This isn’t about men who snore like rhinos, no!
What you need to know:
- But in moments like this, she remembered her father, a man as serious as a funeral, with a bronze countenance, hawk-like glance and rapid walk.
- He would rather sit and regale everyone with folklore while sprinkling children and adults alike with his abundant spittle.
- He spent most of his time at the drinking den, a cave where men converged to grog on man’s favourite poison and lament about women.
- This is not about the brothers who forget birthdays, squeeze toothpastes in the middle, leave toilets without flashing, throw socks on the couch, snore like rhinos or use toilet rolls so sparingly thus soiling their boxers like toddlers.
Mary stared at her husband’s mammoth frame that commandeered decorum and fear as he lay on the sofa that Sunday afternoon.
He had established a routine of reading and compulsory siesta for every Sunday.
She glared hard as sleep veiled over his all-seeing eyes, which she and the kids believed were capable of noticing even the sins committed in secret that sometimes earned them verbal whips, imbuing each word with venom that sunk deep into the flesh; it often left the kids coiling like prodded worms and her teetering on the brink of tears; her mind wondered off to her father.
CHILDHOOD
Whenever he removed his eyeglasses, the great resemblance he and their daughter Aketch bore became so stark - the dark skin and pear shaped head. Their son Opiyo was cloaked in Mary’s anthill coloured skin.
Her recollection of her childhood revolved around her grandmother –a smoky-eyed sage- and her mother.
But in moments like this, she remembered her father, a man as serious as a funeral, with a bronze countenance, hawk-like glance and rapid walk.
He was a belligerent and violent man who loathed work.
No, to put it more accurately, he did not like to kill himself with work. He would rather sit and regale everyone with folklore while sprinkling children and adults alike with his abundant spittle.
At 40, his head was already a bed of white hair. Legend had it that white hair before bones are invaded by arthritis was a sign of wealth. And wisdom.
Her father was a breathing penury of both.
DRINKING DEN
He spent most of his time at the drinking den, a cave where men converged to grog on man’s favourite poison and lament about women.
The assembly would begin with a random submission from a man lamenting his travails with a quarrelsome wife. And as more liquor flowed, solutions were proffered. Solutions that were often disastrous.
She reminisced about Sundays. The day of the Lord. The memories she had of the church were uninspiring. The Priest kept shouting threats of brimstone and gnashing of teeth.
Oh, well, then she read later that Jesus turned water into dry, red wine, hanged out with women of questionable repute and concluded that he wasn’t that bad after all.
CALM WOMAN
Sunday was nostalgic because her father died on a Sunday. He died of alcohol related complications. And she watched her mother morph into a rounder, more calm woman.
Villagers, however, murmured. It was not until later that she understood why her mother blossomed after the demise of her father.
Yes, some men are bad luck. There is a crop of men who have no business haggling for oxygen with the more deserving ilk.
And no, this is not about the brothers who forget birthdays, squeeze toothpastes in the middle, leave toilets without flashing, throw socks on the couch, snore like rhinos or use toilet rolls so sparingly thus soiling their boxers like toddlers.
Well, there are those who treat water as an abomination and the one minute men; but even those deserve to grow old and be ravished by back pains and memory loss.
