Why wives grow fat and beautiful when husbands die

This is a question for the sages from a friend I shall not name lest he is declared persona non grata in his home: “How come whenever a man dies, his widow grows fat, more beautiful and vibrant?”

Let’s be frank here. There is a crop of men who deserve to die. And I am not referring to brothers who are allergic to water or toothbrushes. I am not even talking about men who have this mistaken belief that the hair on certain parts of their anatomy should be preserved as game parks teeming with wildlife.

I am talking about the good for nothing bastards whose only contribution to society is improving soil fertility by squatting behind bushes. Those jokers who sire children they don’t provide for, waste their lives sleeping in trenches in drunken stupor and then stagger home to beat the wife and steal her money, or terrorise the children and demand for food.

Marital beds

I am referring to the lowlifes who ravish chicken and goats, rape their daughters and drag prostitutes and other shady women into their marital beds — while the woman of the house is cowering and whimpering in the sitting room.

Surely, if you were a woman and a rascal of this nature masquerading as your husband deservedly kicks the bucket, are you expected to wear sackcloth and walk around mourning for years? For heaven’s sake, bury the loser, exhale, grab a beer, say good riddance, invest in a weave and fall in love with the next conman who comes around.

By the way, those are not the only kinds of men whose widows should rightfully grow fat. You have men who provide alright, except the woman will never hear the end of it. These are mean spirited fellows who always complain how wasteful the missus is, how she has no brain, how fat she has become, how her folks are parasites who would be dirt poor without him and so forth.

Ration food

In this category are men who ration food in the home, publicly treat their women like dirt and sniff around their wives’ handbags and phones. So while Field Marshal Dedan Kimathi and his band braved the chill in the Aberdares to set us free, these guys turn their wives into virtual prisoners in a free republic with a brand new Constitution.

The woman can’t belong to a chama. She can’t have friends, she can’t go to the market, and she can’t even be seen chatting with a man. For Christ’s sake, marriage shouldn’t be a juvenile home, or a maximum security prison!

And you want to tell me that when such an insecure son of a b***c gets promoted to higher glory, or wherever it is that such scoundrels go, his widow shouldn’t grow nicely round and fat?

We, however, have to draw a line here. Much as it is good riddance, the widow must pretend to be wracked by sorrow. She must wear black, if she can afford to, look puffy-eyed, wail if her culture demands it and look like her life is shattered.

But six months on, she must let the fresh air, the peace, freedom, independence or whatever it is her apology of a husband had sucked out of her life to seep into her senses. And then must she grow fat, more beautiful and vibrant.