“How are your multitasking skills? Can you grind millet for his porridge, pound ingredients for his soup, tell him how wise and strong he is, iron his shirt, milk the goats, put the baby to sleep, serve him the porridge while still stirring the soup and intersperse that with major smiling?” “In seven seconds how are your abilities to run the home via the internet? This stems from what you said at the beginning; that you are not analogue. Kindly tells us sixty nine disadvantages of an analogue wife.” The moderators would be unforgiving. “What are the roles of the County woman representative in the county households’ kitchens?” My granny would look up from her iPad, lower her glasses, clear her throat, look at the eight women in the eye and say, nay – growl “If your idea of housework is to sweep the floor with a glance, kindly get off that podium!” She would pause for effect and ask the question again. Before that could be answered, she would be back, “Citing examples, kindly tell us how domestic borrowing affects the economy of a developing country. While at it, what is the GDP of Mongolia?” “This question,” my grandma would go on, “is meant to find out who drank from the fountain of knowledge and who only gargled.” Rivers of sweat from the eight would at this point dwarf Budalang’i floods. Before they can find out which political party GDP is, Mrs Mungai would be on their case yet again. “Explain how you’d handle wifely and motherly duties even with the daily 15 hours that you are expected to sit in front of the TV watching Mexican soaps and Nigerian flicks. If eyes could harm, the eight sets of eyes would instantly uproot the moderators’ lungs, puncture their gizzards and tie their large intestines into small knots so that they never visit the small room again. “In one and a half words, how would you compare your husband to the Alehandro and Carlos in these soaps?” The tension in the auditorium would be palpable. Then another string of hot questions would come from none other than their potential monster-in-law, “Tell us your expected body weight five years into the marriage. You may give your answer as an equation.” “Explain how you will shop for lesos that don’t have derogatory Swahili proverbs printed all over them. My son doesn’t have mursik for brains; he can smell hate speech in all its forms miles away.” “Give us your views on weaves and tell us the number of times your husband can expect you to visit the salon in a week, and a rough figure of Kshs he can expect to part with. Again, you may give your answer as an equation.” “How many chamas would you be planning to join?” “Apart from an axe, charcoal iron box, kerosene lamp, 2 roofing tiles, 4 empty soda bottles, a broom and a spoon kindly name at least 17 other items in your larger-than-life handbags.” Getrude would have the honours of the final topic. “And now, ladies, time for the elephant in the room. The KCC question. How will you ensure that the arrival of a baby does not deny the husband his rightful share of lactose?” Wild uproar and vuvuzela blares from the predominantly male audience would ensure a loss of five full minutes. “Does size really matter?” Mrs Mungai would continue “I’d be careful how I answer this if I were you seeing that the owner of the said size is in the neighbourhood.” “But before we even go there,” she would say, “please note that if the winner’s seal is already tampered with your husband will have no choice but to return you to the manufacturer.” “How will you handle pressure in the bedroom? Kindly look into that camera over there and tell your potential husband how you are or are not the type that asks for a pint of saliva from a baby hippo or hairs from the armpits of a skunk before you can let him drink from the well.” The remaining two women would faint at this point.
Posted on: Thu, 21 Nov 2013 09:48:36 +0000
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