What do women want? I wish I had a definitive answer to this mind basher. At least for us men it is easy to know what we want because we are simple. We ask for what we want, we hustle for what we need, we fight for the lady we love, we die for our children, and walk away from fights we cannot win. SIMPLE!We do not say yes when we mean no; or say I will think about it when you actually know that the answer is looming right there on your mind. A man would innocently text a lady goodnight or call randomly in the middle of the day to ask what a lady is up to just because he scrolled in his phone and felt like he missed her. He would comfortably take a lady for a walk from Parklands to town and back. Not because he is thinking of how to wrap legs with her that evening, but because he just feels like being nice and concerned.
That is what men do!
All these theories about how men and wolves differ only in the number of legs they walk on; are nothing but a modern day version of Santa Clause. Just a myth that that is so universal that it created Disneyland!
Looking at it in retrospection, I would contentedly state without fear of contradiction that women are as a matter of fact, the conniving little red devils with horns that whisper obscenities into our ears. The world would be way better if women remained in Venus (and of course when there are other ways to procreate.) at least like that; we wouldn’t have to worry about where we will have to bury our heads when the clock chimes six on Sunday evening (hint: Wedding Show). This entire tumult about toilet seats, toothpaste squeezing and tissue paper rolling the other way would have found another province. Not the province of men.
But, what do I know? I am just a twenty one year old with a fast growing blog to run.
Yet, what happens when this same twenty one year old lives in campus, just next to the hall where those that have not yet been to heaven brag about it to those who never get there? What happens when he wakes up every Sunday morning to the sound of a beautiful irresistible melody that beckons him to rise up and join the braggarts? What happens when a two decade old male realizes that the sweet melody that interrupts his weekend sleep also happens to be in congruence with the pulchritude of the artist?
Well, the answer to that is everyone’s guess…EVERYTHING CHANGES!
All of a sudden, everything else ceases to matter. I am sure you have read about my sexcapades emotional rants and raves before. Probably here, or here or maybe here. And I know you are perhaps thinking…
‘He will never get it, will he?’ Maybe you are right. Perhaps I might never get it. See, I always say I am an old school kind of person. I really do not care what it is people want to think of me, what matters is what I think of myself, and I think this time it is different.
A man knows it is different. He just knows…especially when he is a writer, because as such, it is easy for him to decipher what is fiction or what is not. What is a fairy tale, and what is reality. What is nothing more than a beautiful two thousand word blog post and what is all that and more. A writer knows which bird’s story gets to fly, and whose is goose cooked. And however much he would try as much as possible to make his life to be like his favorite story at some point, and in as much as he might get lost in a fantasy of his own making; he will still know. He will somehow find his way back into reality. he will simply follow the breadcrumbs he had sprinkled on his way in and find his way out.
And how will he know that this particular time the girl is not just another mushy love story? The answer is still the same…EVERYTHING CHANGES!
He will bump his hump trying so hard to get ahead but he will always be falling behind. There will be times he will be sited at the end of the congregation, listening to the sweet melody caress his ears; but then wonder if that voice is for real. If it is a human being singing. Because for twenty one years, he has been taught to believe that people with that kind of a voice only live inside the television. That they belong in a castaway world purely inhabited by celebrities and TV personalities. But now he can see this bird. It heartily empties its whole heart with a song right before his very eyes, and at some point he is wondering if all this is a dream. The song is short lived. It goes for barely a minute. It seems to him that the lyrics of that song are the words that the bird uses to explain, when its fake smile cannot cover up its pain. That bird’s voice (in the words of JB) has an ass.
Yes. Everything changes. The writer no longer envisions blue to be a color of sadness or of a clear sky. He thinks of it as the color that the little bird wore as she sang that song. He starts going to the hall next to his room, and even before the bird could chirp another eargasm, he becomes a regular. At first, all the writer wants is a performance by the little bird. But then in the midst of the performance, he realizes that there is far much more to the song than just a voice with an ass. There is God. And it is amazing how long it has been since someone talked to him about God. It seems like the last time he was inside a church building, God was still a boy. You know you have been away for spells from church when the last song you ever crammed was in Sunday School and that was something like…
‘Bwana wa majeshi leo ainuliwe…’ and you have even forgotten the lyrics. But now, you are
here standing there at the feet of God. People are singing Amazing Grace from the top of their heads and you stand there confused with your obscure recollection of Father Abraham lyrics. Then you begin feeling inadequate. Like you do not belong. But then that little bird reminds you in a melody that we are all equal in God’s sight. That He made us out of dirt and breathed life into us. Whether white dirt, black, brown, chocolate or pink… we are all dirt. And that no dirt is more special than the other.
And from then onwards, the writer’s life has never be the same. Because EVERYTHING CHANGES.
Church no longer becomes the concert hall where he goes to listen to an acapella. It no longer becomes a place where he goes to look for a story. Instead he is offered a stage to tell his own story. A story that revolves around his greatest happiness. Almost a year ago, his greatest happiness would be to see his greatest enemy scattered, to drive before him, to see his houses razed to ashes, to see those who love him in tears and to gather into his bosom, his enemies’ wives and daughters. But now, for a better part of his twenty first year, he has found happiness in listening to a little bird sing a melody.
Regardless of where this writer is at this point in life, he still remembers the bird. He can still recall the first time he saw it. How he felt when he first saw it. He felt like it was a mystery that he was never going to solve. Even now after spending all this time with it, he is still amazed at the depth of its strength. He knows that he needs to let go of the bird and let it fly, but what he really wants is to cage it for himself.
He wants to own it, like he owns his stories. Because this little bird changed his story. It did not care about his past and what he had left behind. It actually sang to him, saying that whatever skeletons he had left behind (be it a murdered child, or a sex maniac or a thief, or a rapist) was nothing compared to what he is meant to be in the future. The little bird is priceless to him. It is a rare gem found only by those lucky enough to see past a beauty spot on the cheek just below the right eye. A purple rose only plucked by the prince who can see that beyond the show that the little bird puts on while on stage, lies a tender heart begging for an reassuring embrace.
So for me I understand why the writer wants to keep the bird. Question is, should the bird fly away or do its good deed of the day and settle inside this cage that is the heart of the writer?
If you understood this post, folks, answer that question. If you did not…find a bird. And
everything will change for you.
