Men listen, it is okay to go sleep in a woman’s house
Well, every man knows that when a woman moves into your house, it stops being yours.
Today there is no foreplay, I’ll just give it to you hard and straight: I don’t know what your idea of heaven is, but for me, it must be a woman’s house. Women are the true hedonists. No real point in describing a woman’s house here—just imagine a woman’s house, and you’ve got it.
Comfortable bed, 27 skin care products—and that’s just for the face, a towel for her neck, a towel for the lower back, a towel to dry the feet, and a towel for the towel and another towel, you know, just in case.
Now imagine if heaven had another heaven inside it? Like the inner sanctum, holy of holies. That would be a woman’s bed. First, they ensure their beds are soft because of all the trickery they [the women, not the bed] carry.
And it’s a king-size bed, because every little girl still dreams of being a queen. The mattress is not the one that can break your back. No. That mattress is like knowing someone in government—or someone who is known in government.
Forget the thousands of pillows, (which someone’s daughter said are there for ‘pillow talk’), but the bedsheets are soft. Soft! I have slept on many mattresses in Roysambu, but that linen bedsheet can get Ruto and Uhuru to wear matching shirts again. Ni mimi nakushow.
Brethren, a woman’s house? This is where God would live if God were to live on earth.
And look, men are told many things when they sleep in a woman’s house: “Oh, the owner, the one who pays rent will catch you.” Mara, “A real man will never sleep in a house he doesn’t pay rent”. Anga, “Oh, what will you even wear in her house?”
First, I have fallen asleep in Indimanje matatus when they were overlapping at Outer Ring Road while playing high-decibel Jamaican ragga and you think nodding off at a memory foam mattress with white [linen] bedsheets will make me feel guilty? Shame is a mindset and why are you sleep shaming me?
As for what I will wear; I like to consider myself a progressive man and an on-demand feminist ally so find me wearing her hotpants written “JUICY” on the back. For good measure, I’ll even ask for a bonnet and some chamomile tea while she spills the tea (ahem) on which good boy is doing bad things to the office baddie. To be a modern man, you have to be shameless. Shameless!
Brothers and sisters, I come from the desert to tell you the centre can hold and things will remain intact. Believe me, there are things that those who shame other men for their choices do not understand. For instance, it is only embarrassing if you are embarrassed. You cannot shame the shameless. But there is nothing as telling as a woman’s house.
Her living room is a mess and you think her life is intact? Her dishes are unwashed and you presume she has a clean heart? Her bedsheets are dirty and you think she is a prude—okay perhaps that last one is not a good example [we don’t like prudes], but you get the general drift.
I sleep at women’s houses to gauge their hospitability, ability to make a home, and most importantly, to escape my landlord. In that time, I have learned that women love themselves, without an iota of guilt.
A comparable bedsitter of a woman starting life is not the same as a man in a similar tax bracket. While men would claim to be happy with a hand-me-down sofa, a PS, and a humungous TV and call that “a life well-lived”, a woman would have a seven-seater with cupholders—okay gin holders—a wall-to-wall carpet, a functioning water dispenser and a comfortable bed with linen bedsheets.
Heck, she will even have an operational kitchen system with actual sufurias. It took me three years to replace my campus sufurias! And only because they got holes in them from making violent ugali.
The point is, if you want to understand what good living (and living good) feels like, go learn that from a woman. And they do this on a budget; they know the best places to thrift household items, they know every nook and cranny for your bedroom toys (you know what I mean) and, having spent half their life on Instagram, they can practically do a makeover interior design for your house.
I am not saying they are the best, but can you show me anyone better? Most men’s homes are more like Maserati’s than Mazdas. They are fun to drive, but nobody is sure if they are going to work on any given day. Women’s houses are more like Mazdas, understated but very reliable and unlikely to break down. Let’s face it men. We have champagne tastes on a lemonade budget.
So go on, carry your change of underwear(s), 96-hour ‘fresh’ roll on and audacity, and go take a day or two or three. In fact, sleep on the side next to the wall. Let her get the door. You are a Prince, and you deserve to be treated like royalty, and you are in your soft boy era, the only calls you are picking are of nature, donge? Besides, how else will you learn that salmon is not just a fish but a type of colour, kwanza ya pink?
Either way, you will eventually move into a woman’s house. Because as every man knows, when a woman moves into your house, it stops becoming your house. That is the law of nature. The man who learns this early in life has no qualms about sleeping in a woman’s house because a real man, real masculinity, knows that you can still guard your frame—and flame. Is it not the elders who said that whether the frog falls on the knife or the knife falls on the frog, the frog must bleed?
