Men, you’re not wrong for wanting to pay the bills

Sigh. 

Men, pull up a chair. We need to talk. Here’s how the end of days will come: The offensive, we are told, will take many forms. The first sign may be the constant niggling. The early cracks will then appear in your fraught relationship. The rupture will be your secrets spilled to a baying online audience, an Armageddon of sorts for your reputation, respect and wherewithal as a man.

The four horsemen of the apocalypse will unleash their scrolls and read out the evil, your evil: Why did you allow her to pay the bills?

You will fumble your words, then mumble: “They said I could do it.”

The heavens will crack, with the blood-and-thunder of disappointment as a mighty voice pierces the sky: “Men used to be about work, work, work. Now it’s all about twerk, twerk, twerk.”

Now, my attention has been drawn as a Kibitzer, to the skyrocketing scorched earth policy of online dirty linen washing. But none stinks as much as the unmistakable stench of being told you couldn’t handle your responsibilities. That she had to take over. That she had to be the man.  

We like to throw around the word, ‘respect’ and ‘leadership’ and ‘authority’. But what really are they?  I grew up in a family where my father lost his job (since he is reading this, let’s say, he quit) but not once have I seen him not provide for his family. Oh, and we are many. If you know anything about Boys from Kakamega is that we like to eat. I have five brothers so I’m going to give you a minute to run the Math. 

Here’s the thing, whatever you do, do not allow her to pay the bills. I know the ‘I-Know-My-Rightsm’ and wokism might have led you to believe that they enjoy that claptrap, but, hear it from me, do not let her pick the tab. Hollywood might egg you to believe that her settling your responsibilities is romantic, but, brethren, allow me to be the high priest who presided over the scales falling from your eyes. What then is leadership? In my bubble-gum analogy, it’s simple: He who passes the judgment must also wield the sword. Man’s blessing is also his curse. Condemned to toil the land after one gaping bite of the apple, Adam has forever been the provider. It really is black and white—even if you are colour blind.

To lead is to choose, and if, you as a man has any pretence of your powers not being usurped, you will have to do more than mumble. 

In my forensic apercu into middle-class Kenya, I have done a bit of dipstick research: all the girls I asked do not want to pay the bills. You may not be a big fan of Science, but I hope you are into common sense. This is not a clarion call for objectification, that tasteless vigour of throwing money at problems. No. This is where the buck stops.

Sure, you might say, but oh, look at the countries who are doing it. They are advanced. Yes, but have you looked at their divorce rates? For me it has always been a demarcation of roles: you do this, I do that. It’s simple. It’s a way to check your freedom—and responsibilities. That is what is going on, we are not taking charge of our responsibilities. If you can’t tell, I’m not really a fan of gray. 

This is a ring for a man who appreciates the way things used to be: when P.C. culture and “open communication” with your wife didn’t exist. Otherwise, you are doing nothing other than polishing the brass on the Titanic. 

Threading the leadership needle

Whatever happened to men? You think you are being romantic by going Dutch, but all she sees is a piece of (explicit removed), which coincidentally is what Dutch means. You go Dutch, she thinks ‘Ditch!’ (You can replace the ‘D’ with a ‘b’ and it wouldn’t lose flavour.) 

I have tried to go through the numbing process of making it ideologically kosher for a man to just sit there and let the lady take care of the bills and it has neutered me with that rough and ready samizdat feel. Sure, I do understand that things happen; you may suddenly lose your job, you may fall sick—you know life—but other than that, I am finding it hard to make a case for this new age fridge-magnet wisdom: “It takes a strong man to allow a woman to pay the bills;’ and ‘You DO You!’ and ‘We Are A team!’. No way Jose. 

All right—let’s try it the other way (as the bishop said to the barmaid): most relationships are more like Maseratis than Mazdas. They can be thrilling, but they need quite a lot of tinkering, and nobody is sure if they’re going to work on any given day. But the relationships that really work, the ones that hum with the silent efficiency of success, have always been the Mazda of relationships: not very glamorous, but very reliable and unlikely to break down.

When she pulls out the wallet, looks you dead in the eye, it's apropos that there is a tiny little voice that squirms in you, because like an amputee, you can still sort of feel things that are no longer there. That is not the sign of diminishing manhood, but it is the christening of it. 

Here’s the Truth with a capital T, the ugliness of a man is in his pocket. It’s a gangster state, running on gangster economics. You cannot run a relationship on vibes and Inshallah. This is as true as it was in 2001 as it will be in 2101.

Otherwise you will forever be inextricably partnered up in some sort of external Dadaist tango devoid of logic and meaning. This qualifies primarily if you loosen the definitions of both ‘man’ and ‘responsibilities’. Let’s be clear, lest my words are misconstrued: this is not about men fearing strong-willed women, a monument to small penis envy – no, this is about responsibilities. It’s treading a gossamer fine, only ever a couple of bills away from losing credibility. The pylon of authority is erected with the Viagra of duty, the big, naked exclamation of leadership. This is classic stolen-honey-syndrome. Once you get a taste of the sweet, illicit stuff, you never stop. You know this. She knows this. Honey knows this. 

That said, I won’t weep for men. We are the human embodiment of one of the oldest Russian fables: A Russian peasant pleads to God for aid after he sees that his better-off neighbour has just obtained a cow. When God asks the peasant how he can help, the peasant says, “Kill my neighbour’s cow.”

Men, get your own cow. Do you understand?

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