Ladies, stop hiding your kids. We will still find out

First and foremost, a warm Nation welcome to everyone directed here by a Google search for “Why do Kenyan ladies love favours?”

Today, dear men, like Jesus on the cross, I am putting myself in the line of fire because I am the type to ask not what my country can do for me, but what can I do for my country. I am not ready to do a lot for my country—just being honest, it is Holy Saturday after all—but on behalf of its men, I would like to resurrect the debate with that gender that (may have) got us kicked out of Eden on just why they hide key details a la Judas during courtship. This is not an affront against anyone, I come on a donkey rather than a warhorse. I hate the sin but love the sinner.

The sin? You ask. Not putting everything on the table.

Getting a Kenyan girl to tell you the truth is like some nightmarish Escher puzzle; nothing is what it seems. The more you ask, the less you know. What we all know—or should know—immediately is that relationships take work, and for one to be good at their job, they need to know their key performance indicators, hence the need to have the full information to make it work.

This is where our paths in the woods diverge with the daughters of Zion. No sooner have you asked a Kenyan lady out than (I always wanted to use that phrase post high school composition) you discover all along that her name may be Irene but she is in dire need of charity. They go for your financial jugular. No grace period, no let’s-just-see-how-this-goes, nada. It’s straight into the thick of it, this twenty-something baddie or thirty-something year old ‘baby girl’, who has finally realised that there is room for another man in her life, apart from Jesus.

I have nothing against providing for a lady, as long as we are legally married or very deep into a relationship, but the problem is the moment you try and date a Kenyan woman and say ‘I love you’, she—overnight—sheds her skin and evolves into this mythical creature that is phoneless, dataless, cashless, fareless, homeless and all kinds of ‘less’; woe unto you if the die is cast against you because she might eventually end up as the mother of all ‘lesses’: heartless! You could even make arguments (albeit perhaps not convincing ones) that Kenyan women are independent as long as you are not there. Look, I would do all of these things for my lady, although I will let the first three words of this paragraph speak for me.

But doing her a favour looks like child’s play when you finally discover that she has been harbouring a skeleton in the closet, something sinister, all the while maintaining the sweet camaraderie between you two; the way Jesus and Judas must have been when they both knew each other’s secret. The secret? She has a kid. Or kids. I can smell the matches being lit and I have suffered under the ire of being misunderstood, so I’ll be picky and make my words sweet in case I have to eat them: Why do many women not tell you they have a child stashed somewhere in ushago?

Oh, and they wait until you are in too deep, when you have introduced her to your real inner circle, when you have committed investments to this pursuit. She then conducts an Italian job, pulling off the greatest Houdini act known to man: how can you possibly leave her because she has kids? Were you just using her? Just give it time, she says, maybe things will work out. She’s got you right where she wants, dictating the terms of your relationship, she’s forever leading it, or lording over it, depending on how much machismo she has squeezed out of you. But in the vipers’ nest that is modern-day relationships, time is a luxury seldom afforded.

Not that the men are any better. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Since Kenyan married-but-single-kiasi men have been hiding wives, ladies too have developed a knack for hiding children—or conveniently forgetting to bring them up, literally and metaphorically. It seems almost a self-conscious parody of Kenyan husbands and their self-proclaimed mastery of the dark arts: a gesture of “see how you like it”. I do understand that the dating market is currently in tatters, but I often laugh when I remember that this could (should?) potentially be a crime. We make a lot of assumptions in the dating world—God knows I do!—and sometimes it can come to bite us in the proverbial. The first question I like to ask anyone is, “Do you have a kid at home?” Forget “What’s your favourite colour?” or “Why do red cars move faster than white cars?”—the real questions should cut clean as a bone: how many kids do you have? Do you have one in your belle right now? Is the baby daddy still your dzaddy?

It’s not a shame to have kids—whether the actual father is around or not—but it determines a lot of the dynamics in relationships. We cannot be club hopping from Holy Family Loft to All Saints Quiver and finish it up with Full Gospel Whiskey River when we have to prepare sweet Jayden for school at 5 am on Monday. “But Jayden loves you like a father!” is not enough. It’s a hail Mary attempt at throwing mud on the wall and hoping it sticks.

Perhaps I am being a little too harsh on the mud.
Nairobi girls; PR machines are as good as any criminal lawyer’s and they can pull the wool over your eyes, but I want to cut some single moms a generous serving of slack: I’d say most women hide their motherhood for the sole purpose of protecting their children. Even if the guy is obviously not a predator, there’s no telling whether he’ll stick around once he knows you have kids. You don’t want your kids getting used to a ‘new daddy’ only to lose that one, too. ’Twas ever thus, you might say.
But isn’t living the risk of death? Heartbreak for love? But I will also admit that a guy who comes with a burden of child support and weekend kids (and a crazy baby momma to boot) is not a very good deal for a childless woman either.

Single parents are no longer a tiny minority: one in four families are single-parent households; about 90 percent are with a single mother. Prospective partners often don’t understand the commitment needed to date someone with children. It’s only fair you show your hand because eventually, the house will. I don’t think it’s the first thing you say because I don’t think children define your life, but it should definitely be on the table.

If we all stick by that credo, we won’t all have to engage Twitter DCI to unravel your dark past.
With Kenya’s easily-bored men, you will sooner be fed to the wolves because while most men would quickly lie with you, they detest being lied to. Dating shouldn’t be a game of musical chairs, nor should you treat your kid/s as a monument to your pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey approach to parenting. Lay it all on the line. This goes against conventional wisdom, but I am asking you for a favour (hehe)—take my word. I promised to make them sweet anyway. Mostly because I have done this before, and because real life doesn’t reward romance.

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