This is my first time of writing a piece of my mind to you right here, and I seriously hope this continues. I’m attempting to share thoughts through writing—or ranting, in similar word—to a John Doe that listens, or another version of Señor Joe in the alternate universe. Hopefully you will be of a better persona and have less propensity of becoming bald.
I can read through some thought processes right now bent on unofficially proclaiming me as a sexist, so please diary, feel free to be transgender. You can be a she, a Jane Doe, or a Señorita Josephine as the situation demands. I’ll remain myself.
Now to my very first.
The paradigm of marriage perplexes me. First time I listened to ‘Iyawo Mi’ by Timi Dakolo I was only drawn by the voice, rhythm, and other cool stuffs except the lyrics. Over time I got to listen properly to the content (great song that
should may attract the adjective ‘evergreen’ from the sound of it), and my reflection shifted into gears.
Heaven and earth were promised his sweetheart (his newly wedded wife inspired the song, almost obviously. I think he confirmed that) and that got me thinking. Within a short time you leave your family/siblings with whom you’ve over what seems like ages shared lots, especially the most sacred of all connections—blood. You choose a woman, an hitherto complete stranger (from a very objective perspective) from across a distance, country or continent, and she eventually becomes your wife and dear; your closest and newest favourite.
She does the same to her family and starts a new life with you; an entire entirety under the umbrella of marriage. I’m not incestuous, neither am I advocating it. . . this is just a flummoxed bloke writing out his mind.
It is what I call necessary handing over, from the perspective of the erstwhile family of course. Ask the wife and husband’s parents and siblings and you will have a better grasp of what I mean. Little wonder many mother-in-laws in our very own nollywood—and typical realitywood—expands like fluted pumpkin and bloats like the amazon mega-frogs, becoming auto-rivals with the new ma’am that has the cookie. After all, she (new wife) was never there nor partook in the trouble when Le Boo spent nine months—or more, in the case of some special bigheads—in the womb forming as the to-be desired man, wet bed with urine shamelessly even till age ten, broke a leg or got hit by a near-death sickness. . . and a host of many troubles he put the family through.
In case you’ve taken my advice already, assuming a feminine existence at the moment and fanning the embers of activism in favour of the Jane species, I want you to understand that I can as well write the same for the wife, though I can do it better from the angle of the Le Boo, being a man and an aspiring husband myself.
As a religious individual marriage is, inter alia, purposeful union, obedience to the grand commandment; a convenient corroboration of the idea of a biologist: regeneration or procreation. To the chemist, an apt reaction—which I’d like to be (near) irreversible—of their choosing would fit. To the category I’m yet to brand a nomenclature, it is testing new waters; actualising fantasies; exploring sexuality; unrestricted experimenting with things. . . intimate things that birth the idea of the biologist. Please decrypt ‘waters’ your own way.
In case you’re wondering where this is actually leading to, don’t bother yourself about it. It doesn’t have to lead anywhere or add to the body of knowledge like some undergraduate thesis, I am just maniacally bewildered and letting it out.
If you’re satisfied with that, PLEASE stop here. If you however insist, it’s your call. The consequences will be borne by you. I’ll put the rest to you in the words of Hon. Patrick.
I’ll simply say, prestissimo (that is, as quickly as possible), that the marital crinkum-crankum, or if you like, the nuptial higgy-hagger, that has enveloped my mind for a period of aeon now, has all the trappings of an odoriferous saga cum gargantuan gaga.
This is because all the flashpoints of my preoccupation, that has transmogrified into bringing about a calamitous end, always have their fons et origo (the source of origin that is) in an adiabatic furore. I can see the ship of my cogitation hovering around the figurative Bermuda triangle, and if urgent and necessary steps are not taken, it has all the capacities and possibilities of berthing in a pestilential aqua. It is therefore crystal clear, like the biblical MENE MENE TEKEL UPHARSIN; audible to the deaf and visible to the blind, and thus leaves me with two conclusions:
1) The fons et origo of this topic is deep, and if not properly handled could lead me to a catastrophic caledomine—still bomb. Stop, I must.
2) This cachestomoboplutocratic contemplation changes nothing. It is therefore not a gesture of belligerence to result to no symposium, and without tension arrive at a conclusion that matrimony is fundamental and incontrovertibly germane, regardless of the non-egalitarian side turned to some microscopic, or if you like, macroscopic concerned Homo sapiens.
I know. I have not communicated. But I warned you. And I’m very satisfied.
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