I consider myself a full-grown man; for the simple reason that I play FIFA, I have a beard, pubic hair in all the necessary places, a set of overgrown balls between my legs, and I occasionally watch porn. I also skim through Huddah Monroe and Vera Sidika’s Instagram feeds from time to time for twerk videos. If you are a man and you do not engage in any of the above activities, wewe ni nusu mkate.
Anyway, as the grown man that I am, there are certain things I cannot bring myself to doing. Not even with a gun pointed to my head. For instance;
I can never spike my whiskey. I know, I’ve said this a dozen times. But I will never get tired of repeating it. Because, apparently, I still drink with boys – not men. I always say Whiskey and Chapo are constant proof that God loves us and wants to see us happy. So, then, why would someone want to ruin that? Taste in whiskey is what separates the men from the boys; not even a well tied tie (I’m looking at you, Austin). There’s a way real men look at their whiskey before taking a sip. It’s a look of longing and satisfaction, at the same time. It’s a look of gratitude, knowing someone somewhere is looking out for you. It’s a look of Class. Finesse. Grandiosity. It’s that look you give a girl your boys said was way out of your leg but is, presently, lying in your bed; naked, looking sexy and drippier than a bottle of freezing Tusker.
Secondly, a man should never enjoy eating a banana. At least not openly. Enjoy it inwardly. Not Outwardly. Do not unwrap the peel with a smile. Do not lick the tip. Do not sigh playfully. And do not look another man in the eye while eating a banana. There’s a million things wrong with the shape of a banana for a fellow man to be seen enjoying himself while eating one. And, most importantly, do not make faces while eating a banana. Now that’s just psychotic.
Thirdly, a grown man should never know the characters of a soap opera. Or even the plot. Thou shall not come to the bar talking about how the next episode of ‘La Corona’ is going to be fire. That ceases to be a bar and, immediately, turns into a salon or a market place. Also, why do all these soap operas begin with ‘La’? Is there, like, some unwritten rule behind the naming of soap operas that insists on the word ‘La’? I don’t get it. ‘La’ sounds like a tune you hum in your sleep while you’re dreaming about lighting your ex-girlfriend’s tits on fire. Just her tits. Nothing else.
A grown man should never, for even a split second, carry his lady’s purse. That is the highest level of umama one can ever engage in. Carrying your lady’s purse implies she’s the one wearing the pants in the relationship. It means she’s Batman and you’re Robin; the side kick. It implies that she drinks scotch while you twitch your face after a sip of Tusker Cider. It implies that she knows who Martin Tyler and Allan Smith are while you only care about the three people Kim Kardashian follows on Instagram. It implies that you take off her jacket when she gets home from work and say, “How was your day? Here’s some coffee to cool you down.” It implies that she watches the English Premier League while you do your nails and look pretty in the mirror. It implies that she reads Saturday Nation’s ‘Man Talk’ column in bed while you do the dishes in your pink apron. Speaking of which (doing the dishes, not your pink apron) let me tell you guys a little story.
I like to drop by my friends’ pads unannounced. I don’t call or text that I’m coming: what am I, your girlfriend? Men don’t give each other heads up. It’s what makes it so fun. I will show up without so much as an invite and, still, will not even knock on your door. I’ll waltz right in like I own the damn building. If I find you boning some chic, the better; not that I’ll join in or anything (puh) but I’ll take a closer look at her face to know whether we’re roasting you later for your pathetic taste in women or buying you a beer and putting you on the ‘Wall of Fame’. I once walked in on a friend boning this mami with a shrill voice and a head so bald she looked like peeled potatoes. He went missing from the crew for two weeks but when he came back, the joke had still not died down. Turns out Miss Potato actually gave him a rash. We laughed about that too.
I digress a lot. I was talking about showing up to friends’ cribs unannounced.
A few days ago I’m bored at my place, right? So what do I do? (And you guys know how there are always two voices in your head, right?) Voice 1 asks, “Si Ken stays just over here across the bridge?” And Voice 2 replies, “Eeehh. Why don’t we pay the guy a visit? Labda his girlfriend is around, si he’s always bragging about how she cooks some nasty Chapos?” Voice 1 adds, “Let’s go. But next time lead with the part about Chapos.”
Ten minutes later I’m walking into his decent one-bedroom. And, sure enough, the girlfriend is there; in booty shorts and one of his t-shirts, legs stretched out on the couch, earphones plugged in, eyes fixated on the laptop screen, watching something I can only assume was made by Tyler Perry. I say “Hi” but she doesn’t reply, just looks at me, coldly. We have never said it out loud but we’ve never quite liked each other. But if the rumors about her Chapos are anything to go by then I’m pretty sure we can work something out, become best friends, even.
I head straight for the kitchen and guess who I find doing the dishes while humming to Adelle? Ken. He sees the look of shock on my face and goes;
“Is she sick?” I ask.
“Tina. Your girlfriend, the one watching Tyler Perry in the living room, is she sick?
“Oh. No. Why?”
“Are her hands numb?”
“Is she pregnant?”
“Hells No. What’s wrong with you?”
“Did she lose someone today?”
“Well, then, why are you doing the bloody dishes when she’s right there, man?”
“She cooked and cleaned the house. I’m just trying to chip in here, bro.”
“No. Good Sex is how you chip in. Not by doing the bloody dishes.”
“Do you know how ridiculous you sound right now?”
“Do you know how ridiculous you look right now?”
“What’s wrong with doing the dishes?”
“Nothing. If you have breasts and do yoga.”
“At least tell me she’s cooking Chapos after you’re done here, Yes?”
“No. I’m making spaghetti.”
“I’ll come back to the spaghetti later on but…did you just say you’re cooking?”
“Yes. What, you have a problem with that too?”
“That’s it. I’m out of here.”
Men, with your woman literally 10 steps away, why would you do the dishes (while humming to Adelle, no less)? Why would you cook? And, spaghetti, really? See, this is why I’d prefer we go back to the times of our Grandfathers when men and women had distinct roles. Women cooked, cleaned, looked after the children, and got pretty for their husbands. Men hunted, played football, took the biggest pieces of meat, rested, and performed in the bedroom. That’s how it always should be.
We need to go back to the days when Men actually had Balls. We need to go on Twitter, right now, and tweet with the hashtag #BringBackOurBalls.
And oh… It’s been a year since we started this blog. We need an anniversary bottle.
Photo: COURTESY (Pexels)