Like I have always said, I am picky when it comes to falling in love, maybe that’s the reason I am yet to settle down.
I am, however, not in a hurry because I am heeding the advice of one motivational speaker who made it clear that life is not a race. For those racing, I can only wish you luck as I give you a side eye from the terrace.
Anyway, let’s talk about dating a workaholic; if you have never tried, kneel down and thank your maker because that’s one of the most difficult things in a relationship.
This thing called love once led me into the arms of a workaholic. I now look back and thank the gods of Amadioha for lifting me out of that bottomless pit. This man would sleep as late as midnight and wake up as early as 3am in the name of ‘making money’.
I ask today, what money is this you are trying to make that my great grandfather the late Zadok Wanga did not make during his early years at Athi River? I am just not sure if his was poor planning or misplaced priorities.
How do you carry work home daily yet in your house sits the most beautiful woman South of Sahara and North of Limpopo. Yes, I am beautiful like that; If you have a different opinion, write it down on a piece of paper, walk to the nearest shop, buy a rubber and rub out that opinion because no one is going to believe it.
I would get home early enough to make dinner for my man only for him to show up with piles and piles of work. Not because he had so much to do and deadlines to meet but because he claimed he loved doing what he did.
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So what do miners who love their work do in their homes? He would even sit in his car at the parking lot trying to finish up some of his work and when it got too cold, he would walk up the stairs to our house scrolling through his laptop. Then like a robot, he would walk into the house past me as if I was one of the chairs and go into the bedroom then lock it up claiming he did not want interruptions.
One hour later, he would call me using his phone to say ‘hi’ and ask how my day was as if he was somewhere in the North Pole yet he was in the next room. He would only walk out for an hour to eat his dinner and take a quick shower then rush back to his ‘office’ after pointing out what attire he wanted me to iron for the next day.
At first, I thought that was how ‘marriage’ was supposed to be so I prepared myself for the ‘wifey’ duties. With time though, I realised he was slowly turning me into a secondary robot.
So one day, I interrupted him as he ‘worked’. I shut down his laptop, put my hands akimbo, elongated my already long neck like a flamingo, twisted my mouth like a Nigerian woman and told him, “Babe, I am tired! You never have time for me.” He quietly looked up at me and told me, “Babe, patience pays.”
That’s the day I realised I wasn’t featuring anywhere in his present. He had totally pushed me into his future as if I was some education policy waiting to mature. I swung my hips out of that house and I have never looked back.
A man can’t be subject me into a lonely life yet my mother gave birth to me in a full house.
The lungs that I have are powerful and are meant to be used for talking and laughing out loud. I cannot do either of those things if you are sitting quietly next to me like a chameleon trying to camouflage.
I vowed never to date a workaholic. If you are going to carry your work home so it can eat into our time, then be fair enough and carry me to your workplace so that I can eat up into your time there. You can’t have your ‘black forest’ and eat it too!