Dream Man

A little bit hazy when it comes to the specifics of the type of man I thought I should be with five years ago. Most probably because the society somehow stopped pushing for a certain kind of man:A man must be the provider. A man should use violence. A man is only a man if he has multiple women. A man should put his feet up as his woman toils in the kitchen. A man is a zinjathropus.

For the most part of my life I never quite pictured myself getting married. My line of thought was mostly steered along the lines of self-made success- MY own big house, MY caramel-leather interior Rolls Royce, MY walk-in closet,  MY personal chauffer(now called uber) and everything self-centered, self-sought and self-owned. A man represented a source of entertainment, a sounding board for my egoistic days, my self absorbed mirror that only shows and cheers on my good parts,  a microwave for short term goals, a cheering squad when I don’t wake up like Beyonce and occasionally a figure of distraction when my emotions are dialed down and Im slightly parted with feline nature. Somewhat of an object and moreso it’s extraterrestrial function amplified for pleasure and pain. I didn’t quite diminish their value, I just chose to overlook some but only to my advantage. I mean, doesn’t ever other guy do this to every woman.

Detaching myself from this biased yet very prudent perspective of the role of the boy child in my life, has been quite the journey. I still find myself drifting back to what I used to believe in and I keep on slapping my hand not to detoriate. I owe this progressiveness mostly to how I was raised and partially to the society and the few lads I have come across.

To be able to even have a dream man is an accomplishment that I’m long from achieving. But the fact that I am thinking about it and somehow want to fill the stupor is good enough for the boy child.

If I was dreaming and there was a man featuring, he would have irresistible qualities. The type of man who’s loyalty to his football team correlates to his loyalty to me. Cheers me on when I score and defends me even when I lose. His confidence arises from some inner need to be better, do better and have better. Not necessarily in competition with anyone but not so lax that my counterparts don’t understand why I’m with him. He would laugh not in ridicule, not in mediocrity but enough to send small vibrations through my chest and keep me at peace. He wouldn’t call me every day so as to have records showing that we actually talk but merely because he feels empty when I’m not around. His sincerity in all things that matter and trivial would humble me and honor my whole stature.

I wouldn’t want a rich dream man,  I prefer wealthy. He wouldn’t need to be right, thanks to Nike. He understands that there are low times but doesn’t fuss because money wouldn’t be everything. We would sit down at Uhuru park instead of Radisson Blue to chat about nothingness that will light up our hearts and dim our sorrows. He would be tall because I love my inches high as my standards. The ease of kissing my forehead and reaching the top shelf. His heart would be bigger than his ego, he would give more than take so whenever he is void,i would fill his emptiness. He found himself early but not too early that I can’t meander through his roadblocks. I wouldn’t change him one bit but I would improve him, I would show him another way, a different side of the coin,  a flipped rainbow, ying yang.

Our connection would be deep, a spark from a firework, a drop in the ocean, a speck from the logs, he would complete me. With or without knowing he would takeover me. Erstwhile I would be oblivious to the thought of marriage and forever, but when I wake up I’m the one shopping for my own ring.



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