At some point in this story, it will seem as if I am a hater. I am. So let’s get to that point quickly, ni end month na masaa ni machache. I’ll be brief. I was out the other day in a very purple shirt with three of its buttons, erm, unbuttoned, an aesthetic that is best summarised as a ‘Pimp Named Skinny.’ I was feeling myself (not that way) when someone, an old acquaintance I hadn’t seen for a while, approached me and said, You know, Eddie, I always thought you were gay.
Hold on. Let’s take a step back. I was out drinking a matcha, some drink that tastes like a childhood in Kawangware spiced with bitters, that reminded me of my acne-filled teenage years in these streets, and of a general state of longing, and a wistful hunger for life to begin. I was with E, whose form of rugged masculinity refracted my soft boy aura, and for a moment, I could see why they thought I was gay. Or that we were a gay couple. If you are asking, we—actually, I can’t speak for E—, so let me speak for myself—I am not gay, or part of a gay couple. But I was drinking matcha because (checks Google), it reduces stress levels, increases focus, improves digestion, and stimulates performance (in bed). Okay, I added that last part.
What shocked me – and I am still shocked – was the obvious casual sophistication of her tone. She said it like it was someone selling a car or putting down an old Bosco or chanting Wantam . I was like, What gave you the impression?
“Kitu tu iliniambi ,” she says.
“Kitu tu iliniambia” is the national philosophy of pouring petrol on a rumour, lending credence to hearsay. E— meanwhile was ebullient, prodding, and insistent on that line of questioning. I shifted my black tote bag that complemented my purple shirt really well, and almost pulled out my receipts of past flames, a portfolio which, I might add, included a regrettably brief entanglement with the accuser herself. But you must have guessed that already.
She went on to list her reasons of what real men don’t do, including wearing shorts in public, while she pointed at my knees. I was starting to feel like Eddie Kardashian, though with better buns. Maybe I should sue for defamation. But I’m old and I suffer from empathy, and this frankly was the devil tempting my soul. When she was done, she was like, “Anyway, do you, boo.”
Her benediction was, a man is not supposed to be happy. Or enjoy fruits. She was acting like I was deep throating a banana. For the record, I wasn’t. According to her, real men don’t read. Real men don’t smile. Real men don’t drink tea, especially white tea. What happened to bile juice? She listed so many reasons a real man isn’t, that I started to wonder who a real man is. Maybe a real man is so manly that he can only date another man, because only another alpha can balance his testosterone. A co-alpha, if you will. But this subsumes a very traditional white male masculinity to still stand as a monument of what manhood is supposed to look like. Since we are unsure of what is desirable or undesirable, acceptable or unacceptable, what’s in and what’s out, not being “manly” gets you singled out or scapegoated, humanity’s time-tested mechanism to achieve social cohesion through exclusion. God, straight men just cannot win.
But if Nairobi has taught me anything, it is that beautiful people get away with practically anything. It is an aesthetocracy. Pretty privilege is only ugly if you are not pretty. If it works for women, it might as well work for men. Yet for a long time, my much cleaner male friends get the sack for, uh, being clean. The questions that come are, So what will a woman bring? And I am like, hopefully, a better broom.
It’s something as old as the hills, yet still an idea as difficult to grasp as smoke – being clean and intentional with your life is not recognised as manly. Therefore, we have men who do not understand the concept of aftershave, deodorant, or bathing soap. Sabuni ya vyombo, the hardest working soap in Kenya, gets its second shift as sabuni ya kuosha slippers before moonlighting as sabuni ya kufua nguo…na mwili. Pay it minimum wage.
That’s before we even talk about moisturising. Men with skin harder than concrete are still walking Sakaja’s poorly drained si-lazima-iWork -Nairobi, in the same world where our healthcare system does not cater for skinborne diseases. Granted, these are all first-world problems in a third-world country, but I believe if you can afford to read this paper, you can afford to clean yourself up.
It goes without saying, but it should be said that this too translates to the mind. There is no way you will not take a shower every day and tell me your thoughts are clean. Nah. Uongo. Mungu nipe uvumilivu (na sanitiser).
Is it because cleanliness is associated with femininity? Some would dare equate this to being a performative male—the kind of men who lean too much into their femininity, virtue signalling their “woke” stances while quoting a few lines from Sally Rooney. But, you see, we still are just normal people. Because there is no such thing as an “authentic male”, only different performances of masculinity. It is evolution of man, rather than revolution. Women no longer need hunters; they need a man who understands words like “exfoliate,” and “anti-aging,” and “female gaze.” And why not? Even in the jungle, being a performative male is what gets you a mating partner. Cue the giraffes slinging their necks against each other. Penguins fighting to the death. A peacock spreading its feathers. Are you better than a peacock? The peacock says no.
There is so much performance in this world, and it’s not new. Is it not Shakespeare who said all the world’s a stage and we are all merely actors? That’s why dating is so boring nowadays, there is nothing to talk about other than regurgitating opinions from an intellectually shy “thought leader” on X. And if there's one thing worse than being an illiterate philistine, it's being an insecure illiterate philistine. And don't Google "philistine", it looks needy.
You know what makes a man gay? Other men. Hold on, I feel like that needs context. What makes a man gay is being in a sexual relationship with another man, according to the law. Not grooming! Wanaume tuoge. Come out, come out, and clean up. Clean your mind, house, and bedsheets. And deworm too, it’s the rainy season, how the two are related, I have no idea, but I just know they are.
Let the naysayers say. You have my permission. Masaa ni machache . Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar. Or a hater. It is like wearing a G-string and cursing people who walk commando.
