Sigh.
Men, pull up a chair. We need to talk. Here’s how the end of days will come:
The offensive, we are told, will take many forms. The first sign may be the constant niggling. The cracks will then appear in your fraught relationships. The rupture will be your secrets spilled to a baying online audience, an Armageddon of sorts for your reputation, respect and wherewithal as a man.
The four horsemen of the apocalypse will unleash their scrolls and read out the evil, your evil: Why did you allow her to pay the bills?
You will fumble your words, then mumble: “They said I could do it.”
The heavens will crack, with the blood-and-thunder of disappointment as a voice pierces the sky:
“Men used to be about work, work, work. Now it’s all about twerk, twerk, twerk.”
My attention has been drawn as a Kibitzer, to the increasing scorched earth policy of online dirty linen washing. But none stinks as much as the unmistakable stench of being told you couldn’t handle your responsibilities.
We like to throw around the word, ‘respect’ and ‘leadership’ and ‘authority’. But what really is respect? And authority? And leadership? I grew up in a family where my father lost his job (since he is reading this, let’s say he quit) but not once have I seen him not provide for his family. Oh, and we are many. If you know anything about Boys from Kakamega is that we like to eat. I have five brothers so I’m going to give you a minute for you to run the Math.
Here’s the thing, whatever you do, do not allow her to pay the bills. I know I-Know-My-Rightsm and wokism might have led you to believe that they enjoy that claptrap, but, hear it from me, do not let her pay the bills. Hollywood might lead you to believe that her settling your responsibilities is romantic, but let the scales from your eyes. He who passes the judgment must also wield the sword. Man’s blessing is also his curse. Condemned to toil the land after one gaping bite of the apple, Adam has forever been the provider. It really is black and white, even if you are color blind.
To lead is to choose, and if, you as a man has any pretense of your powers not being usurped, you will have to do more than mumble.
I have done a bit of dipstick research: all the girls I have asked do not want to pay the bills. It is not backed by any Scientific analysis, but it is backed by common sense. This is not a clarion call for you now to treat anyone as an object, but take charge of your man responsibilities.
Sure, you might say, but oh, look at the countries who are doing it. They are advanced. Yes, but have you looked at their divorce rates? For me it has always been a demarcation of roles: you do this, I do that. It’s simple. It’s a way to check your freedom-and responsibilities. That is what is going on, we are not taking charge of our responsibilities.
This is a ring for a man who appreciates the way things used to be: when P.C. culture and “open communication” with your wife didn’t exist. Otherwise, you are doing nothing other than polishing the brass on the Titanic.
Whatever happened to men? You think you are being romantic by going Dutch, but all she sees is a piece of (explicit removed), which coincidentally is what Dutch means. You go Dutch, she thinks ‘Ditch!’ (You can replace the ‘D’ with a ‘b’ and it wouldn’t lose flavor.)
I have tried to go through the numbing process of making it ideologically kosher for a man to just sit there and let the lady take care of the bills and it has neutered me with that rough and ready samizdat feel. Sure, I do understand that things happen; you may suddenly lose your job, you may fall sick-you know life happening-but other than that, I am finding it hard to make a case for this new age fridge-magnet wisdom: “It takes a strong man to allow a woman to pay the bill;’ and ‘you DO You!’ and ‘We Are A team!’
All right—let’s try it the other way (as the bishop said to the barmaid): most relationships are more like Maseratis than Mazdas. They can be thrilling, but they need quite a lot of tinkering, and nobody is sure if they’re going to work on any given day. But the relationships that really work, the ones that hm with the silent efficiency of success, have aways been the Mazda of relationships: not very glamorous, but very reliable and unlikely to break down.
It’s apropos that it sorta there is a tiny little voice that squirms in you, because like an amputee, you can still sort of feel things that are no longer there. That is not a sign of diminishing manhood, but it is the christening of it. a forensic aperçu into middle Kenya,
Here’s the Truth with a capital T, yes, do your thing. Otherwise you will be called ndua or broke or useless, which, if you aks me, are not a good look on your resume. all the enthusiasm of the guy who fumbles for his wallet when the bill arrives, but has no intention of actually getting it out. It’s a gangster state, running on gangster economics.
The woeke brigade is mostly asleep, it’s time to wake up.
Men. Men. Men. How many times have I called you? Pick up the gantlet. He who has an ear let him hear. The only bill your woman is supposed to pay? This Women’s day take this as an ode from a common man: pay those bills. You cannot run a relationship on vibes and inshallah.
If Adam’s lesson has not taught you anything, then hear it from me, I am atop the mountain, shouting from the rooftops and rafters, do not let her pay the bills. This is as true as it was in 2001 as it will be in 2101.
Now that’s how to thread a real leadership needle.
You will forever be inextricably partnered up in some sort of external Dadaist tango devoid of logic and meaning. This qualifies primarily if you loosen the definitions of both ‘man’ and ‘responsibilities’. Let’s be clear, lest my words are misconstrued: this is not about men fearing strong-willed women, a monument to small penis envy – no, this is about responsibilities. It’s treading a gossamer fine, only ever a couple of bills away from losing credibility. The pylon of authority is erected with the Viagra of wisdom, the big, naked exclamation of leadership. This is classic stolen-honey-syndrome. Once you get a taste of the sweet, illicit stuff, you never stop. You know this. She knows this. Honey knows this.
That said, I won’t weep for men. We are the human embodiment of one of the oldest Russian fables: a Russian peasant pleads to God to for aid after he sees that his better-off neighbor has just obtained a cow. When God asks the peasant how he can help, the peasant says, “Kill my neighbour’s cow.” Men, get your cow.
