Why men should go back to arranged marriages

James Joyce once sneered at Jesus of Nazareth for having never lived with a woman because it was, in Joyce’s words, “one of the most difficult things a man has to do”.

I am no better than James Joyce, and the Son of Man knows my intentions are pure but not prudish when we throw a sherehe for his birthday, which will also moonlight as the umpteenth time I am introducing someone’s daughter to my folks, albeit a different one (the daughter, not the folks, you bozo). Set a thief to catch a thief, they said.

Why different? Simple. The last one, as the previous one and the other before them, failed to make the cut after she was taken through a Spanish Inquisition.

“What do you do? Who are your parents? How many relationships have you had? What are your intentions with our son? Are you married? “Do you just want his money?”

I have lately discovered that, having put all my exes in a row, I can diagnose the disease I suffer from.

There is a pattern and it is not healthy. I presume the same holds for most men reading this. And because marriage is not what it used to be; I elect to urge men to go back to arranged marriages. Let’s set a hare running with The Rabbi. According to my calculations, Jesus never got married for two reasons:

1. His parents could not agree since Joseph never bought that cock-and-bull story of immaculate conception. I hate to say it, and at the risk of ex-communication, but I’m with Joseph on this one.

2. He, like any proper man, would put His wife’s needs above his own. And that would be trouble for the world, because that means a lot of people would be punished rather than healed.

Son of God would be performing miracles in the wig department, making sure Mary-from-Bethlehem does not wear the same dress as the first wife from heaven. Jesus knew. This marriage thing: It’s a huge bait and switch. It’d feel like he’s been had. Jesus knew.

Ladies, we too know the skeletons in your closet. We know you have a committee of experts who decide which man stays but since we men have unreliable metrics, then we turn to our two most trusted confidantes.

Our mothers and that Uncle Jimmy from the village. You know the one. The one who has been through so many divorces they have a case file open for him.

But he is now just settling into the hands of a twenty-something-year-old with the wicked curves of Thika Rd and the famous hair trigger impatience of Mombasa Road.

He is a bit of an aficionado, which acts just as a reminder of his arrested development: his life is oeuvre-defining solipsism and passive aggression, which is to say, he is not the exemplar of what a life well lived is, but he sure does have good examples of how not to live yours.

He knows better than anyone why he is there, (and it’s not for her brains), which he will tell you, “inaongezanga umang’aa.”

Look, I have been making decisions for myself for the better part of a decade and I still can’t seem to find the right woman (women?) for me.

I have a theory: since our parents know us, and they love us, and they want the best for us, and with their reputation on the line, they tend to pick the right marriage partners for us. If left to our own devices, many a man has been swayed by the lass-with-the-fine-ass.

Make her light-skinned and she can have my birthright.

Every girl I have taken home has proven one thing true: the choice of spouse should be delegated. Every klutz with half a brain can get a personal person.

Such decisions hinge on a trick of the light, a tick of the clock, the urgent call of an errant and unreliable heart, cupid’s sleight of hand. There comes a point where events are no longer under your control, where things become a roll of the dice, and marriage is not one of those.

In the next two weeks or so, someone’s daughter will meet my mother and if we are impressed as a family, we will (consider) marrying her. Because you see, marriage is not just between her and me, we are also marrying their family. Like it or not — and you won’t, you will hate it — look at the number of books written about marriage.

We just don’t get it. Pick any point of view, and there is a book to support it: There’s a Spouse in My House: A Humorous Journey Through the First Years of Marriage; Loving Your Spouse When You Feel Like Walking Away. The funniest I have read is the Sherry Argov authored Why Men Love Bitches (from Doormat to Dreamgirl) followed by (surprise, surprise) Why Men Marry Bitches (A Guide for Women Who Are Too Nice).

You will not agree with me, but I have watched Pretty Woman (or is it Runaway Bride?) a copious number of times, and I relate with Edward to the point of seeking valiantly for my own Julia Roberts (do you remember Julia Roberts?).

Young and impressionable, swept away by the charm of Nairobi women, falling and lying on their fine asses. I am suggestible like that. Me, the big-city reporter who falls in love with a small-town handy woman who has made a habit out of fleeing from the altar every time she decides to tie the knot. What could possibly go wrong?

The words husband and wife have an antique flavour in the mouth, and when you have one bullet in the gun, you don’t want to keep playing Russian roulette with your choice of a spouse. It’s also the snob in me that does not want these dicta to apply in my life. I’m not a simple creature. I am a sceptic.

It’s too bad we are living in the age of content. We’re all power couples now, where you achieve influencer-level popularity à la The WaJesus, the Mungais, and the Ochiengs’ in relationships that are flirting with mysteries even as they are totally overexposed, hot and messy, schadenfreude with a shot of Stockholm Syndrome. Marriages where you cannot distinguish the drama from the nightmare.

Underneath the angst, however, lies the soft white underbelly: delayed marriage coupled with loose sex, cohabitation and co-parenting is the new shtick muddying the waters between “in-laws” and “outsider”.

In this poor woebegone planet, everything we do is a game, a game of actions rather than intentions.

Choosing not to play does not mean the game stops, which is not to say that you win. The fact is, brotherman, the deck is stacked against you; and the house always wins.

It doesn’t matter if you think this is finally it. Take her home. See how you feel after. Plus, you get the added advantage of apportioning blame: “My folks chose her.” Who knows? You may even be happier than the time I received an email about a Nigerian prince leaving me his inheritance.

Will it work?

It will.

Haven’t you heard? There is no honour among thieves.

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