Help

The chap I was to interview for this week piece emailed that he didn’t think it was “a good idea anymore.” He said that after reading last week’s piece he felt that he didn’t want to “expose himself too much to the public”. He has been married for a few years now and is “living in what he described as “a hell-like marriage”is “,” that hell is not fire and gnashing of teeth but marrying the wrong woman”. I don’t know but it sounded like the wife was hurting him. As in, physically. Like burning him with candle wax every night after dinner. Or forcing him to wear her panties and sing a song from her childhood. Over and over again. Nothing will surprise me anymore in this borough of yours.

Of course I asked for his number to try and change his mind. (Or inevitably change his life, by convincing him to run away. Not with me obviously.)

“Humour me, what’s the very worst that will happen to you if I wrote your story?” I asked him.

“Even before I answer you, let me ask you a question,” he said, “do you think the wife of the guy you wrote about last week didn’t come across the article?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Why does it matter?”

“I wouldn’t want my wife to read it. And I know she reads your blog because she always shares it on Facebook.”

“Does she not know you are unhappy in that marriage?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Then make it simple for me,”

He was quiet for a bit.

“Look. It’s just a bad idea. Trust me. If she reads it, all hell will break loose.”

“What will she do, deny you food? Chain you in the basement and play loud music until you go crazy? What? Will she report you to your mother?”

He laughed.

“Much worse.”

“Really?! I was joking.”

A pause formed in the line between us.

“Look, I can’t do it. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Naah, it’s cool. You didn’t waste my time. People change their minds all the time. Listen, one day if you eventually escape or if she disappears mysteriously, let me know and we can talk, sawa?”

“Ha-ha. Ati she disappears mysteriously.”

“Yeah, you know, she goes to buy milk in the kiosk at the corner and she never comes back. You know, these bad things sometimes happen to bad people.”

“Ha-ha, that’s hilarious.”

“The cops will disagree.” I said.

We hang up.

So I sat there and thought, shit! Because my mind was already bent into that story. I had started imaging some really crazy shit happening to him in that house. I imagined him trying to give leaving guests a sign to save him. In fact, I thought I’d write it in the first person, without a single quotation mark. Like the last words of a man on death row. Now I would never know what hell he was talking about. You would never know what hell he was talking about. Or even if he escaped.

Anyway, I’m a fairly organised guy. Because I have these interviews lined up for two months, so I simply emailed the next chap and apologised for the short notice and asked if we could finally meet for an interview but he couldn’t make it on short notice. By this time it was already Saturday and I had run out of time so I said, oh well, I might as well write about a tree.  

***

Growing up we had a big tree outside our house. It wasn’t a child-friendly tree not because it was thorny, but because its branches dissuaded even the most adventurous of kids from climbing it. But this tree wasn’t just a tree; it marked the stages of our childhood. If you didn’t know us and you came to look at that tree while we were away in school, you would guess the age and stage in life of the children who lived in the house. From this tree we tied a swing when we were much younger, which we later upgraded to an old tyre swing. You know the type which you step on and swing? I don’t know what it is with the idea of “stationary locomotion” that fascinates children, but we’d wake up early to swing off that swing. Swings, in retrospect, are soothing. You are going but you are still there.

When we grew slightly older we hung a wooden box on this tree, a box in which we reared doves, tens of them, like Mike Tyson did. I have mentioned my love with the Mourning Doves, their soothing coos and their gentle nature. A dove went for KShs 50 back in the 80s and so if you had 20 doves you were worth KShs 1,000, legally rich. For 1000 bob you felt like you could move out, get a place of your own and never have to wake up early to go to school or do homework. For 1000 bob you could play outside until late in the night and nobody would stress you about taking a shower before you slept. Sh.1,000 now is what was equivalent to going for brunch at one of those places that serve “bottomless” mimosas.

Then as we got older and outgrew doves, the wooden box was replaced by an old dart board retrieved from the trash bin of the nearby bar. But one day my father saw the darts and demanded it be removed immediately because, well, in the 80s darts was a game associated with bars and drunkards and he was a teetotaller SDA guy. So the darts board was brought down.

When our limbs grew longer he bought us a bicycle and so sometimes you would find it leaning against that tree. It was a Raleigh bicycle of what was known as the “black mamba.” I can still smell the newness of the bike; it smelled of adventure and responsibility and faraway places that we dreamed of conquering, places beyond the town where roads ended and discovery started.

A year or so later we got bored of that bike and we briefly had a kennel under the tree. We got a dog. It wasn’t the kind of dogs you see nowadays, dogs named Mali or Buju. It wasn’t trained. It didn’t have feelings. It wasn’t “part of the family.” I hadn’t known there were vets or even if that was a profession. And we certainly didn’t walk the dog- not when it had its own legs. A dog was meant to bite bad people, not be part of the family. Owning a dog presented a chore we had not anticipated because you had to clean the damned kennel. And dog shit smells horrible, we were 10-years old, nobody needed that kind of a chore, God knows clearing the dishes from the table and spreading you bed was stressful enough.

Thankfully, one day that bitch simply wandered out through the gate and never came back. I can’t say we cried the way children now cry when their hamsters die. I think we didn’t cry because we didn’t name the dog. We must have called it Simba or Poppy, one of those generic names you give a dog you don’t want to invest too much emotion in. I call that the “doggy phase.” Then we went to high school and dropped all those boyish toys and interests, and finally the tree was left to be a tree and serve its purpose as a tree. It was free.

I have loads of memories of that tree. My mother used to sit under it, sorting through her traditional vegetables. Sometimes in the evenings my father – who would be home at 5pm, unlike most fathers- would join her there and they’d chat and drink hot chocolate like proper SDA folk and do nothing but call you and keep sending you inside the house to fetch something because parents could never just fetch things on their own like we do now. My mom was the type who would call you and when you went where she was, she would look up at you and ask, “Eeh, what is it?” and you’d tell her, “You called me!” and she’d say, “Oh, did I?” Then she’d not let you go, she’d let you stand there for twenty years as she tried to remember why she called you.

That tree also participated in disciplinary matters. We were never whipped with belts like some sissies. We were never rapped in our palms with rulers like some chaps I know. We were flogged, like those merchants in the Bible who were selling stuff in church. Guess what my mom used? Branches from that tree. So this one tree that gave us joy also have us pain.

Still on discipline. This tree would often shed its leaves, which meant that every morning someone had to sweep the leaves away and dispose of them. This boring task took a good 30 minutes. Guess whose job it was to sweep those leaves? The little people of the house. So my siblings and I took turns. It was a grunt job that you did while mumbling under your breath and because of that you would do it badly and my mom would call you from where you were playing and have you redo it until she and the universe were satisfied. Now when our children finish their food and take their dirty plates to the kitchen they are given a star. The next generation will be handed the bloody moon.

We were made to do house chores even though we had a maid. Yes, back then they were called “maids.” Now you can’t call them maids because angry people on twitter will torch your car and make memes of you. We always had a maid as long as I can remember. By the way, a maid, according to one dictionary definition is “someone in a private house whose duties are to care for the parlour and the table and to answer the door.” Well, our maid was not there to do any of that. We always answered our own door. I don’t know of any family who had someone else answer their door for them. How big is that house that someone has to be employed to answer the door?

I recall that one of the maids that stayed with us for a very long time was an old woman. She must have been in her 50s but when you are 9 years old  anyone who is over 15 years is officially old. She would smoke when my parents were not home, this stinky, terrible, bad cigarette that she rolled herself. I suspect my mom knew what was going on but what could she do when the maid was older than her? She was a great cook, though, this maid, and a great storyteller. She would cook smoked fish with ghee and whip up traditional vegetables and dried meat that we call alia (pronounced Aaliyah but with the “yah” changed to “yah.”) She could also cook good ugali. A good ugali is one that you leave on the stove covered for another 15 minutes after it’s cooked. She also loved to sing when all the house chores were done, songs that sounded like they came from 1945. Back then there was not much by way of entertainment; you either sang or you smoked homemade cigarettes. She did both with aplomb. She also didn’t like shoes because she was from the village and in the village shoes got in the way. Shoes slowed you down. So she would walk around shoeless. She was an outlier before Malcolm Gladwell could wrap his head around that word.

She was also untouchable, this maid. She could beat you up. She would beat you up while your mother was in the very next room. This is because my mom had this lousy policy of always taking the side of the maids. It didn’t matter if the maids were wrong or if they started it, if a maid reported you she would take their side. It was infuriating. This, of course, made you feel like you were not even her child, that you were adopted. I think everybody felt this way at a certain time in their childhood, no? Wait, was it just me?

There were unwritten rules. You could never talk badly to the maid or disrespect her. If you did and she reported you my mom would ask you, “I’m sorry, I seem to forget, when did you last pay her salary?” You’d look at your feet for answers, then she’d push your head with her forefinger and say, “Answer me. When did you last pay her salary?” Then you’d say you have never paid her salary. Then she’d say if you don’t pay her salary then who has given you the right to talk to her badly? What did this did was not only to be respectful to people we considered to be lowly but I grew up thinking that having a salary gave you the right to tell anybody anything. A salary was a card to admonish. A salary was a voice. People with salaries were important people.

We always wondered why the maid was employed because we always seemed to be doing things she was supposed to be doing; setting the table, clearing the table, cleaning our room, sweeping the damned leaves, sometimes doing the dishes – pretty much every mundane house chore. All she did was cook and wash clothes and eat bread and knock our horns with our mom’s and smoke her awful tobacco. Oh, and maids of the 80s loved bread and Blue Band. Hell, who didn’t?

The old maid finally got arthritis and she could no longer wash dishes so she left to go back to shags to live a happy life of taking in village air and not having to deal with our kind. I didn’t miss her tobacco smell, but I sure missed her songs.

We had subsequent maids after; and as years wore on they also transformed – they got more learned, they started having rights, they could speak english. And at some point the world got very sensitive and title-obsessed and started looking at the profession critically. They started by changing their titles. Maids stopped being maids and became househelps. Then because “househelp” was a mouthful and people were busy on the internet they shortened it to “help” or “the help.” Then we discovered Friends on cable TV and “the help” became “the nanny” because that’s what Joey and Ross called them. The difference between the two was that whilst househelps could speak English, nannies could not only speak English but they also knew what a recipe was. Nannies can make smoothies. Also, whereas maids had only three clothes – two for daily wear and one for church – nannies have gone to school, can speak fluent english, wear tights and do their nails, wear lipstick. Nannies have dreams and ambitions. They know what RT is. Some are on Instagram. If you met a nanny on Sunday, you wouldn’t recognise some of them; they wear heels with red soles.

But then nannies became mainstream.

Now we have Domestic Managers or DMs. DMs have First Aid skills. Some even drive. They can do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. They know what a solar plexus is. They can also help with homework, to mean they can do math and social studies. DMs know their rights. They know what the minimum wage is. They can take you to court and sue your pants off. They can hold conversations with visitors. Most can swim. And ride a bike. They count their calories. Your children call them by their names. Or Auntie Mwende. They fit right into the family album. Actually they could pass for your cousin.

The thing with domestic managers is that they are managers when the men and women are out shaking the bushes. They even decide the diet sometimes. They know each child’s personality, sometimes better than the parents. They know the politics of managing, not a house, but a home. They will know when the gas is just about to get finished by just standing in the kitchen. They know what child doesn’t like what food and who is allergic to what. They know where the medical cards are kept. When you take your child to the doctor most likely you won’t be able to answer all those questions doctors always ask – when did the fever start, what did you give her, what is the last thing she ate, how long did she nap today, is she coughing, what does the cough sound like, can you cough the way she coughs, now stand on one leg – and so you take the DM to the hospital with you to offer this history. If the cops ever needed a character witness for your child, you wouldn’t be able to offer it because our children play us, they show us what side they want us to see because we are hardly ever there, but the DM? Oh, she can be a character witness.

They also know what brands to buy in the house; what brand of juice is good and which is bad, what soap is good for the dishes, which toilet paper is good for the Junior (and Baba Junior’s) bum. They know how you like your clothes pressed, which clothes run and which one needs handwashing. And if you ask them what detergent they prefer, if you ask them which is the best detergent, they will tell you unequivocally that it’s Ariel. And they will say why and if you say something on the contrary, they might ask you, when was the last time you did laundry?

***

We closed the registration of the march writing masterclass. Bett is asking that you kindly not send another email, she’s drowning in them. We will open registration again in April. Inshallah.

The Men and Marriage Series resumes next week.

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117 Comments
  1. Good read ata kama huyo msee ametulenga, we could have helped him ama? We could have protected his story so that the wife couldn’t be able to read….

    3
  2. You ever studied for an exam and then it’s postponed on the very day? Or your country was due for an election that failed to happen 4 hours to? Or recieved an email notification for a story that never came?

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    1. you nailed the anticipation. the anxiety and the disappointment. anyhow the tree and the maid story has helped a bit

  3. I found myself struggling to complete your story immediately after that part where i realized there wasn’t going to be a Men and Marriage story for this week. Hehe!

    34
  4. *Underwhelmed.*
    Men have begun backing out..saying “Eh..It’s a no can do.” That even after being told they can come anonymously or be called “Pontius Pilate.”
    When it’s the ladies turn for these series, I bet my last dollar they will sing like a canary. There will be no gaps, and Bwana Biko won’t have to think up a story about a tree, or maid or domestic manager.
    Hard to figure out why we are called, ‘the weaker sex.’

    56
  5. I read your tree story with half as much interest and enthusiasm after coming to terms with the fact that our guy wouldn’t tell his story.

    8
  6. I read the tree story with half as much interest and enthusiasm, after coming to terms with the fact our guy wouldn’t tell his story.

    1
  7. Is it just me or I had to muster all all my divine energies to read about “The Tree”? I too echo your sentiments Biko … “So I sat there and thought, shit! Because my mind was already bent into that story.”

    8
  8. ..And if you ask them what detergent they prefer, if you ask them which is the best detergent, they will tell you unequivocally that it’s Ariel. And they will say why and if you say something on the contrary, they might ask you, when was the last time you did laundry?
    .. I see what you just did, clever you.! Anywho, bills have to be paid.

    8
  9. People are not saying much about the tree, poor tree or should we say poor chap that backed out? . Hope the chap finds happiness, life is too short to go about it so afraid of people you live with!

    2
  10. Too heartbroken from the lack of story to actually read that tree story because I can’t help but wonder, kwani how deep shit is that marriage? What’s really the worst that could happen?

    5
  11. Reminds me we had a tree full of “matomoko’ or custard apple. I can still taste their sweetness….try buy a matomoko now(damn expensive)! And they never taste as sweet as the ones from the tree in our compound
    And the guy who fears the wife, Sorry…..

    3
  12. Maybe you should change that men and marriage series to DMs and families series coz truly men can’t handle the backlash out there after their history

  13. How shitty is that marriage? I hope the guy changes his mind and decides to share his story..maybe the wife will read and evaluate herself based on people’s feedback on the comment section… because I will be here to give my 2 cents.

    3
  14. No Biko, the beating I received and my parents often siding with the maid often made me feel adopted too a 70s and 80s thing I guess.

    It was good to reminisce our childhood days, though I’m disappointed not to get that man’s story. It would have done his soul good to share it. Maybe not his physical well being though and I have to respect that….

  15. Sometimes no story speaks a thousand words…that chap must be those that are put in gurney sacks and given a proper beating using sticks from their own tree. Or denied conjugal rights, ‘enda uombe Biko’ . Sigh. Or those men whose purse strings are in the hands of the missus and such a misdemeanour could have meant no lunch for a week or mullah for mutura. or the missus could tell the whole world he has low sperm count problems. Ah! It beats me. Why would one be so unhappy yet so afraid?

    7
    1. Live and let live. Thats Solomonic wisdom from the guy fort backing off….What if he is married to the many psycho….many of our modern women are exactly that….psychos! Would all of you be happy that after telling the story, the missus wil find out and butcher the children as retribution to the guy for telling out their story? How will this guy live with himself after that?

  16. Well, I hope this is the first and last man to bail out after raising expectations. At least now everyone understands married women are very very attentive to read these threads to find out if their husbands are part of the anonymous ‘storytellers’ . He is more afraid of his wife’s reaction….maybe he is being abused. Or maybe he wanted to come here and paint another pity-party story of brandishing the woman as a demon yet he is the aggressor. Now we will never know. There are also men who are facing impending separations and divorces based on these exposes because female intuition just by reading a story we can tell if it is our ‘husbands’ expose. Particularly those men who have done their women and families wrong for so long and are using your forum as redemption tool.

    I wish in future, you could focus on a couple a month his side, her side kind of exposes. It will really help bring to light the rot that is the marriage institution in this country. At least there, we can be more thorough and objective in analysis and giving advice.

    I appreciate the Tree story though.

    7
    1. I dont think the marriage institution is rotten. Just that there are occurrences of problems in some marriages. I hope there is found atleast one interviewee who is in a theoving marriage

  17. You know how this feels?You had a date and you are all set to get the biggest O’ of your life then the date turns up with a some disappointment and excuses.I pity that man.I don’t want to imagine the fire his wife breathes.That one is fire of basking from far…Well lets wait for next week men and marriage.Tell that man to man up.

  18. That was difficult to read… I caught a few lines as i scrolled to the bottom

    In my opinion, the reaction that the article received last week created an even more unsafe environment for men to come forward and tell their stories. I felt so ashamed as a woman seeing the ridicule that the gentleman received. It is almost as if men shouldn’t speak up when they experience any kind of emotional or physical abuse from their significant others because women have been taking it for years and remained quiet. I hope men don’t take that clap-back and internalize it especially in this era of mental health breakdowns. That they will still be brave and come forward and tell their stories.

    3
  19. We had such a tree growing up. …and the swing… Our tree was also the look out post for folks coming home. I can’t imagine calling our DM anything other than aunty. She became part of the family ages ago(considering I’m on the third floor now)

  20. Sad to hear there is a person this unhappy in his marriage and completely terrified to talk about it. Yet what some of us hope for is to enter this institution with no success in the horizon…

    1
  21. If i had some minutes with the dude, I’d tell him the worst that coukd happen is a separation/divorce, and even that sometimes is a blessing… Jeez when will men start loving themselves!!!

    1. It isnt as easy as it sounds. You will find that such a person has invested alot in that relationship (time mainly) and may not be ready to start all over again; it may also be the kids that keep him there, for their wellbeing.

  22. Heck, slot me in for the missed interview, or maybe not, but I want in, the bonsai and all, not that I have one, but I have a WAKANDA (black cat) in the house.

  23. I got lost, unhappy guy, tree, maid. Maid?

    Tell Bett she has our emails. She should tell us when applications are open again, before you put it up here and applications flood again.

  24. I’ve followed your blog for eons and like that you’re highlighting challenges faced by couples in the marriage institution. But can you also highlight some good stories because there are quite a number too. Unfortunately marriage institution has become the foray for most media (don’t try listen to classic in the morning it’s disgusting). I’m sure your aim is not to stoop to those levels.

    1
  25. I felt so dissapointed when the two men bailed but I must say the tree story really dug up some old childhood memories. Loved every bit,nice read as always.
    Only Biko can write about a tree and make it worth your while

    1
  26. I am actually outraged at the prelude. It serves to propagate the misogyny that is so rife in our society today. I don’t know what/whose agenda you are pushing but you have to be aware of the danger of a single story. Women are held up to a much higher standard than their male counterparts, women are to be demure and long-suffering while boys will be boys, right? Portraying women as degenerate and/or battle-axes (see above) makes it that much harder for all of us, your daughter included. For shame!
    I really hope you can whip up the same righteous indignation about the serial philanderers and women-killers we are constantly reading about in the news.

  27. Biko, I didn’t get email notification as well.

    I knew something was pretty wrong. Now the man just backed off due to fear of the unknown.

  28. Funny how your name draws out the Nigerian ‘biko!’ in my head… AND HOW DID I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS WEBSITE(yes am shouting)!!! Am shook!
    ION, I can give your my marriage story…

  29. Now this scaredy cat guy! I was really looking forward to this weeks version of “it’s really shitty out here” such stories have a way of informing us what we actually think are major problems in our lives are but mere non -issues because cats out here are really going through some thangs. Mr. Scaredy cat we are rooting for you… come out wherever you are!

  30. Well, thanks to that guy we can talk about our famous tree, my ass is scared coz of the famous mango tree. And that maid was as feared as the city Kanjos these days. Good read

  31. …..And we certainly didn’t walk the dog- not when it had its own legs. A dog was meant to bite bad people, not be part of the family.

    this shyte is soo crazy hilarious Biko you need to warn us before you drop bombs like this !!! some of us read this blog in the comfort of our salaried jobs man! reading this blog is more like sticking my hand in the damned cookie jar hoping not to get caught !! and then I laugh so loudly coz this story is so funny and soo relate-able.

    1
  32. Imagine that wife is here, depressed like all of is, wondering why a man wouldn’t share his story asking ‘kwani how scary is that mans wife? Why wouldba man fear his wife etc

    It is you imagine, yes you.

    8
  33. Imagine that wife is here, depressed like all of us, wondering why a man wouldn’t share his story asking ‘kwani how scary is that mans wife? Why would a man fear his wife etc

    It is you imagine, yes you.

    2
  34. Deep down guys are disappointed because we like horrific tales that remind us our lives aren’t too bad .. that plus tunapenda udaku.
    Hope the guy finds courage to tell his story to someone, anyone.. A problem share is one halved

    1
  35. Well I refer you to this comment:
    Wanji
    19.02.2019
    That was difficult to read… I caught a few lines as i scrolled to the bottom

    In my opinion, the reaction that the article received last week created an even more unsafe environment for men to come forward and tell their stories. I felt so ashamed as a woman seeing the ridicule that the gentleman received. It is almost as if men shouldn’t speak up when they experience any kind of emotional or physical abuse from their significant others because women have been taking it for years and remained quiet. I hope men don’t take that clap-back and internalize it especially in this era of mental health breakdowns. That they will still be brave and come forward and tell their stories.

    Stories from both parties would be great. But at the moment I’m happy reading the Men&Marriage.

    1
  36. Biko, I initially thought you were kidding when you said that the man changed his mind…Where are your negociation skills….id even pay to get a juicy read…As the secretary of readers association ..please know you have failed your flock .i am extremely disappointed…why would a man be so scared of his wife? if he married the wrong woman why can’t he just leave?

  37. What are the chances this wife he fears so much already knows that it’s him. Because she’s such a force to be feared and she reads this blog so diligently maybe she already knows that her husband is really the kind of man who’d plan to tell this story and back out. If the marriage is doomed, not telling the story will not save it but only prolong the pain. :((

    1
  38. Mr Biko,
    Unfortunately that young man was not ready to share his story and hopefully when he is ready he will tell someone and get some much needed help.In the meanwhile, If anyone can write about trees , the help and dogs and make them interesting it would be you. and…. (I’m gushing here), you seem to have written about the same damn tree at our compound in ngong hills right down to the demonic leaves. Reading your articles has become the highlight of my week. I especially like to read them at work, during the slow hours between morning tea and lunch, when there is a lull in the office that makes me want to seriously slash my wrists. (the nature of my job involves convincing people to clean their teeth!! sigh)
    Your article is well hidden under layers and layers of screens, incase my nosey colleagues stretch their necks. but that doesn’t stop me from banging my desk, laughing out loud and almost toppling over my chair , making my blue eyed colleagues question my sanity. Everything you have written about this tree, unfriendly dog, the help, made me so nostalgic and happy that for a brief moment I don’t care that I am being paid by the hour to be productive.
    I’ll probably not meet my KPI’s today, I’m clutching my tummy muscles and chuckling in happiness and sure I may even get fired of which I WILL vehemently curse you, but in this moment of bliss, your writing makes me….free.
    Thank you Mr Biko………….
    ehhh btw would you like a dental check-up?

    1
  39. Dear me!! That man. He seems to have undergone mental and emotional castration. What kind of a woman is this to have emasculated a man to this level? Why would one not take charge of their own happiness? Leave alone sharing his story in public, he privately can’t face up to his wife to either mend or break away from a toxic relationship?

    My diagnosis: a lack of leadership and no balls. The former can be remedied but unfortunately the latter is terminal.

  40. A nice story,reminds me of my childhood and the chores we were able to do. damn! will the kids of today know how sweet it was growing up in the early 90’s?

  41. i wish one day you you will come down that tower and visit our trees and our maids for
    they have a story to tell even without those fancy names for a bowl of wimbi porridge

  42. “Even before I answer you, let me ask you a question,” he said, “do you think the wife of the guy you wrote about last week didn’t come across the article?”

    “Maybe, maybe not. Why does it matter?”

    Now we women gather to share stories even those deep ones that will live your friends asking”What the hell are you still doing in that marriage”,with time you will realize its therapeutic,when we share, coz 80% or less of the women have that similar story .
    Imagine how many men he would have talked too ,coz apparently men dont go over a drink and discuss what they are going through rather they drown in the same fear of what if ?

    Tree story and the DM’S waaaa ok

  43. What if that wife’s comment is right here? Wondering why the chap fears her that much now that we know she is Biko’s fan…

    Anyway.. Looking forward to next week’s article.

  44. You’d look at your feet for answers, then she’d push your head with her forefinger and say, “Answer me. When did you last pay her salary?” Then you’d say you have never paid her salary. Then she’d say if you don’t pay her salary then who has given you the right to talk to her badly? What did this did was not only to be respectful to people we considered to be lowly but I grew up thinking that having a salary gave you the right to tell anybody anything….HEHHEHEHE

  45. This made me miss my granma as i grew up around her and we had a tree in the compound too. Shes been gone 6 years and now they want to cut down the tree to make room for a store, what?! That tree is where we sat to be served porridge, its where she cleaned our ears from and where sat to have ugali and mursik for lunch. I miss her. Thank you for this.

    As for DMs or is it househelps, i thought i was the only one whose mum always sided with the girls haha.

  46. While we are crafted by the same artist, we are all crafted different. For some, it is easier to sit in a toxic and abusive marriage because the have had kids (and a history) with their partners. For others, its easier to just walk away and take turns with the children. Others just become deadbeats and blame situations. While I am not so much into trees and maids, I feel the honesty of this man when he admitted to fear his wife. May be he should start going to the gym or to the bar which ever works for him because that’s how men of this generation deal with their fear.

  47. When I saw the tree story, quickly scrolled down the comment section to decide if I should scroll back up to read it. I got dissuaded.

  48. that hell is not fire and gnashing of teeth but marrying the wrong woman”. I don’t know but it sounded like the wife was hurting him. As in, physically. Like burning him with candle wax every night after dinner.

    So he says that the problem is marrying the wrong woman but you decide that she must be physically abusive? Then you Biko proceed to joke about her disappearing mysteriously?

    You seriously need to re evaluate the things you write and say about women. It reflects alot about you. And I would imagine that by now you’re old enough to know that there’s always two sides to a story.
    *disappointed*