Women change, guys don’t

By Tony Mochama

Do you know you guys (meaning Liverpool) have a new coach called Brendan Rogers?” I said to the missus last Saturday.

She muttered, “Really? Oh,” barely looking up from her Woman’s Instinct magazine.

After the game, I laughed: “You guys

(meaning Liverpool) were whipped three/nil by West Bromwich Albion, he he.”

“Tough,” she said and switched from football to DVD to continue watching a series called The Event.

And I stood there, stunned by an epiphany — women change, men don’t … but they expect us to — and that’s the root cause of our clashes.

I mean, five years ago on a Saturday afternoon, the missus would be be-decked in her Liverpool jersey and I in my Chelsea T-shirt, and we would be rolling out on the town to watch the opening of the ‘English Premiership League’ pamoja, and later tease each other about the games.

And here we were, the damsel not giving a cow’s horn who their new coach was, by what margin they had lost —and whether Captain Fantastic (Steve Gerrard) was alive or dead? Amazing!

In place of those soccer Saturday nights, the lass preferred Friday nights at Captain’s playing Queen of Hearts (good, clean fun).

But as a man who doesn’t believe in luck and goes more for ‘cause and effect’ (Newton’s Second Law), I find it hard to go gaga over games of chance. And that’s the drift right there.

I tried to look at more evidence to support my new theory, ‘Women Change, Men Don’t’, and I found it.

On Tuesday evenings, we used to look for ‘Open Mic’ events (where a bunch of kookies basically spew poetry, and I am not talking karaoke here, Miz Kariuki). I still occasionally search for a dim bar to do poetry verse.

But the missus is far more for the idea of couples going to church together on Sunday mornings and doing biblical-verses-together nights.

Now, as a former altar boy, mass reader, top CRE student country wise, and sufferer wa Jah (I grew up in a household where we said the whole rosary nightly, for years), I know my Bible inside out. I just don’t want, and don’t quote me, to quote it!

And whatever happened to those nyama choma dinners at Taidy’s and Nerkwo? Now it is homemade suppers, kila siku, kila siku.

Oh well, they say change is inevitable. Perhaps compromise would be going to Captain’s with the missus and watching soccer there as my queen plays her ‘Hearts’ out.