Miranda rights. That is what I should have demanded from the prosecutor... sorry, Tenderoni. Last year, I bought a sweater from a second-hand clothes stall near where we live. It was the ensuing conversation that took a different twist. Which I later blurted out to Tenderoni.
The seller was either trying to sell me the sweater or, who knows, she was trying to unwittingly sell me a thought.
“You men aren’t content with one woman,” the seller — a perfect stranger — told me. As I fitted the sweater, she commented about my body. Asking if I worked out Flirting as if she had been sent.
“Why did she comment about your body ... and what else did she say?” Tenderoni pressed, and I knew that, by opening my big mouth, I had kissed my Miranda Rights bye-bye.
My wife is not going to be around me 24/7. Shadowing me. It is up to me to take care of myself. Make sure I do not make a Himalayan blunder. Keep it together. And there are countless temptations (and temptresses) out there. In “innocent” Facebook updates, text messages, phone calls, and innocuous roadside transactions.
In Tyler Perry’s musical, Marriage Counsellor , the infidelity of Roger’s wife leaves him reeling. He has been good to her. And he loses it when she leaves him for her ex-flame, a baller who is rolling in it.
Roger: “You know what I’ma do? I’ma go out there and become the biggest whore that ever lived. They ain’t gon’ love me till I’m a dog.”
Roger’s father: “Don’t let your love for this woman turn you into what you’re not. You’re not a whore. No, sir. Not my son.”
Sometimes a hurting man, or a husband who is about to hurt his wife and marriage — needs a bigger man in his life. Someone he is accountable to. Someone to make him see what is really up even if he is not down for it. A man’s man.
Tenderoni likes sleeping with the windows closed and the burglar-proof main door bolted. I reckon it is just her way of feeling safe and sound, especially at night.
“I must go and check if the bedroom window is really shut,” Tenderoni likes to say after we have switched off the bedroom lights. Her insecurities are getting the better of her.
“Would you trust me if I told you I already shut the window?” I always try throwing her a trick question, her legs dangling halfway in the air.
“Please tell me you’ve shut the window and stop playing,” she will beg, adding that she did not see me actually shutting the window.
At this point, Tenderoni will turn in, albeit half-heartedly, realising that I am talking about more than just a window.
Trust is earned. And I would love to believe that, over time, we are both earning it. That said, trust, just like marriage and parenting, is a work in progress. A work of love in progress that is fraught with untold perils.
Tenderoni’s phone recently gave up its Made-in-China ghost. She is using my phone in the interim. Last night I found an SMS she had sent.
Man, for one doggone sec, the message freaked me out. “I’ll come in the morning. I want romance ndogo ndogo.”
Again, it all boils down to the T-word. Trust, which is a two-way street. And it taught me, again, that I should first sleep on it. Resist the urge to reflexively jump into distrusting conclusions. Because trust, and then some, is the name of this game.
It is not what it seems on a first quick read. The message was sent to Anita, her hairdresser. And I was made to understand — by, of all people, Pudd’ng — that romance is the name of a brand of braids. Which Tenderoni wanted braided thin.
It is not the first question I expected the first thing this April morning. They are on holiday, so Pudd’ng wakes up later than she does on school days.
As I go to wake up the pair to make my tea, which is just the thing that keeps me going and cures my morning headaches, Pudd’ng catches me off-guard.
From her answer, it follows that Tenderoni and I do a wedding every year ...
