You are doomed if you marry a private detective; she will make your life a living hell
It would be exhilarating to watch the great Sherlock Holmes in action. To stand there, a fly on the wall, as he stalks the room; scanning, observing, pulling clues out of thin air and to hear him explain his conclusions to the stunned audience.
It would be less exhilarating, I imagine, if you were watching, not the great Sherlock Holmes in action, but the heavyset, sharp-eyed demon with whom you once stood in front of God and man to make ill-advised declarations. She was not a demon back then. She was not a detective either.
So, it would be quite discomfiting to stagger back to your casa after painting the town red and find her, the next great sleuth, seated at a table waiting for you. It would be terrifying, and very sobering, to see the collection of innocuous things she has gathered to testify against you.
The strand of hair she collected from your shirt alone is enough to indict you, not to mention the stain on your collar that smells like a marriage of spices native to Jiweke Tavern. And that is before she gets into the algebra of when your phone ‘went off’, and what that means relative to your rampant infidelity.
‘If a car leaves Westlands at 5 pm, and another one (carrying a homewrecker) leaves Kileleshwa at 5. 50 pm, calculate the exact time panties will hit the floor of a dingy lodging, factoring in mild traffic, six beers and the promise that someone will leave their wife. Show your working.’
Well, this lady will have no trouble solving that equation. X will mark the spot where she buries your body.
You could point out, in an attempt to lighten proceedings, that our criminal investigations directorate is desperately in need of an investigator of her abilities. That there are cold cases which would benefit greatly from her deductive nous. The death of JM Kariuki, for example. Or the fate of that plane which went missing. Or the identity of the fella who let the dogs out. Maybe she could even help us figure out where Safaricom bundles go or what ‘Twende Tukiuke’ means.
But you will know, even as she decides which knife to castrate you with, that the jig is up. You are screwed. You were screwed the minute you married a private detective and not a jiko like you were supposed to.
I would venture that there is nothing more dangerous, that there is no flag redder than this one. A lady who cannot rest unless she is on a case. When things are rosy, she will be angsty and fidgety. Why are you so happy? Why are things going so well? Didn’t the priest promise ‘for better or for worse’? Where is the ‘worse’?
And when things are not so rosy, she will be devastated, because her fears are probably true, and she was right after all, just like all the feminists on Twitter said, and men are dogs after all.
She will never be happier than when she is sniffing around, rifling through pockets for receipts and shiny foil pieces she will never believe are Indomie sachet corners. There will be no greater thrill than piecing together the random names she overhears during phonecalls and later puts a face to. She will only need to prove that ‘Jobo’ in your contact list is in fact ‘Martha’ the intern to achieve orgasm.
Her joy will be unmatched when she manages to retrieve, from her mental database, some reckless thing you said to her on August 11, 2012 in the heat of an argument, and use it to show that you are the king of all liars. You are President of the Republic of Deceptia, and you have changed the Constitution so you can rule forever.
If you’re too open, then you will be too boring. Real men sneak around like 80s gangsters. Real men hide entire families. Real men manage three separate bank accounts and only confess when someone needs to be airlifted to India for a bladder transplant. That woman needs mystery, damn it. Enough with the flowers and poetry. Give her a scandal to unravel, and make it a big one.
Marrying right is a tricky, tricky thing to do. Not many pull it off, as happily ever after remains farther out of reach than ever before. If you want to see the promised land, then, even from a distance like Moses, watch out for those amateur detectives.