The bald, ugly girl with a potbelly during mini skirt march was me

Michelle may not be a Kilimani mum, but as they say, home is where the heart is. This woman’s heart and soul are so against men that she secretly jubilates whenever a misfortune befalls a comrade.

It happened when they almost undressed Magerer in their haste to eject him out of Orange House. She sat on the edge of her seat whenever the clip was replayed on TV muttering stuff like bure Kabisa! Ukiona wao...” and all manner of hate speech.

But did we demonstrate in protest? No sir, we decided to let that one pass although a man’s elaborate belly was screened on TV for all to see.

However, when, unfortunately, a woman was attacked and her clothes pulled off in public, it had everyone talking. It became a trending topic worldwide with over a gazillion tweets.

YouTube pulled down the video after it started attracting traffic from perverts worldwide that, despite all the nudity in the internet, could not resists staring at the fundamendos of an innocent girl for a change.
Regrettable, seeing that we all have sisters, mothers, daughters and even grandmothers. What, however, should not be condoned is the mileage anti-men brigade want to gain from this unfortunate incident. If nothing is done, the brigade might even demand that the digital government of Ole Jomo declare November 17 a miniskirt public holiday.

On that day they will step out in minis that look as though they have been transformed from handkerchiefs. Some will even go ahead and cut long slits to demonstrate their independence from male bigots and chauvinists.

And this is the kind of thing Michelle cannot miss even if it was reported that Al Shabaab have taken over State House. She selected her skimpiest micro-mini and was just about to join the march when I pulled her back into the house. “Na si you put on some clothes before venturing out,” I suggested. She sneered at me before telling me that she was dressed to join in solidarity with a sister who was harassed by touts in the city the week before. “#mydressmychoice,” she concluded defiantly.

Then I knew I had a problem in my hands. Where I come from, if a woman left the house half naked, it meant that her husband amekaliwa. I did not mind her sitting on chapatis but having the clan realise that she is sitting on me is a different case all together.

And besides, I do not walk around with sagging trousers and neither do I open my shirt in public to expose my belly button. In short, I am ashamed of those parts of my body that would offend or excite the general public.

If Michelle and I are married, shouldn’t we share a few basic policies? She doesn’t think that is necessary. “Timbuktu, dear, you have no idea how many people wanted to get married to me before I fell for your lies,” she told me. And they came to me because they liked what they saw,” she informed me. I totally disagreed because I married Michelle after she tricked me into believing that I was saving a damsel in distress.

I mean she played a trick on my gallantry which I could not resist. Now that we are married she is revealing her true colors.

“Yaonekana hatuelewani,” I told her. “I am jealous so many men are going to see your legs and afraid that the touts out there may not like what they see. Therefore get back inside, dress up and serve me breakfast before you leave,” I ordered.
I am not sure what triggered her anger because I am not the first man in my clan to order his missus around, maybe my tone challenged the feminist in her and she rose to the occasion like a column of mercury on a hot Kapedo afternoon.

“I am not your slave and my dressing is my business,” she retorted. “You mean the lack of dressing thereof,” I tried to correct her making the situation worse.

She whipped up the hem of her skirt like a grenade launcher was nestled beneath it and dared me to repeat what I said if I was man enough. “The choice is yours. I leave this place with a raised hem or the way I was before you started shooting off your mouth.” I was flabbergasted.

I sank to my knees and begged her not to commit the abomination she was threatening to unleash on the poor spectators who will be lining up the streets to watch short skirts march past.
I said I would do anything to get things the way they were before and she laughed maniacally.

That is the worst mistake I have ever committed. Because the woman decided to hand down a set of conditions I may never live down for the rest of my life.

“You have to dress in my skirt and tank top to join the march in solidarity with women to dress in whatever they like.

I was to also to carry a placard printed ‘AM XO PRITTI IN A MINI!’

I’m sure you will remember the bald ugly girl with a potbelly at the head of the Milimani mamacitas procession.

They didn’t even allow me to shave my legs. “Unatuchomea picha was all the thanks I got for my gallantry.