Tomorrow, I’m going to become famous, if not around my home village, then the country over. I’m to be tried before a court of law for having conjugal rights with my wife. I am to be the first hen-pecked husband, if not from my village, then from the entire country, to have to face my wife over a trivial domestic spat in the docks.
Folks, don’t blame me. You see, my wife belongs to some women liberation movements, and of late, she has grown headstrong taking issues with me and, in one instance that so surprised me, she gave me resounding slaps on my cheeks to make me see the point her way. It took me one very long moment to recover and administer a blow that connected well with her head and that put out her headlights for a couple of hours. Excuse me folks, but that’s the time honoured way of asserting one’s authority over his house, isn’t it?
I don’t know what they stuff her head with in those forums she attends. But whatever it is, it had become the cauldron of our simmering daily disputes. When she started putting on those spaghetti tops, tumbo cuts, the see-through dresses, the low necked sleeveless blouses and the tight fitting trousers that enhance her body contours and reveal her ample cleavage, her bared back, I thought she had gone overboard and as such told her so, to which she retorted back, “Just because we’re married, you expect me to have a maternity frock on all the time?”
Some folks at my regular watering hole think my wife is pretty, even hot. “I’d give everything to have her,” one once told me. I’m sure if he as much as approached Agatha, my wife, he’d get a nasty blow that would blank him out for a while. When she’s on mood swings, she’s a spitfire that leaves earth tremors in her wake.
Then, there are those who accuse me of having a loose moralist for a wife. I don’t blame them for I find myself in an inexplicable position.
Now you are wondering why I haven’t told you how it came that I’m to stand trial for which I’m freely entitled to.
Agatha had been spurning off my sexual overtures and advances for a couple of weeks and this ‘starvation’ was driving me berserk. Every time I edged closer to her, she’d put me off quoting ‘affirmative action’, a term I haven’t understood well to date.
The reason I’ll be famous is, I’ll be the topic of dissemination in radio phone-in talks, and, in leading newspapers, the op-ed columnists will delve their opinions on this case and its ramifications to menfolk. I can see my beer buddies huddled round a table with tumblers of chang’aa slowly digesting the impact of the case and especially how to relate with their wives. Once, a fellow told me, “Reign in that wife of yours, she’s a bad influence.”
When Agatha told me an affirmative NO one evening, I resorted to violently making her comply to my demand at whatever cost. After all, I reasoned, doesn’t a woman mean ‘yes’ when she says ‘no’? Had not Gaitho, my drinking compatriot, told me that when he violently thrashes his wife and afterward has sex with her, she lives to thank him for that, for, as she says, those slaps she had received prior to having sex aids her orgasm? I didn’t believe him on that; violence and subsequent denigration of a woman are not what I subscribe to. After all, I’m not prone to violence.
But that evening, I was. after the usual head butting ruckus, I, as the most muscularly endowed, read Agatha the riot act and lashed out blows on her face that multiplied the numbers of stars that she saw that night tenfold and blanked out one eye till she complied. It was an experience that I never enjoyed much to Gaitho’s assertion and his claims that a western researcher, I think a Frenchman, wrote some paper to the effect that violently abused women climax where ordinary sex fails them. What myopic viewpoint!
Come morning and there’s a Berlin wall between the two of us. She made herself a cup of tea, put on those head turning clothes and banged the door shut after her, leaving me ruing my actions the night before. I didn’t have much to do that day except while the time away in the house and wait to join my friends for a tin of chang’aa in afternoon hours.
It must have been around 11am when the screech of car brakes outside the house brought me to the doorstep. It was a police car and in tow a white Toyota Saloon. Out of the driver cab of the police car jumped a burly cop and my wife, while a rail thin constable with an oversize gun for his frame and a pair of handcuffs jumped from the carriage. The occupants of the salon car were five well rounded women whose sight made me swallow saliva in fearful expectation.
I looked from the burly cop to the approaching women and then to my wife who had a victorious cat’s smile now. The troop of surrounded me and I was torn between savouring their ample cleavages to asking them their mission when I noticed their stares were withering ones.
“Err…. well …” I began. “Can I know what this serenading with beauties means?”
The five exchanged hideous grins then looked at me blankly. One by one, they handed me their badges. I didn’t catch their names but the organizations they worked for ranged from FIDA, COVAW, AFIMWIK and such acronyms that my brains failed to register.
The burly cop came to me and I knew something was in offing. I tensed my facial muscles for a welcome slap to this side of law. He was grinning.
“You are under arrest.” His voice was not the concrete type that addressed hardcore criminals.
One very petite woman, with a grating voice spat to my face, “Women are not objects for mistreatment and sexual gratification!”
Before I was whisked off to the station, the burly cop surprised me by telling me, “I don’t know what the world is coming to, but looks like the womenfolk are smashing our balls, man.”
* * * * *
Folks, you see why I’m going to become famous. Never have I ever made headlines but tomorrow I’m going to share limelight with our ever bickering politicians and scandal making religious elite.
And my defense is simple: Woman was made for man and not man for woman.
Juliet Maruru influenced me to write that story!!!!!!!!
© Paul Kariuki 2010