‘Who would want a 5’4 man with a potbelly?’ My wife was on phone yet again with God knows who. Her once ladylike laughter that reverberated in sweet symphony across the wall no longer sounded lovely. Now it was a mixture of malicious shrill tones.
For the umpteenth time this month, I have caught my delirious wife Lipala, laying suspicious facts about my persona. Last time, she was proudly on phone with Mrs. Rigaraba, our church director, telling her how she had me under control. According to her wisdom, I didn’t measure up to the contemporary standards of tall, dark and handsome. In fact, she asserted that after Mr. Kitiezo, I am the other male with zero lady traffic!
You see, it’s one thing to have an enemy of development dress you down, then it’s another to have your lover paint you using the least flattering brush. It was not always like this. Thus far, I had enjoyed 10 years of smooth marriage. I guess sometimes things don’t always play out the way we would like them to.
As a young boy from Musembe village, I grew up having clear three life goals. Top on the list, I knew I wanted a German Machine. The one that parts one’s ego with the right douse of male grandiose. The kind of ride that when cruising with it through the ill done Kenyan roads, it looks removed from the dusty environment.
On my second agenda, I knew I wanted a humble but exquisite hacienda in one of Nairobi’s financially guilty neighborhoods. I used to get awed with the idea of stretching out my long African legs on a well-manicured lawn, as I nip on freshly harvested grapes, counting my blessings one by one.
I envisioned a happily ever after with the lovely and ever charming Lipala. You see this girl was my sunshine. She had the beauty of a goddess, gentle speech of a tender lover and a body that was well sculptured to factor curves in the right places. One look from her sent me shamelessly stumbling over my words.
I used to have delirious feelings and thoughts each time I was away from her. But that’s until we finally got married and Satan was up in arms against our parade. Our little love bubble deflated little by little as seasons passed. With every addition into our growing family, the gel that held us together weakened. We no longer sang along to Shania Twain’s ‘You still the one’.
What’s more, our lifestyle became tired. I stumbled from being the piece that completes Munene to being the grey-haired man whose work is to cough out money. I was now a walking ATM machine. Not that I’m complaining, I mean the grace was sufficient. But life becomes lonely when your beloved stops looking at you with dreamy wanton eyes. It gets even more lonelier when she that stole your heart thinks that you have lost your masculine charm. At that point you will understand why happiness is a mirage. Not even getting married to your childhood lover can cushion you from feelings of solitude when bridges burn.