I’m in a quandary of sorts. If I had the choice of choosing my sex at creation, what would I be? Would I be a man? I’m ambivalent that the joy I would get for not experiencing monthly reds contrasted to paying for my own meals would be enough. Days of peeing while standing couldn’t dissipate the grief of changing my own tyres or checking the car’s ATF (automatic transmission fluid) and possibly changing it? But I speak with a sharp tongue possibly for the fact that I haven’t labored the birth of a 4kg child who rips me apart, literally joining side A to B. Not forgetting the child makes you take shits publicly (harrowing thought). I might as well choose man.
But again, do my own shopping? Pay my own rent? Eat microwaved food? (Am dark-skinned so I’m already doing this. )Have to kill the animal that may make way into our home, even if God forbid it be a snake? Or for pity’s sake pay for my own weave? Yes people. There are some ‘dudes’ out there, walking around with weaves stitched or glued to their scalps. The chutzpah!
About four years back, a friend sent me a message on my facebook inbox telling me she had a weird dream. It was madness if you ask me. Apparently, in the dream, I had the machination that makes man, MAN. You know, the device, the tool, the thing. Well-equipped too she chimed. The message continued that I had satisfied her. Well, well, well. Thing is, other than that one thing, I was fully woman. Dearest crew, if any of you interprets dreams, what allegory was that? I laughed it off. I wouldn’t want to think, I, Wambui as a transgender. Until, as fate is cruel, months later, another friend called me repeating the same story. My alarm bells eminently perked, nipples and hips too, raised to assert that I was indeed woman.
Wanton dreams made me question my estrogen levels. Was it high enough? Was I burly? Butch? Did I have that Congestina swank? Must be my legs. Were they mannish? Was my voice too deep? Was I growing beards? My shoulders, how wide were they? Maybe it’s the way I hugged people, close to my chest to show affection. Maybe I/they took it too far.
But here is what, being a man, isn’t too bad. Being a hermaphrodite/ transgender is the issue. If I was a man, I would definitely have beards. My beards would be my lawn, where I come to bask and bark. Where I meet my friends and where I sometime lie, like a dog, to scratch my or her back, if you know what I mean. Clean shaven faces are for pansies, Kambas and Chinese folk. I’d not be a skinny man. I’d have some meat on my bones, at least enough to cover my rib cage.
I would don loafers, rubbers and brown boots, very subtly pointed and that ride up the ankle. I’d match those with my belt. Never, raised heels. We live in dangerous times and a man with raised heels could be a cloak and dagger tale of escapades from the bended/bedded side. I would never wear brown shoes with nothing to match. Brown is not the new black. I would were hats sometimes. Fedoras, Raila’s hat, Tiger Wood caps, all hats. Suits would be for the days where god forbid, I’d be in the bridal party. And even then, I’d try changing their minds to alternatives except those kayamba Africa shirts.If I ever had to, I would really wear one though. I would not were puffy jackets. Sorry.
I would be tall, in height and standards. And if I wasn’t at all in height, I would be funny. Not loud, just funny. I would break my back trying to be if need be. I would be interesting to talk to, not too verbose, not too taciturn. Open-minded, not too judging, like chaps who play God. My laughter would be tall too. From the chest, not burdened by snobbery, about which sounds would be most pleasing to the ear. I’d let it out in that carefree way that guys do.
I would be the kind of guy that doesn’t tremble while touching a woman. You don’t want to be that guy. Trembling sort of renders your valor for bringing her to that situation, moot. Like crying when killing a chicken. It just doesn’t work that way. I would not tremble, however long I’d have waited to touch her, let alone be in a room where our breaths mixed. I would know how to kiss a woman. I would know when to be rough and gentle with a woman and by my forefathers I would remove a woman’s knickers while looking at her face.
Whiskey is a drink for men. It has beards. It smells like leather and hooves, manly. I’d drink it on the rocks. I’d have beers too. Cold beers. Beers that sweat. Warm beers are for Dennis Asiimwe’s Kenyan friends. I haven’t met them. I don’t know about men and wine though. It’s a little dodgy. I’d be the kind of guy that opens doors, pulls chairs and all that gallantry because, yes, I have time, and yes, I care to mollycoddle a woman.
I would never send forwards. On whatsapp, email or facebook. A man shouldn’t write “hihihihi,” for the only male things that laugh like that are hyenas. I’d be in the MAWE (Men Against Weaves and extensions) association. I’d bribe my lady, if I had to, to never wear them. I would definitely date a woman with short hair. (Very biased here).
Sportive, artsy and awfully business minded would be in my eulogy if people ever wrote me one. I’d support Chelsea Football Club. I would not carry a dog. Dogs that are small enough to be carried are female dogs. I would not be associated with a female dog. I would speak French, or Spanish, or german. If I didn’t, then I would speak funny. Everyone gets funny. I would not wear those huge bearded necklace over a very lowly buttoned shirt. I would never carry a man purse because men don’t carry make-up, lip gloss and hairspray.
I’d be loyal because that is the first law of man. I’d be confident and ambitious. I’d use perfume and I’d shave my armpits, sometimes. I would never wax because I do not see how a guy will spread his legs and trust a random guy holding hot wax, with his balls. I’d know stuff like my pal, Eric, who once participated in the Celtel challenge. That guy is a walking encyclopedia. Never would I obsess about a woman because as my pal says, pursuing a woman is like getting an erection; if you obsess about it too much it might just fail to launch.