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All married men ‘wamekaliwa chapati’

News

There had been silence in the matatu, until we stalled in traffic and a wedding party breezed past on the opposite lane.

An old man across the aisle sighed and said, “Ona vile huyo kijana anajikaanga kwa mafuta yake mwenyewe (see how that young man is frying himself in his own fat)!” Everyone, including the women, broke into raucous laughter.

In the groom’s silly mind, he assumed he was calling the shots. Far from it! The moment he said ‘hi’, she decided on the spot whether she was going to sleep with him or not. Right on their first date, she decided that she was going to marry him. So when he went down on bended knee and proposed, he was merely following a script she had crafted many months back.

She chose the date of the wedding, which cars, number of guests, which guests to turn up, those who should not show their ugly faces, how much her gown would cost, what the groom and his party would wear... Heck she decided everything, including how much the whole thing would cost, and all the 58 mastingos to be unleashed during the honeymoon.

She chose the venue too. His role was to turn up dressed in the orange pajamas she chose and dance around like a fool.

Once the wedding was done, and she acquired the power to read the riot act, she would descend his beloved, now marehemu, bachelor pad, rip out the curtains, fling the sheets into the bin, trash the two-burner gas cooker, paint the whole place in a garish pink and rearrange the furniture.

This is often a temporary measure because ten intense nagging sessions later, our man realises he has invested in new furniture.

While the fool is enjoying his new-found status (uji kwa wingi and 55-year-old women neighbours addressing him as mzee), his authority is stolen at ‘kisspoint.’

Henceforth, she decides when he eats, what he eats, how he eats, how he dresses, what he dresses in, what time he comes home, what time he goes to bed and oh, when he has sex!

Oh yes! She feigns headaches any time she feels like and gets away with it. But I am yet to find a man brave enough to insist he is waiting to watch Christiane Amanpour on CNN when mama watoto comes down the stairs in a negligee at midnight and pointedly asks, “Kwani leo haulali (you are not coming to bed tonight)?”

If that is the night she has decided she is getting knocked up, she will get knocked up irrespective of whether the World Cup final is being played that night, or you are too broke to crank up the engine. That baby will be born in the hospital she decides, learn whatever language she chooses and go to the school of her choice.

It is the wife who decides whether you should build in gichagi, or not, how big or small that pad should be and whether you have a potbelly or not and how you relate with your mother. Now, if you are a husband and you are reading this, lie low like an envelope. You are nobody’s boss, You merely house the boss.

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