Why WhatsApp is actually a major relationships' enemy

Many months ago, I wrote a piece about Kenyans in India and Jackson Biko published it on his blog. In the piece, I mentioned Mwana enough times and those those who read it always ask where she is or what happened to her. Whenever I am asked, I always tell them that I will do a sequel and explain everything.

Normally, I never think of Mwana until those who read the blog ask me about her. But late last week, I was forced to think about her after some incriminating screenshots, were posted online and the Kenyan Twitterverse erupted in a mix of outrage, excitement and bewilderment as it always does every so often.

Mwana and I used to have our issues; the kind of issues which teenagers who are living together and sharing many things are likely to have. Late last week, upon seeing those screenshots, I remembered one of the triggers of our problems with Mwana: It was a diary — a journal that I used to keep.

Thus, during good times or whenever we were sharing only the house, and sulking like jilted adolescents, I would do my Dear Diary stuff and feel good about it then get back to doing whatever it is that we were supposed to be doing or not doing, depending on the weather — and our raging hormones.

Later, I realised that my written words were causing harm since I had no chance in hell of conveniently forgetting anything as Mwana could thumb through the pages and point to me the statements I had forgotten.

If I could not stop doing my Dear Diary stuff, I needed to find a very safe place to keep the journal; someplace where its contents could not be used as evidence against me or any other party who had no idea that she — it was always a she — was coming between our young love and its attendant recklessness.

When I saw the screenshots late last week, I pitied the young women who were part of the rigmarole, knowingly, or unknowingly. However, my heart bled for the young man whose thoughts, and sexcapades and air-headedness were now being dissected by all and sundry.

If only he could not have thought with his fingers, we could not have known that his boss trusts him or how far his chapatti rolling pin can take him. We could not have known about his existence if at all his meaningless transactions were verbal.

Oh, the wonders of technology. So many young men are suffering in silence because of technology, communication technology, simply because they think with their fingers. Of course there are young ladies who also suffer because they cannot keep their mouths shut, and pour their hearts and other organs out to their BFFs.

To the young ladies, and even the young men, here is a short story. A true story: There is a senior journalist (he is so senior that you cannot see his byline) in Kenya, let’s call him John, who had dated Rose for so long that their parents had bought stuff for their grandchildren. Rose had a best friend known as Mary and whenever she was going to meet John, she went with Mary. She told Mary everything about John — including his eating habits, sleeping patterns and favourite positions. To cut to the chase, John and Mary are living happily ever after. Moral of the story: Mind what you tell your friend about your partner, even if the partner was just for a one night stand.

The young men who think with their fingers must know that they are not safe because smart phones are actually that — smart — and as a matter of fact, they are smarter than their owners, if last week’s episode of Screenshots and other previous serials are anything to go by.

And so it comes to pass, that if you really want to save your sex and love life, and save yourself from unnecessary heartaches, do not think with your fingers. Yes, your voice can be recorded, but proving that you were the one who was talking might not be as straight forward as proving that a screenshot was from your line.

Young man, avoid sending text and WhatsApp messages. Employ them only when necessary, and keep your words to the barest minimum. Always make phone calls then say everything you want to say and leave no space for screenshots.

But above all, grow up — many of us are least interested in your graphic descriptions, rendezvous, arrant idiocy and sexless flings. We have phone calls to make and hormones to take care of.