I am sure you all are saying, “and so what?” Ask me o – anyway without further ado let me get into the koko oro – the koko of the gist. Of course if it were a normal matter, you know I would not bring this matter to the village square so that you the elders can adjudicate in this matter on my behalf. The thing has been troubling me so tey a private man like me have decided to wash my dirty laundry in the public. What matters in this instance na my peace of mind; knowing fully well that you peeps have my best interest at heart. Can you imagine this woman? Women and their conniving abilities never cease to surprise me. Even the best of them, as soon as you think you have them all figured out na so dem go spring you surprise.
When a significant other calls me and says that phrase: “we need to talk”, it always gets me shivering. In the past, I have lost nothing less than three pretty damsels to this “talking” of a thing. How talk turns to break up or heart break- of course neglect the fact that more often than not it was not even my heart that was broken since only a fool will see a relationship coming to an end and not know it – I am yet to figure out. But as per say this my current woman na for keeps, na so fear catch me. Before I could get my act together and put on my warm pajamas on this cold frigid morning of our downright tropical Houston (ignore the irony), my inner belle don dey shake.
After the usual niceties and jeun-jeun that people who date or are pretending to date do, she got to the bone of contention. It is not even as if we are both dogs struggling for bones falling off from the master’s table. You see in my case, I allow the woman do the talking. At least if that gives her some illusion of power and control- wetin come concern agbero with overload? If she wan talk – make she talk. After she tire, she go ask me say wetin be my opinion. And trust your Warfi broda na so I go answer say I get no opinion: “your wish is in my command”. Na so my papa teach me: How to Keep your woman 101 to the non-discerning young agberos out there. After you say “yes ma’am”, you can as well go ahead and do what you please. The Gods won’t hear, neither would the dogs care.
As we come dey yarn, and as I dey try postpone my judgment day, hoping this woman would forget we were supposed to be having a “talk”, na so she kukuma skin the cat that has been preying my fenced compound since she woke me up from my mandatory afternoon power nap. “Michael”, she started. You see, when this daughter of the Niger Delta start using the name “Michael” something was amiss. I mean, I rarely go by that name in her domain- she calls me sweet nothings which are better kept from the preying ears of strangers like you folks. In any case, as she called my name obviously to catch my attention na so the belle catch me again. You sabi that kain belle now: the kain belle wey dey catch you after you chop three days old beans mixed with fried plantain and fermented Ijebu Garri with sugar and “impure” water. Na so I take excuse from “Her Royal Highness” to use the White House (don’t tell George Bush) right quick. In the midst of my lavatorial worship, the thought of the impending damnation just worsened my bad luck for a seemingly luckless day.
“Gboyun lo, ko gbomo bo” is a popular refrain in South Western Nigeria. It literally means, you take pregnancy away, you bring child back. In a sense it means whether you like it or not, the repercussions of your actions are non-avoidable or better translated to pidgin: “soldier go, soldier come, barracks remain”. Hence after properly doing my number seven (who says African man lavatorial worship is within the three number ranges?) I returned to my oga on the phone. With a voice close to that of an Angel, she asked, “are you back?” I eagerly obliged that I was all hers for the butcher’s knife. As if confirming my worst fears about knife, she delivered the news, good or bad, in seeming obliviousness of the dangers of her proposition. “You know after we have X number children we will have your kokoro snapped right?” Na so my heart jump so tey im wan jump commot for my chest. Snap kini? Na so dis woman come explain na my kinikan she wan cut. I come dey laugh like Obasanjo wey get epilepsy or better put like an abandoned Peugeot 406 1965 model filled with smelly Abacha petrol.
You see my laughter was a mixture of joy and bewilderment. I was certainly happy that this talk did not put paid to my life’s ambition to finish the work I have already started and reap my investment in this relationship; but on the other hand I son of Oluwagbemi was not about to lose my capacity to infiltrate the world with little Michaels just because some woman said so after she already achieves her maximum child carrying capacity. I mean it is simply not fair. Anyway, nothing is fair in the world. Or how else can you rationalize the fact that men enjoy sex so much but end up not having the back breaking responsibility of carrying that baggage called pregnancy around for nine months?
In any case, for the first time in our relationship history it looks like I have to simply not do what I please in this instance but have to put my feet down and just say “No” as Mrs. Regan pleaded with young people of the eighties. There is no way on doggon earth that any daughter of Eve would convince me son of Adam that I should give up my reproductive ability: no matter how high the pay. I mean thinking of it; I think this is some conspiracy. You sabi wetin dey happen right? As soon as she finish born the agreed or disagreed number of children (since as a female friend once intimated me- we men hardly have any control over this since women can decide to take necessary precautions or not in these situations), then she can render me genderless and control my propensity to foment legendary trouble outside the house. I mean, if I like make I shag virgin sef- once I am decombolated, I am as good as Alaafin of Oyo’s eunuchs. Indeed, when you put this in perspective this is as good as putting a padlock on my now vaunted ambition at copulative stardom. If you dey go church on Sunday, time to stop reading this.
Haba Mallam, na so I think the thing all day yesterday. I don think so tey im be like say I don run temperature plus small dysentery- the kain thinking wey go make man develop dat kain sickness don pass be careful. But I been make up my mind: no Jupiter can stand between me and my ambition and no woman would convince me otherwise. Moreover, if you are the one that bear the burden of congo-shining shebi na you go take the necessary precaution abi? Moreover, I hear say these days sef the thing can be done painless and non-invasive. But me I no be gynecologist; I am just a common engineer. For all I care, we can as well all just be reproductive machines so that more, not less of this kain madness can continue. In any case, madam is still waiting for me to give my opinion or as she puts it- “an answer”. Did she ask me a question? Was it not an order? Go figure this out son of man. Na only God go save man pikin. Keep me in your prayers.