The beauty of being a man is that we are protected by ego. We walk around thinking that we are kings.
Every guy I know is certain that after sliced bread, there was him. That he is the supremo, a masterful lover and a hot ticket. It doesn’t matter if we last five minutes in a sack (on a very good day); what matters is that we know that we are the chosen one.
So we strut around with our heads stuck in the sand, totally oblivious that we are being played by women who long ago caught on to our ego trip and use it to blind us.
No man can even start admitting the thought that his woman is running around on him. The truth is that chances are, we will never even know. We can’t catch them because they invented the traps.
I know a guy who runs these swanky serviced apartments in a fairly leafy suburb. Let’s call him Paulo. These apartments cost an arm and a leg to rent. Paulo recently told me of a popular trend where a bunch of women – mostly married – rent these apartments.
So, say, about five women come together and pay say Sh20, 000 a month to cover the Sh100,000 rent (I’m not disclosing the amount here lest the ladies in question know he blew the whistle).
For that, they get a tastefully furnished one-bedroomed apartment which they stock with booze and food. It’s like a home away from home.
“I don’t suppose they rent these pads for relatives visiting from abroad, do they?” I asked Paulo. He laughed. “No, this is their slaughterhouse,” he said.
For those who need diagrams, this is how it all unfolds: The caretaker is in receipt of specific instructions from the lease holder, letting him know that four other women will show up to use the apartment every so often.
No names are given, only car registration numbers. These women, usually driving some decent machines, drive in once in a while to use the apartment for a couple of hours and leave.
“How often do they use the apartment?” Every week, he said. Some weeks, they will each come in every day.
“Age group?” I asked. Between 32 and 44. Those innocent-looking young trendy mothers you see squinting at the ingredients of cereal boxes in supermarkets. Probably bored in their marriages, I imagined. Apparently, most prefer lunch-hour or late afternoon, I suppose so that they are home by 7pm to kiss the babies and make sure that dinner isn’t too salty.
“Do they have multiple partners or regular ones?” I pushed on. Mostly regular ones. You’d imagine that they are young boys being brought in, but apparently, they are in the same age range as the women.
Business is good, Pablo confided. These women are apparently the best clients because they are hardly ever there, they pay their rent on time (sometimes months ahead) and they don’t like any attention.
So they keep their heads down, go in silently and leave the same way.
I was more impressed than I was baffled. I could picture a WhatsApp group that they formed to make sure that their schedules didn’t clash with one another.
They probably use code-words in reference to that apartment. “Girls,” I can see one say, “I’m thinking of passing by the fundi today at 3pm to see if those dresses are ready.
Aki I don’t even know why we bother keeping that tailor. Or is anyone planning on passing there today I send them?” Then one will say, “Nope, but maybe tomorrow I will go see him after work. Tell him he had better have my dress ready.”
Then the slots would have been booked.
We are all clueless to the crafty ways of women, which is a good thing because none of us can possibly handle the secrets that women have kept from us.
In fact, it’s best that we don’t know, or we will never be the same again.