MEN, WOMEN, AND KNICKERS

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Ladies think they are complicated and shit. With their stinky weaves and long nails and crappy outfits and putrid perfumes and warped walking styles and lewd accents and rotten attitudes, they think being a Woman is a task. A task so grand they have to spend two hours in the shower [which would be understandable if they used those Ksh. 3700-a-piece soaps], another three hours polishing up their faces and applying facial creams that feel like they should be applied to a baby’s ass instead, then another five goddamn hours choosing an outfit from a set of two.

Fact: Women clothes are cheaper than a Man’s belt. Let me explain.

See, I went to my cousin’s Prayer Day the other Saturday. He just sat for his Primary School final exams. Success, Kid. Cheeky little rascal, that one. Kid put himself up for Special Diet without consulting the old geezers. You should have seen the look on his old man’s face when the school slapped him with Ksh. 155 000 in fee arrears. I kid you not, if that boy had been born into the Omondi Were family, he wouldn’t have seen sunset that day. We’d probably have had his soft cheeks for dessert. Two things Omondi Were does not joke about; Education, and his Money.

Anyway, so as we were leaving I heard my other cousin [she’s a lady, this one.] conversing with another relative of ours [Also a lady. And, No, I don’t know exactly how we’re related. To be honest, I don’t even think we’re related at all. All I know is that she’s a fine piece of cake, and my sister may or may not have made up that we’re related hoo-hah to prevent me from hitting on her. Well played, Sis. Well played. Folks, depression hasn’t stared you in the face till you’ve been cock-blocked by a woman. Your own blood, no less. Smh!]

Apparently, she [my lady cousin. Keep up chaps, I’m getting tired of putting these side notes for you to understand who/what I’m talking about] was thinking of an easy way to get cash. One that doesn’t involve wiping her mum’s shoes and cooking for her Chama women and feigning sickness and kissing the old man’s ass for an extra buck. And because she goes to USIU and the general assumption about USIU lasses is that they’re rich, spoilt and clueless [that’s a whole blog post on its own] as to how much a fucking crop-top costs, she had come up with this brilliant plan and was now laying it out to that mystery relative [Hehe] of ours. She was saying something along these lines;

Aki mimi ntatafuta tu mia tano niende shopping ya tops Gikomba, alafu niuzie wasichana wa USIU at double price”.

Stay with me here, there are two morals to that story: First, USIU ladies, if you come across some slender well-dressed sweet lady who can explain – in crisp details – plots to an entire season of productions like ‘Love &Hip Hop Atlanta’ or Tyler Perry’s ‘If Loving You Is Wrong’ and may or may not be walking around with some big ass green paper bag filled with women clothes hunched to her back, please, that’s my dear cousin. Be a lamb and buy something. And don’t bargain too much. Don’t be one of those people who even when told something goes for 50 baab, still want to bargain for it to be brought down to 30 baab. And they will be there standing over you, hands crossed over the chest, like they just can’t let you have that Ksh. 20 because the whole of humanity depends on it. Like the Pope will cancel his trip to Kenya if he lets you have it.

Secondly; Ksh. 500 is more than enough money to stock up a lady’s whole wardrobe. Hell, you could start a business dealing in lady outfits with just Ksh. 500. [Yet there are still some ladies out here in short white dresses and long heels looking out for Sponsors on chilly Friday nights at G-Skyye Lounge. Hayo ni Mapepo!]

For a Man, you will not even get a decent t-shirt at Ksh. 500. You will have to fast, pour the first double of your Whiskey to the ground in appeasement to the gods every Friday for a month, and tell the missus her red wig looks nice every day in good faith before those Hassans and Abdis in Amal Shopping Mall, Eastleigh, let you buy a pair of belts for that price.

Here’s how you know that being a Man is more daunting a task than being a Woman. Have you ever gone to a shop that sells women’s knickers? [Strictly for observational purposes, don’t be getting any ideas, you disgusting folk] More importantly, have you observed a woman shopping for knickers? How they hold those things up high in that fashion shop attendants do when checking for fake currency. They swing them around in air, perhaps checking if there are rats camping there. They stretch them, smell them, toss them upside down and inside out, put them down, grab them and lift them back up. If you pass by, they will tap you softly on the shoulder and shove those darn things to your face and your nose and ask you questions even Calvin Klein wouldn’t have the answers to. And Calvin Klein makes those fucking things.

Excuse me, Sir. What do you think about this undie? Do you like the color? Here, Smell it. Is that Strawberry or Vanilla cent? Would you like a lady in this one or the other one? Do you think it will fit me? Do you think it’s too tight?”

 

 

“Uhmm. I don’t know if it’s too tight, lady. Perhaps I should see your hoochi first, don’t you think?

 

Yes. This one. Totally. As Al-Shabaab continues to threaten Kenya and I-don’t-know-who is bombing Paris and cops are stabbing civilians in Burundi, there’s nothing I’d want more than to go home to a lady in red knickers to remind me of all that bloodshed. Totally.”

 

 

[And, about Calvin Klein, quick question; how miserable has someone’s life got to be for them to sit down and say I want to make knickers? I mean, do you even call your mother and go, “I know what I want to do with my life, Ma’. You know how you’re always telling Papa to stop walking around the house buck-naked flashing his junk to the kids and shit? I’m going to change that, Ma’. We’re going to be rich, Ma’. Rich!”No?]

 

A woman will hang her knickers out in the line shared by the whole plot. And she will not give the tiniest hoot. So you will be out there in the balcony trying to grab a quick smoke, then you will lift your head up to exhale that puff and – there in the distance – a shiny little ripped pink thong will cuff your vision. Then suddenly you will not be interested in that smoke anymore. You will need something stronger, a whiskey, perhaps. Neat.

Now watch a man shopping for a set of briefs. We don’t even look at the size of those things. Or the color. Or smell them for another man’s balls [if you’re shopping in Githurai]. Or check to confirm whether they will suffocate the boys or allow them some air. When a man goes shopping for briefs, you’d think he was buying C-4 or some shit. He walks into the shop, heads straight to the boxer section, grabs a couple of Abercrombie & Fitch briefs and whispers to the attendant, “Funga hizi buana! Chap chap.”all the while stone-faced. Now, hanging those damned things after washing is the real deal. You will find a man’s briefs underneath some hefty towel on the line. Or stashed below his pillow, so the last thing that hits his nostrils before he goes to sleep is the smell of his own balls. Now, that is a proud Man- a Man that loves the smell of his own balls – forget Luos and their masins [put up your hand when you see it. Now put it down and go grab a beer.]

Even during sex, men relish removing the ladies’ knickers. I was told it’s the true measure of man; removing a woman’s knickers during migwatos. Forget six packs and hairy beards, guys, if you hit it and the lady took off her own knickers; please note that your seat at the Table of Men has been rescinded with immediate action. And you need to take off those knickers like you mean it; slowly, lovingly, passionately, seductively.  That’s Foreplay 101 gentlemen, thank me later.

Now, ladies, have you noticed how the men act when it’s turn for their briefs to come off? They won’t even let you touch them. Or if they do, they’ll rush you so much you won’t even notice the damned things coming off.

A lady’s knickers have to be clean and presentable and emit a welcoming scent. Ours don’t have to. You’ll find a middle-aged man at the hospital with boxers so torn you’d think he rears rats in his closets. We’re just like that. Because we’re Men.