you have super powers, and somehow sniff it, your fingers will be chopped off as you stretch to ‘reach out, and touch it,’ man.
It is easier for a rich hustler to enter the Kingdom of the Lord, than for you to access that cash.
It is easier for Uhuru Kenyatta to get the secretive and stingy Swiss to return swindled billions.
But you catch my drift!
Getting access to that money is like pulling a rabbit out of a hat – but the hat is hidden in a bank vault in Panama.
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away from us, I hear women would take their salaries to their husbands, and they would then re-dish it out to the women folk, according to their needs.
These days, it is the opposite happening at ground level.
Although if your idea of a great Saturday is to take alcohol from 2pm, then bet at five on England beating Belgium (because the odds are longer), and after that suss out which young lady around to splash cash on, then tomorrow you are telling your woman ‘aki borrow a ka fifteen K from your shylock to sustain us till end month,’ you deserve to have your woman as the sole signatory of your account.
But, that aside, women and their money are a No Go Zone.
It does not matter whether you took her to college, and bought her that first Vitz (she’s never been able to lose the habit, her latest one is the 2016 G Sport model, in hot baby pink!), once she is in the money, it is hers.
Unless, of course, you are her new Naija boyfriend, oh.
If you are, you will give her the old cliché story: ‘Mummy, mah goods dey are in da port, and dey ah wot ten million shilling, a beg a million for dey clearance, you know how corrupto dey be down in de Mombasa habour, oh mummy!’
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