The sun outside feels like it has had a quarry of coal added to it. The breeze that is usually tasked by nature to blow just to cool the forhead of the earth seems to have also been afraid of the heat. If that is how hot it is where I am now, then I can only imagine that the ocean at the coast is now boiling. Everyone who goes for a swim in this hot sun may come out cooked enough to be meat for a chadhe or a ruracio.
My refuge here is the fan directly opposite me in the living room of our house. So to say, the fan was blowing my mind away.
For those who have ever dreamt of seeing Mjango topless, well you just missed an opportunity. No, I’ve just realised topless is not as interesting for most of you. What many people have never seen me in is a pair of shorts! Okay not that many have ever seen me topless anyway. When I walk out of the house with a pair of shorts, the world stops just to look at me. No kidding mjango. It’s Maisha Magic entertainment for almost everyone. Well yea, topless and in a pair of shorts. Perhaps it’s the first practice lesson in preparation to visit one of the beaches in Barcelona someday. What is so special about beaches in Barcelona, you might ask. Well have I not just said it a few lines ago? I’m topless.
Out of the frying pan into the fire, they once said. The frying pan, in my case, are the ten suns outside and the fire? The fire is here where I am tasked by my writing conscience to introduce to you the types of men.
“You’re among those that agree that men are dogs and it’s all men for that matter?”
“Yes!” She said.
That ‘yes’ sounded like the yes one would let out when the mission in the ‘missionary’ is almost accomplished. The yes that has no ‘no’ behind its curtain. The yes that has had all the doubt beaten the hell out of it. The yes that has been drenched by an overdose of all possible reasons that make it, a yes.
We were crossing Tom Mboya Avenue headed to Moi Avenue when the tail of the conversation hit the door bell of another conversation. The door bell rung and slowly but surely, an old man leaning on his walking stick opened the door. He had the look on his face, “Stupid kids playing with my doorbell again, I’ll beat you up one day,” with a fist folded and being shook firmly in the air.
The old man is old because he has lived to see generations after generations talk about him. Let’s call him the man who never dies, because he represents all the men on earth. Since, you know, all men cannot die at the same time even if demographics continue to show that the population of females is shooting by the day and they (females) now claim they can sire children from their bone marrows. Let’s see how that goes.
He is probably tired of hearing people talk about him. People have thrown used soda cans, toilet paper rolls, eaten apples and shoes at him for ages. He has been bended over and spanked with a bamboo stick like a class three boy found loitering around the school toilets during class time. He has been called names. Some have stuck long enough to be titles while other just remained to be names.
Among the titles he has acquired in this generation is not a pretty title, but a title anyway; Dogs! Just for being a man.
Unlike others who would ring his doorbell and run away, Glo and I stuck around to apologise to the old man for disturbing him. We however expressed our desire to have a word with him.
“Oh. Then don’t just stand there kids, come in. Would you love some tea?”
In the real world anyway, we walked towards Double M vehicles just talking, about men.
“So all men includes, sorry to say, your father. Do you know that?” I asked.
“Yes I do. I even tell him that all men are dogs. He knows I say that.”
“So I am dog too?”
“I said all men.”
I chuckle, “I see what you did there. Then because I am the man in this conversation, allow me to ask, what makes you concur with that so strongly?”
This was the second time I was meeting with Glo. I bumped into her along Ronald Ngala Street. I decided to walk along since I had some time to spare. She never really gave me the full picture of why she believes there are more dogs in this world than the ones we rare at home and the ones straying in the streets. But from our conversations I picked up what I believe are the pieces to solving the puzzle at hand; Who are men really? Dogs or what!
And what is coming out so strongly so far is she believes that because of the experiences she has had with men. Now may we all agree here mjango that she, like other ladies out there, say what she says about men based on the men she has had in the pages of her life but, they are just a few men. Not all of them. I mean who can meet and date all men?
Apparently, the men who are said to be dogs are the ones on the front line. They make the whole army look like dogs. It’s so sad that if one potatoe is spoilt then the whole sack is spoilt rule is being applied here.
Allow me to assume a neutral position in this delegation. I am neither a man nor a woman and definitely not a dog. In the forth coming series, I will endeavour to give a better classification of men out there. These classifications as usual, will come in form of a story. So that at least you may cease to use the word ‘dog’ in the same sentence you use the word ‘men.’ But again, I must confess, out of my experience as a man (before I became neutral) that every man has some udoggy in them. Call it a kind of animosity. Needless to say, our female counterparts aren’t innocent either. There is an animal instinct in everyone. So why don’t we drop the game of shits and find a schooled classification for men?
I found some place where the classification couldn’t be done any better. They are from a blog of one decorated writer. And I quote:
“Allow me to say that there are four types of men. The first man is The Lion. He’s got a lovely mane that women want to touch. He walks into a room and women notice him. Even men. He doesn’t work hard for his kill. Lazy-ass chap.
Then there is The Hyena. He’s not a picky eater. He will go home with anyone. He will go home with your woman if he has half a chance.
Then there is Mr Cheetah. Him and lightning are admins in the same Whatsapp Group. Girls don’t see him coming. One moment he’s pouring your drink in the bar, the next you are in his t-shirt in his kitchen washing carrots.
Then there is Mr Spider. He weaves tales of deceit. He will lie to get what he wants even when you know he’s lying. When he catches you in his web of deceit, the more you struggle to leave, the further inside you get sucked.
There is Mr Snake. He’s those guys who will go behind your back to tell your woman where the bodies are buried with the aim of getting a crack at her. Slimy bastard this one.
Lastly, there is Mr Crocodile. Oh, this one plays a long game, my friend. Patience of an Indian. You will think he’s harmless. He just lies there, lethargic, showing no sign of energy. But when he moves, you don’t stand a chance to escape. He measures twice and cuts once. And when he cuts, it’s deep.”
Bikozulu. (2019, July 23). The Lacoste Of Samburu. https://bikozulu.co.ke/the-lacoste-of-samburu/#
Interesting and true right?
“So who is the last man you literally would call a dog?” I asked.
After a short silence that was filled by noise from hooting matatus and yelling conductors and manambas, “That guy who didn’t have time for me. He knows himself very well.”
“You two had a good thing going?”
“It was the best relationship I have ever been in. Let’s not start with how the Lord must have bathed him in milk and honey after moulding him. But regardless of how tall, dark and handsome you are, how humongous things are inside your pants, how sweet talking and charming you are or how much of a walking bank you are, time and attention to a woman is everything. It is the silent cry all women have.”
“While some admit it as others don’t.”
“Too bad for those who don’t, I guess.”
I watched as the evening sun kissed her face all the way down to the gates of her first heaven. Her skin is the colour of the sun. She talks about a guy who must have been bathed in milk and honey. I guess bad had really met evil because as for her, the Lord must have used the stars as His make up kit when creating her. Oh yah I’m speaking as a man now. I’m no longer neutral till the next blog.
How could you, a whole man, not have time for such a dime walking on two feet? Now she is left with a baggage of sorrow about how she will have to move on without him. Making herself extra extra busy just so she may prove to herself and those watching that she can break the Great Wall of China without him. Because when she loves, she does love for real.
Perhaps milk and honey guy is somewhere sandwiched between two señoritas. One with braids that sweep her butt when she walks and is most likely light skinned. She applies avocado on her face every night, wraps a towel around her head and walks around the house with a bath robe with nothing else inside. The robe is always the same colour as the towel.
The other has short dyed hair, a little less prettier face, she has the complexion of the night and guess the rest, an posterior and a half. We all know short haired girls. The view of her thighs when in a short fabric has sent men to jail for having thoughts equal to criminal offences.
Both of them, with arms wrapped around milk and honey guy and one of them, most likely the long haired one, holds his glass of vodka for him. He takes a sip whenever he feels his mouth running dry from telling them both about how they are beautiful and what he is going to do to them later in the night. They giggle at every word he says. In the background, the music that’s playing is,
Naweza wacha bila kung’ang’ana
Lakini hawa wasichana
Vile nawapenda aah
Ni kama laana ah.”
And that’s men for you, mjango.