It was a rainy night in heaven. God, spread on His majestic bed, stared at the ceiling, wondering how else to punish Adam. He at first thought ousting him and Eve from heaven was punishment enough, but He yearned for something more. Something that will send an even clearer message to the man and woman He had created in His own image that He did not take lightly to being disobeyed. He tried to think of something, but the faulty roof, rattling with the heavy rain, couldn’t allow Him to think straight. He turned to the side, made a mental note to remind Angel Gabriel to martial his foot soldiers to fix the rickety roof, and drifted to sleep.
The next morning, as the sun was rising, He stepped out in His favourite black sandals and artfully crafted walking stick, which he carried for swag and not because His knees were failing Him. A few Angels, yawning and stretching their bones, walked to Him and bowed in respect before saying their good mornings. Angel Gabriel caught up with him as He made His way towards the pretty river wounding its way down the Garden of Eden, meandering between rocks and rattling some ducks in the process. He stopped to look at His favourite Avocado tree weighed down by big and fat avocados before pointing at it with His walking stick.
“See that?” He said.
Angel Gabriel, who was distracted by the sight of an angel playing the flute, said, “The ducks?”
“No, the Avocado tree.”
“Yes, yes. It’s doing well.”
“Don’t let anyone touch my avocados, you hear me? Not even you.”
“You know me. I can never touch something that you have already asked me a thousand times not to touch.”
God scoffed. “As if Adam and Eve didn’t say the same thing when I asked them not to touch the forbidden fruit.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Not with my avocados.” He started walking, then suddenly stopped. “You should see how Kenyans are selling their kidneys for avocados. Thank myself I gave them two.”
“You gave them two avocados?”
God stared at him.
“Lighten up, God, I know you are referring to kidneys,” Angel Gabriel said and quickly changed the subject. “How’s he holding up by the way?”
“He’s trying. Eve nearly went bananas in the labour ward the other day but thank myself she pulled through.” He shifted his weight to his right foot and stared into space. “You know what, Eve’s punishment is a tough one. And I have been thinking about how else to make man sweat a little bit.”
“Okay, I wasn’t going to ask but you leave me no choice. Why do you keep saying ‘thank myself’ as if such a phrase exists?”
“Well, you know how humans say, ‘Thank God?’ I am replacing God with myself because, guess what, I am God, Duh! Plus I am the creator of everything, including phrases.”
“Okay. Okay. So back to Adam, I mean man, you want to make him suffer?”
“No, suffering is for that looser, Satan. I want something to test his faith. You know, make him strong.”
Angel Gabriel smiled. “I have an idea.”
“I know it’s a crazy one but go on.”
“Make him speak in Soprano.”
God laughed, shaking His head. “That’s a good one. But no.”
“Okay, just a few of them, not all.”
And that’s why sometimes someone answers a call in public and you all turn, mesmerized, eager to see who the owner of this beautiful, angelic voice is, only for the awe to turn into shock when you come one on one with a man with a Rick Ross body and beard. If you are a man who is over 24 and your voice box has failed you, we feel you, bro. Read Deuteronomy. I don’t know what Deuteronomy says but it sounds like a book with a lot of inspiration. I might be wrong.
“Soprano they can live with, I want something that will eat them up like. . .” He looked at Angel Gabriel with a knowing smile, the smile that said He had just found what He was looking for, “PE?”
“Oh, Premature Ejaculation!”
Ho ho ho!
So here is the thing. If you were to conduct a poll in bars, where men place not only their car keys and phones on the table but also their ego, all men will tell you they are bedroom bullies. That when their wives or girlfriends or sponsees see them walk through the bedroom door, they shake with horror or expectation because they no longer see them as men with two limbs but as lions with mane and claws stronger than a morning erection. Because when they strip down, they not only strip their clothes too but that thing that makes them human. They make their women scream. Beg. Plead. Surrender. Give their lives to Jesus. Sweat. Scream again. plead some more. Beg for forgiveness. Beg for more. Backslide. And then give their life to Jesus again. Mention God’s name. In vain, that is.
A man would rather die than confess that he cums as soon as his penis touches his woman’s thighs. But we will never know. Only their women can tell. And you know what, nothing kills a man’s confidence than knowing that he can’t satisfy his woman in bed. It is bad when he can’t get it up, but worse when he can’t control it when it’s up.
Speaking of not being able to get it up, it has happened to me a couple of times. I know, I know, shame on me, but it has happened. So I was dating this beautiful girl in uni who somehow managed to tame me. Not by anything, but her beauty. I remained loyal to her for so long and she, occasionally, reminded me that if I ever cheated on her she would know. She was obviously bluffing, but she said it so many times until I actually started believing it. But then one night, after a night of partying, I met this girl that I had a huge crush on but hadn’t made a move because I knew her boyfriend. Bro code nini nini. We had downed alcohol, but not enough to stop us from noticing each other. Armed with an excuse that I was drunk and had forgotten the bro code thingy, I walked to her and said venye huwa ananimaliza. My lines were drunk, but not my confidence. Or handsomeness. Yeah, my looks are pretty good. Forgive me for I am in no mood to be humble today. I will be in the moods on Good Friday, not today.
Anyway, that night, we ended up at my place. Foreplay faster faster and I was stiff as a backbone. But just as I was about to enter the gate of heavens, I remembered my girlfriend’s words. Wueh! That thing shrank faster than the ego of a man just told in public by his irate wife that he should at least try to last 3 minutes before bebaing kichwa. I begged. I cajoled. But wapi! The girl, who was surprisingly patient, tried her magic but nothing. When I finally got it up, I was so excited that I released a minute later. Sigh. Having said that, I feel like I should look for the girl for a rematch just for the purpose of proving that it was a one-time problem. Who knows what she’s doing to my name out there, huh? Anyone knows?
Anyway, where was I?
Okay, I am tired, I won’t mention the other incidences. But for the avoidance of doubt, I am perfectly fine. If you doubt, ladies, my number is 0728 . . . . haha. Okay, I will stop. So God decided that other than toiling, man, not all, I must add, will have small small inconveniences. And if you want to knock a man’s confidence, tell him he is a member of PE Sacco. It hurts more if it’s true.
I asked around, and a few women, with straight faces and straighter eyelashes, said they were more than willing to stay in a bad relationship if the sex was good. That’s ridiculous! I said. “I know,” one of them replied. So it is a struggle out there. You struggle with day’s work and then struggle with night’s work. They say they will stick with you as long as you have money but, well, do you mind going for 53 minutes? No? 40? Haha. It’s almost a sin to be born a man.
Prayer worriers, don’t come for me. It’s just a story, yes? And God has a sense of humour, no? Okay, bye.