Men are trash and other jokes

I really was in no mood to listen to another “Men are trash” story, but the way it’s looking, these things, along with breathing and consummating relationships, cannot be avoided. Remember my friend Stacy? No? I’m sure I’ve mentioned her somewhere in these pages, but then again I’m sure about most things I am not really sure about.

So Stacy meets a boy who makes rainbows shoot out of her ears and she lets him in very early into the relationship, without getting him to strap on. No point in enjoying the candy if you are going to keep the wrapper on, right? Well, wrong.

Pretty soon, she has a bun baking in the oven and the guy swears to the gods of his ancestors that he will stick it out with her, for better or worse. He will marry the living melanin out of her and keep her blowing rainbows from her ears for all eternity.

And no, he does not run away because he is a man of his word. The first trimester comes and goes. He introduces her to his friends, and ensures that the girls in his previous situationships are up to date with his romantic current affairs. That way, none of them ends up drunk dialing him in the middle of the night, unless of course, they are calling to say not-so-sweet nothings to him.

Second trimester comes calling and the now very happy couple, already deep into the ‘baby let’s move in together’ conversation, always make it to the clinic hip by hip, because by the gods of the mountains prayed to by the boy’s ancestors, they are in this together! And he will be damned if he does not accompany her to the clinic and the pharmacy and the market and hold her hand at every opportunity, because hey, future baby daddy’s got to baby daddy, right?

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Third trimester.”

“Third trimester who?”

“Third trimester of your pregnancy, damn it!”

Well, shoot

Stacy gets the pains on the seventh month. Calls the doc. “Hi doc, I am in pain… No, not the usual back pain. Pain, pain… Am I spotting? No, not really… Oh, it’s nothing to worry about? Oh thank God… OK, I will come see you first thing in the morning for check up.”

Pain and bleeding gets Stacy in front of the doctor earlier than first thing in the morning and oops, baby’s gone. Not vanished from her womb like something out of a cringe worthy horror movie, but sort of no longer alive.

First thought to cross her mind is, “I have to call him, inform him of this new development,” but her calls go unanswered. He sends a message saying he had an early meeting with a client. Could she shoot him a text?

Loud silence

Stacy shoots him a text. Something along the lines of, yoh dude, remember that bun we put in the oven a while back? Well, isht has hit the fan. This is a highly paraphrased message, but the point is, dude ‘ghosts’ her for the rest of the day. She calls and calls, texts and texts, even sends him an email like he’s her boss, but, mteja doesn’t want to kupatikana.

And when he finally shows up at the hospital the following morning with a bouquet of flowers and a long story about how he was dealing with a demanding client at work, she opted to go back to her mother’s house. He could have been in a meeting with the President and a panel of heavenly angels and she still wouldn’t have cared.

What got to her though was how he blamed the miscarriage on her. “I don’t understand why you didn’t take care of yourself when I was so supportive,” he said. “If you didn’t want to have my baby, you would have just told me from the get go.”

Knowing very well that if she didn’t want the baby she would have had the pregnancy terminated within the first three months, Stacy moved back in with her mother and went through the several stages of grief that one gets smacked across the face with before you can finally say, “Well, bad things happens. Got to move on.”

And just when she was beginning to live again, the boy sent her a message like, “Hi. I miss you.” Well, considering she talks about him in the past tense, I figure he didn’t receive an “I miss you too” from her.