Good old Mbikazi, my older sister, has done it again.
No. I am not talking about her violence and how she pummels to pulp and submission one husband after another using an assortment of queer weaponry largely consisting of kitchen utensils, no. She has linked up with yet another man!
She has moved in with him and I’ve heard rumours that it’s just a matter of time before there is yet another ceremony where these folks, the relatives or friends of the man who is illegally co-habiting with my sister, will bring tumbale (plates) in which they will have hidden a K50 or K100 note to ask us to commence dialogue over their marriage!
I didn’t even realise that she had broken permanently with that elderly man who used to drive an old tipper truck. Of course they differed, she clobbered him, he came complaining meekly as a lamb to us about the bad behaviour of Mbikazi but what could any of do? Approach Mbika and perform a kangaroo sitting where we could judge her and request her to scurry back to her husband? No ways, man! It just wouldn’t work. We say in my language “Wacacesacileka” (the equivalent of the English “Old habits die hard)! Who in our family would be courageous enough to tell Mbikazi that she was ever wrong? She so believed in her infallibility if you tried to counsel her you would quarrel the rest of the year! We had all learned to ‘respect’ and accept her views no matter how rotten, irresponsible or plain senseless they were. In her mind she was a great repository of wisdom which she wanted to share with the rest of the world and for the most part, those that didn’t want to partake of this ‘wisdom’ were considered dull and foolish enemies with whom she was ready to quarrel endlessly, and when she couldn’t fathom your stand any longer, she beat you up!
Interestingly, she found it easier to beat up those men she shared her life with, those that enjoyed intimacy with her, those that (obviously) were beneficiaries of the sweetest part of sis Mbikazi’s other side of life, the sex life. She could tolerate the rest of us and quarrel verbally but if you had seen more than the standard allowance of Mbika’s bare leg, you dare not persist with attempting to reason with her. You would get hit! You sure would be beaten! In fact, to state it aptly, you would be totally humiliated. Because she could pour hot porridge on your shoes and watch and insult you as you desperately tried to hop out of them and also urgently rip off the socks. Only part of your foot would be in danger of getting badly burned but of course, a little abnormally high temperature on any part of your body would send any of us into veritable panic!
I don’t think there is any man who would love a slap on the cheek from his wife but with Mbika, she believes a mere slap might inspire you to punch her in the mouth or kick her in the groin, both actions which could incapacitate her so her surprise attacks were always meant to be telling in effect, and of course to reduce you into a heap of convulsions, if not at least merely making it impossible for you to fight back or defend yourself. Thus she could slap you across the face with the biggest cooking stick from her reservoir in the kitchen, that huge one which was rarely used unless the numbers to feed had swelled due to the presence of visitors. That stick would connect with your cheek, brother, with the brute force of double hands you
would fall backwards clutching the cheek and crying out like the simple mortal fellow that you really are.
If she was very, very angry, she wouldn’t stop there but give you another whack, lucky for you if she chose to land it on your bum rather than wrap it around your neck with a bang from behind.
She must have lots of friends among the police. I mean how come, with all this violence, she seldom ever has to spend a night in police cells or even face the likes of Magistrate Mikalile and others for assault? I don’t believe all her one-time lovers who had suffered such brutality at her hands could be so merciful or submissive after being humiliated by having okra in hot chili tossed into their faces and as they screamed in pain the woman, my beloved sister, chose to plant a kick between her hubby’s legs! That’s painful, I tell you!
Don’t ever try it at home. Its bad business at any time, fellow, you could kill someone and spend all your years at Mukobeko Maximum Prison waiting for Presidential pardon!
So fine, if Mbika has moved in with another man and that’s really their business, her and him! I am tempted though to warn him severely about the potential of getting injured for merely trying to give an alternative side to my sister’s impeccable wisdom.  He has to accept that she is too intelligent to argue with. She is too wise to be opposed over anything. She can never ever make a mistake so whatever she says must be accepted with both hands as being God-given and God-sent through Prophetess Mbikazi of Lusaka, Zambia. If he believes he has his own brain and will want to use it in Mbika’s house, he has to negotiate with her so that she alerts him upfront whenever he is going off tangent so he can stop his argumentations and applaud her for her wisdom and shut up till the next opportunity arises for him to use his brain, most likely very far away from my sister.
At his office, maybe!
And come to think of it, why should we even bother accepting the 100th lobola (bride price) for this woman knowing too well she is not marriage material, that we will go only as far as receiving tumbale before she soon erupts, not giving him a chance to finish paying the K9,000 we will have charged him, and beat his senses out of him thereby causing him to abandon the thought of a permanent marriage!
Why can’t she just co-habit with her men till she beats them up and they desert her without bothering us with formalities about marriages that never last and are all but living scandals?
Perhaps I should tell her that I, for one, will no longer participate in any marriage formalities for marriages that were bound to collapse with her first loss of temper unless the man at the receiving end of such loss of temper cowers and holds the lace of her half-slip (petticoat) in submission. I should tell her that we are the laughing stock within the family and everywhere else with these marriage formalities. Instead of calling it marriage and bothering us with formalities, she can devise a new term for whatever these co-habitations are and enjoy them till it is time for her to beat, batter, pummel and panel-beat her co-habitant out of her life without us being involved in any way!