But not me. I’m respectful and shit.
Kepekepe bhora, indeed.
Love is a wonderful thing. Seeing two people in love gives me the warm squishies every time. Sometimes it ends in marriage – often it doesn’t. Now I’m not the greatest advocate of marriage, gosh knows I have varying issues with it, and always viewed the institution with skepticism.
But knowing that loads of my sisters would love to get wedded and not just bedded, and understanding the value a good marriage can bring to this mahurepolis called Harare, I’ve decided to assist.
For those of my sisters failing to follow through, here are a few pointers on how to convert that Bastard Guy into husband material, cos it’s not rocket science.
1. He’s the man. Repeat after me: He Is The Man. So you earn more than he does. So you have a nicer car. So he’s a lodger with nothing to his name; he’s still the man. Treat him as such, and he’ll value you forever. Pamper him; call him daddy; nudge him gently along but don’t push; make him think he’s doing what he wants even when he isn’t; make him feel like a king. Men want to be kings, and if we can’t be kings of the world, let us be kings of you. If you do, we’ll treat you like the queen you (think you) are.
2. He doesn’t want a mother, but wants to be his father. True, he may act like you’re mommy, especially when he has a hangover, but the truth is that our moms are the bosses of us, and we don’t want that in a wife. His dad was the boss growing up, and that’s what he knows. His father ruled the household, and that’s the way it should be. Give him that.
3. He’s right. I know this is a tough one, cos truthfully, we’re often wrong, but bear with me. If you’re arguing and he’s losing, he’ll throw a tantrum, and will probably do something stupid. You don’t want that. You want him to feel like a winner, so no matter how wrong he is – he’s right. Even if he’s lost the argument, make him think he’s won at least something. Concede on one of the points, so he doesn’t walk away feeling sour. Men are children, and when we sulk, we do stupid shit.
4. His decision is final. Again, very contentious. A difference of opinion is fine, but no man wants to spend the rest of his life following his wife’s lead. Not at home. That shit won’t fly. Differ on the restaurant, the club, the car, the movie, whatever, and if you can’t sway him to your side of the argument, defer. Use your Boob Power as a last resort, but if you fail, defer to his manly judgement. But don’t sulk, cos then he’ll think you’re being a whiny baby.
5. Balls. Men love their balls. We love having ’em, hanging down there as a testament to our ballsiness. Screaming at us shrinks them. Snide remarks and sarcasm shrivel them to tiny raisins. Injure a man’s pride, and you injure his balls. Never a good thing. Imagine stroking our pride as if you have those two squishy balls in your hands – be very gentle, cos squeezing too hard hurts like hell, and letting go leaves ’em neglected. That’s our ego. Massage it, stroke it, and we’ll reward you immensely. Licking helps, too.
Now, before the bitch brigade takes offence at anything in the list above, please understand I’m not pretending to be the oracle of all things manly. Yes, no woman needs a man to validate her existence. No, marriage is not the be-all and end-all of a woman’s ambition. No, a woman is not a slave to her man’s whims.
I’m just trying to help those who don’t understand how, time and again, what seems a promising relationship ends up in the growing list of wrecked promises. Please direct any hollow cries of “misogynist” at the middle finger of my left hand.
Now go forth and snare your idiot, Empress – by making him think he’s the Emperor of all he surveys.
Start with the balls.
You’ve gotta love that song, that’s some sweet music right there.
The crucial Zimbabwe versus Mali soccer match yesterday was ruined for me, by one man and his sidekick.
Admire Taderera was doing the TV “commentary”, and he did the shoddiest job I’ve ever witnessed. Yes, worse than Charles Mabika’s … orgiastic performance when Okocha came to town. It was that bad.
First and foremost, I thought the commentator’s first responsibility was to inform, not to cheer-lead! Your job is to tell me what’s going on, with a little insight and technical nuance, otherwise where’s your value?
If I wanna hear bitching and cheering and whining and yelling at players, I’ll go down to the Scud and Nanny. I want you to talk about formations, players’ strengths … details that I’d otherwise miss if I watched it on mute.
And seriously, what’s this Zimbabwean fascination with nicknames? I mean, who the fuck is “Duduza” anyway? ZBC didn’t bother informing us on-screen about the substitute, and you didn’t ONCE say his real name, Edward Sadomba. That is your job!
You don’t sound cool going “Father”, “Duduza”, “Captain” all game long – I’m watching with my Mrs, and not everyone knows who the fuck these people are. Hell, is it REALLY that hard to simply use the players’ names?
YOU SOUND STUPID!
And please, though I am anything but a Language Nazi, would it kill you to have an “analyst” who can speak the bloody English he’s trying to use? There’s no point in someone who stammers and struggles to translate his thoughts into words, cos by the time you’re done taking your sip of water, Admire, the moment has passed and he’s missed his shot. Is this rocket science, ZBC?
All in all, congratulations to our Warriors, but to be honest I enjoyed the game not because of your commentary, but despite it.
What happened to Lovemore Banda? Kana iye hake Charlie wacho?
Cos you, Admire Taderera, suck at this.
Tell me you remember this classic.