“Find a good girl and settle down.” That was really the basis of that what-the-hell-is-taking-you-so-long disguised as just-checking-up-on-you call from my old lady.
Anyway, since my old lady reads this column (sometimes), I want her to know that there are no good girls left. All we have now are baddies. And people really underestimate the allure of bad girls.
They are not really that bad if you can make it past the obvious challenge; their disregard for society and a hidden on-and-off drug addiction. With baddies, there are no strings attached, or at least, no strings you can’t handle. It is the belt-and-braces option. Besides, haven’t we all fallen short of the glory?
My mom has tried—valiantly so—to try and hook me up with daughters of Zion, but they all fail my strict eye test. She’s taken umbrage that men, okay, I, am too choosy. I just don’t want to, what is it the Good Book says? Be unequally yoked? But she’s also been around way too long to count her chicken and gives me short shrift on my slide’s presentation of “Wait, give me time!” My checkmark is not even ati big: I just want someone who brings something to the table and I bring the table.
The most obvious, ubiquitous, important realities are often the ones that are the hardest to see and talk about. Before you accuse me of peddling word salad, let’s get concrete...Dating is really hard these days. Especially if you’re someone like me who has standards, that entail 64 tabs open on the browser, and a compilation of YouTube ‘Ghosts Caught On Camera’ videos to debunk. Plus, I need someone who can read my mind and not bulk at my short temper and even shorter attention span.
If your childhood was anything like mine, then you should (oh oh) understand that its greatest pleasure was derived from the illusion that our parents have some idea of what they’re doing. Here’s a free tip: everyone’s winging it. The slings and arrows of adulthood are a mark that no one got this thing figured out. Parents marry, separate, work odd jobs to get you to school, force you to take uji before going to said school, and call you over Easter claiming “Grace from church” said hi. In other words, they are human.
I do understand why my old lady is in a hurry though. She keeps getting invited to those darn weddings by all and sundry. Having recently introduced her to Instagram (forgive me father for I have sinned); now, every other weekend I have to brace for a “She said YES!” Instagram caption, WhatsApp status, or worse ...WhatsApp broadcast message.
And sure as the egg is egg, she’ll call me after, telling me how beautiful so and so’s wedding was. In my mind I’m rerunning segments of Ngugi Wa Thiong’os’s oeuvre, ‘Ngaahika Ndeenda.’ I will marry when I want. I don’t like to be forced into things. I scoff at offers of “Buy now, get one free!” Why? Why are you giving me for free? What’s wrong with it? Look, just present me my options and read me your concerns. Then let me do me.
Because what adulthood teaches you is that this life is about dishing out half-truths, varying truths. You tell your mother there is a girl you are talking to, you tell your father there is a girl you have a crush on, and you tell a sibling you don’t see yourself marrying soon because there are no good girls left. And then you forget who you told what.
The marriage is the work, the wedding a red herring. It’s a formality, a wave of the hand, a tip of the cap, an admittance of the obvious. So what’s in it for me? Something familiar to freelance writers everywhere: exposure. This is not a cry for help. Marriage is a beautiful thing, and sex is God’s gift for marriage...but some people (ahem) have opened so many gifts, truthfully it has all lost its lustre...at present. What about sharing your feelings? Well, we always have Facebook for that.
Plus, the people who sold the marriage dream to us really didn’t factor in the USP. “Pingu za Maisha.” It’s a gulag. And you know me. I am a bird. I like to live my life on the move. It’s what God would want. It’s what birds want.
Speaking of, if you think good women are in short supply then good men are antique objects. A good man may be hard to find, but he is not impossible to find. For instance, the difference between the man I was when my heart was fresh in the market—and the man I am now is that I’m no longer under the illusion that I’m under no illusions.
Maybe it’s that eerie closeness of marriage that simultaneously exists with the canyon of distance: you think you know someone until you really do. Something is always about to go wrong. Or the oversimplification of love—you are my everything. Expectations. Everyone wants to be understood. To be heard. Marriage is a reminder of how good it is to listen. To be understanding.
From where I sit, as an armchair expert (kaboom! I’m on fire!) I consider most marriages as kadudus: not very glamourous but very reliable and unlikely to break down. Relationships meanwhile are nothing but sports cars; thrilling and aesthetically astute but performance needs tinkering every now and then. The only thing that's capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're going to try to see it. Only you decide what has meaning and what doesn't.
In case you can’t tell, I am not married. Never have been (in case anyone says otherwise). So this may not sound breezy or overtly inspirational.
Since we are both cut from the same cloth, I know this conversation with my old lady is only just smouldering. We are in that sort of tussle that gets dad of a certain age all misty-eyed and reminiscent about “when men were men”. The old lady stopped just short of fire-balling those dreaded words: “I am coming to you as a woman.”
But no means no, mother. Also, I have to hang up now and pick up this other call: The streets are calling.
