So if the man is very rich and in fact even the soil in your back yard was flown in specially from Malyasia because there is nothing better to use the money for, do you still have to work or do you take off your office gloves and heels and become a housewife?
Me? Well, being the work addict that I am, I would never opt to stay home and wallow in a man’s money unless of course there are certain circumstances beyond my control that beg for my leave from work. I am one of those misguided people who think that for as long as you live, you must work not just to be able to sustain your livelihood but simply because you can. So even if I were usurped by the king of the money team, I would still go to work.
My very hardworking friend Carolyn, however, disagrees. She dreams of a time when she won’t have to dress up and go to work every day of the week but stay home, take care of the children and the husband and the husband’s money. Her dream is valid but it’s not mine.
I am pretty sure if I stayed home without a job for more than two months I would mutilate myself and everyone else in the neighbourhood out of idleness. It just wouldn’t work for me. So you see, we are different, therefore it is foolhardy for one to assume that we all have the same needs and interests.
Early this week on Women’s Day, I met a man who for some reason thinks he knows everything there is to know about the fairer specie. He seems to think that sleeping with numerous ‘karaoke’ dancers from Nakulabye makes him an expert on women’s affairs. According to him, all women are the same. All we need is to be called ‘baby or sweerie (arghh I hate that word) be given money, be complemented on our smiles and clothes, be bought for beer, chicken and chips and an occasional handbag and we are good to go.
As he blubbered on about his immense knowledge of women, I sat there wondering out loud in my mind how I came to even be in the company of such foolishness. I couldn’t for the life of me understand what I was doing listening to such baloney. A friend in yet another attempt at trying to hook me up with one of her acquaintances had made me go to lunch with this person, my first and probably last blind date. And he truly was brain-blind.
How can women be the same? Even our bodies are not exactly the same. We come in all shapes, colours and sizes. We have different needs and dreams. While I am excited by and even ecstatic about Micheal Buble’s music, my friends think it is boring old folk music, while sweet words might make me smile, another will argue that they can’t eat words and therefore prefer tangible gifts. We grew up in totally different settings at different times, were brought up by different kinds of people and varying circumstances so how can we be the same?
Thinking that all women are the same is as petty as saying all men are wife beaters or stingy or cheats or trouser-wetting drunks. If in your ill luck you picked a ‘mufere’ for a girlfriend or wife, we commiserate with you but will not tolerate you branding all women as ‘bafere’ who are only after your money and your better looking, richer friend.