Life at home with my wife is now unbearable

When I returned home from forced quarantine a few weeks ago and was warmly welcomed by Fiolina, the laugh of my enviable life, I looked forward to a great time with family.

Besides the many plans that I had, I also wanted to spend some quality time with my lovely wife, my son Branton and of course Electina and Honda, the two beautiful girls who added colour to our lives.

The first three days were great. We would wake up early, take breakfast and after some cleaning, I would teach the girls for three hours — Electina is a candidate this year while Honda is in Class Six.

Branton is a very difficult one to even make sit down, so I would let him do whatever he wanted.

As the classes went on, Fiolina would be busy in the kitchen. Later, I would slip to Hitler’s whenever I had money.

I would return for dinner a few hours later. After dinner, Fiolina would lead us in a short service of singing, preaching and prayers. But those who know me know that I hate routine.

God blessed me with an imaginative mind that’s not accustomed to routine. Soon, Fiolina and I started quarrelling over small things.

HEAD OF THE HOUSE

It started with me missing her daily prayer sessions. At first, they were short then they started getting too long for my liking.

“We must always be a good example to the children,” she said after I first missed the service the other Thursday. “I am working hard to raise our children to be God-fearing, and I need your support,” she said.

“It is OK to bring up the children in a godly manner,” I said. “And you are doing it well.” I reminded her that when it comes to schoolwork, I have never invited her — I do it myself.

“The Bible is clear on this matter Dre,” Fiolina said. “Husbands are the priests of their homes, so you need to actually be the one preaching to us, and leading us in prayer, every day.”

She went on: “And don’t think I can’t teach, ni heshima tu I am giving you as the head of the family. I left TTC more recently so my knowledge is more advanced.”

The next day I decided to attend her evening service. All was going well until Fiolina asked me to give a testimony.

Despite telling her to skip over me, she insisted that I give a testimony. Cornered, I made as if to answer a telephone call, walked to the bedroom and did not return.

The furious Fiolina joined me later. “What example are you showing our children?” she asked. “If you can’t give a testimony, do you expect Branton to ever give one?”

PETTY ISSUES

But I told her I had no testimony. “What do you mean you have none, you could have thanked God for getting you out of the quarantine safely.”

That was not the only thing that made Fiolina angry at me. For the last two weeks, I have been in her bad books almost every day. Some of the areas of conflict include:

Bed: We have an unwritten rule that whoever wakes up last makes the bed. I am usually the first one to wake up, so Fiolina always makes the bed.

But currently, she mostly wakes up before me, and so she expects me to make the bed, something I can’t do.

“Whom are we making the bed for, really?” I asked her. “Is it not just the two of us who use the bed?”

She looked at me and said: “I expected you to reason better than Branton.”

Table manners: I have lived peacefully with Fiolina for close to eight years, but suddenly she has problems with my table manners. “Please stop talking with food in your mouth,” she told me last Sunday.

“What example are you showing to the children?” I made a conscious effort not to speak with food in my mouth the next time we had a meal, but Fiolina still identified more bad table manners.

“Why are you taking tea like you are drinking busaa using a blocked straw?” she asked me the next day.

“It is so disgusting?” She reminded me that tea needed to be taken quietly and softly. “Haitoroki.”

Once I corrected this, she admonished me for stirring the sugar in the tea so ‘violently’. “All you need to do is move the spoon from one direction to the other, not round and round.”

Socks and Shoes: “Dre, the girls and I are busy, we don’t have time to be walking all over the house looking for your socks,” she told me last Monday after Honda found several of my socks under the sofa set and bed. “Please, choose where you want to be putting your socks and stick there!”

Upset, I came home late that night and went straight to bed to avoid trouble with anyone. “We are not your slaves Dre. We spent the whole of the afternoon mopping the house then you come in with your muddy shoes all the way to the bedroom. Who do you think we are?”

My apologies fell on deaf ears. And no one mentioned that I am the one who built the house, including the beautiful floor I am always reminded to keep clean.

Dressing: Imagine I am the best dressed man this side of the Sahara yet my wife still faults my dressing. “You can’t wear a vest for three days before washing,” she said.

I told her a vest is something we wear for even a week. I effortlessly do so. She was shocked. “Even socks are only worn once,” she declared.

Company: She told me to avoid Saphire, Nyayo, Rasto, Alphayo, the entire Hitler’s crew. “I have no problem with them, but I hear Alphayo’s son returned with corona. You will get the virus if you keep interacting with these people.”

When I discussed my tribulations at Hitler’s, I was somewhat relieved to learn that I was not alone. Men were suffering.

“Our wives are too idle and are now just finding mistakes in everything we do,” lamented Rasto. He added that he hates his home since his wife quarrels him all the time.

Kuya, my colleague who is frequently becoming a regular at Hitler’s, added. “Kwangu hakukaliki. I can’t wait for life to go back to normal so that my wife can go back to school and get busy.”