We would first meet in the other guy’s room, make strong coffee and have it mostly with kabalagala or, once in a while, bread, then go for the discussions. They would be very fruitful discussions — academically.

 

Those days, I was to be seen almost everywhere, I was with a flower — a flower clutched in my hand; a flower in my shirt pocket; resting on my clipboard in class or lying on the pillow on my bed. I came to be identified with flowers so much, that it sort of became a part of my identity.

 

One nasty day, I went into the discussion ritual wearing a foul mood, with a flower in my pocket and a shroud of sullen silence wrapped around me.

 

Conversely, all the other members of the gang were exuberant that evening, chatting animatedly, laughing gaily and generally coming up with such intelligent-sounding arguments in the discussion, that it seemed like a senior staff meeting. But whenever they thought I would have said something, I answered in silence.

 

One particular girl who was fairly fond of me was seated next to me, and another, who wasn’t was seated next to the fond one. Without warning, the one right next to me grabbed the flower from my pocket and before I knew it, the second girl had grabbed it from the first one, and crushed it. Squashed it, like she was going to squeeze juice out of it...

 

I told one of my mentors the story years later and, after a mirthless guffaw he said: ‘Women hate competition. If they think that you are giving someone or even something more attention than they deserve... attention that she thinks should be hers, she will crush it. Literally. I shuddered. I guess that contributed to when I developed interest in women, but that is a tale for one-on-one sessions.

 

Recently, I went visiting somewhere with a close female friend. The people we visited were mutually close to us. While there, I received a phone call. My friend tried to grab the phone from me. I ducked. She sulked. Later, as I chatted with our hosts, my friend went into freeze mode. 

 

Nothing anybody said could draw her out, till I drove away. Later, she sent me a message saying ‘Whenever I am with you, please limit your use of the phone. I am made in the image of a jealous God.’ Which, you must give to her, is very clever, but hey, this is not the privatisation unit, is it? But you cannot tell women those things. For them, the world is not even a global village; it is a one-woman plot with everything else subservient to her. 

 

Ask yourself, why would you be in a room with a woman, loving each other silently, but the moment you pull out a notebook to jot down that silly idea you just got for the play you are writing, she remembers something that occurred a fortnight ago and begins to tell you the story?

 

And no, they lied to you, who told you that when you just keep growling your responses, she will give up. That was the 1960s woman. Modern women do not engage you for mutual benefit, but to fight competition — at least when they feel unfairly compared. 

 

Have you wondered why it is only at news time (top of the hour) that she will remember the things that are lacking in the house? So the whole thing goes like this, in your ears:

Chris Otim: In other news, the…

 

Wife: ...also about to get used up.

Chris Otim: ...ten others badly injured...

 

Girlfriend: Did you hear me?

Chris Otim: … a recent study revealed. The only exceptions are men below forty (and you’re 42, but you missed the life-saving item).

Jesus!