The year’s 2023, another single lady’s gone. Gone to the world of family and family affairs. She’s getting married to this handsome fella she met at her workplace nine years ago. The wedding bells ring, the choir sings, her mother is all smiles… ”In sickness and in health, in poverty and in wealth, in all those things that they say in church, to love and to cherish….till death does them part. Amen.”
Damn! How she prays for that day to come, that day when she’ll officially start using her husband’s second name as her last name; no matter how ugly it is, even if it’s worse than Donald Trump. She prays for that day when she’ll finally be able to look back at her days and sigh, ‘good heavens, I did it!”
And now comes the stumbling block. She happens to fall in that category of ladies that have developed this resistance to members of the male species. And no she’s NOT a Lesbian; no hard feelings to the Lesbian Association of Lesbians or whatever name they call their movement. God knows she loves men, or lets say she loved a man before. And he broke her heart a million times. She just resolved to not get involved in matters pertaining to the opposite sex.
Tell her to do anything, however hard it is and she’ll do it. Tell her to cross the river Nile without help from Moses, she’ll swim across gladly, tell her to rebuild Noah’s ark and walk through the whole of the Maasai Mara and convince the animals to get in there with her two-by-two, she’ll bring them in five-by-five….give her any song by Jaguar and tell her to sing it, she’ll sing to every line of his boring songs. But just don’t ask her to open her wounded heart to any man again, whether drank or sober. That’s a no-no for her. She gave out her heart once, and it got broken to tiny pieces, she’s never going back down that road.
Boys are trouble, absolute trouble, or so she thinks. And so is this thing called dating. Total bullcrap. At times she even wishes we’d go back to the good old days when our parents would spot a potential husband material, arrange the whole marriage on her behalf, and all she had to do was to just wait for the husband to come to their house armed with a spear, a shield, dressed in some smelly skin of some random lion that he’d killed during his initiation to adulthood and he’d simply kidnap her, take her to his home and baam! She becomes a wife. If only there was a way she could skip this entire dating thing. And so that’s what she fears; dating, or basically being in a relationship as she weighs whether the other person is husband material or not.
But anyway ‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings’…so in other words if she can Lupita that quote, she can wishfully state that her dreams are still valid, and that she’ll one day find the perfect man to cool down her heat; if you know what that means coz this TeamSingle life is draining her already, literally. She’s even growing thinner day by day coz the amount of energy she spends in co-curricular affairs of coitus, copulation and sexual affairs is too much. She’s no longer the bedroom bully she used to be, nowadays any man she invites to share her forbidden kingdom just goes one-two-three thrusts and poof! He spews his liquids all over her and his black hawk goes down and refuses to rise back to the occasion; something quite unheard of in her previous sexcapades.
And so she prays hard, hard so that she may finally get over her lack of interest in matters of relationships and quickly get back into the dating scene and hunt for that perfect man, the perfect man that won’t break her heart into tiny pieces once she shall have fallen in love, the perfect man who’ll be handsome enough to catch other ladies’ attention, but still be loyal enough to let them know that he’s taken and they have no chance with him. Coz if there’s one thing she hates most in a relationship is flirting. If it ain’t his mum that he’s talking to, or his grandpa, her boyfriend isn’t allowed to talk to any other girl but her. Maybe a little chat with his sister(s) would have been allowed too but due to the sudden rise in brother-sister affairs, communication along that line has to be strictly business.
And so until the day that she shall finally open her heart to love again, she promises to stay young wild and free just as she read somewhere in the letter to my unborn…She promises to have fun to the uttermost, jot down all her escapades with members of the male species, make a toast when necessary, sip what’s to be sipped, smoke what’s to be smoked and say what’s to be said so that when her ashes-to-ashes moment finally comes, she’ll leave no regrets.
Her wrinkles will mean she laughed, grey hair will mean she cared, her scars will mean she lived…and her stained heart will mean she loved.
Till then, nyikazie to y’all and Katonda awasereke awantu woona. Nkugonzizie. Adios!