I’m never getting married. I’m staying a playa for life! Marriage is a bunch of bullshit that women came up with in order to draw men into a guilt-based contract which they dare not break! Men are natural hunters, always on the prowl! We’re hunters! Competitors! Risk-takers! Conquerors! We’re not meant to sit at home, change nappies and wipe drool. That’s not what our instincts tell us to do!
Our instincts tell us (and this always comes in a clear message in our heads), that we should be outside the house chasing a springbok, fending off a nigga from the springbok you’re about to kill, and then sitting in a tree with a bloody mouth from the kill for all the niggas to see you.
Now, tell me: how are you supposed to chase the same springbok everyday, catch it, kill it, and then show off your kill to all your fellas? How do you do it almost every night, or every time it matters, keep the intrigue and do it enough times that it stays exciting and… uhm, intriguing? Men aren’t built for that shit! We hunt! Kill! Eat! And display!
It’s a beautiful dance men take part in at clubs and shisanyamas around the country.
You’ve seen this dance before. When a man approaches a woman, chats her up, convinces her to come home with her, bangs her for about 15 minutes, makes sure his boys know he hit that, and then takes the skank back to her home or local tavern afterwards. We do this same dance over and over again. We want the excitement of the chase, and the rewards of successfully executing the dance. This matters to all the men who still have their balls intact.
A couple of times in our lifetime we get to go through this phase (this is probably every ten years, but who’s counting) and then come out the other end with a few scratches and some new found respect for women-folk.
Yes, we love these women, and, as told to us by our mothers, if you really love them then marriage is what happens next. Marriage is what we should reward them with for helping us get our shit together in life (my friend calls it “gather out turds”).
No matter what a woman tells you, her ultimate goal in her relationship with you is marriage. That’s the pinnacle of womanhood. She has attained her nirvana. She has reached her social peak! That’s her holy grail. She’s the envy of her friends now! She’s a “good” woman! To you women reading this: yes that’s your relationship goal, no matter what your intentions were when you started seductively moving your voluptuous butt cheeks rhythmically up and down on some “nxa, voetsek, nxa, voetsek”, you were looking to seduce that man, put him under your spell, make him yours, stop him from noticing all other females and get and keep him under your korobela! Show your friends ha o lefetwa. You’re pretty enough for someone to want you! He’s yours, and yours alone! You want him all to yourself! Poor bastard is really not built for that, though.
When a man sees a woman he mostly has two things on his mind, “I want to keep this trophy so all my friends can see what I bagged.” And, “I’m keeping this trophy so that my friends can see what I can bag!”
Both men and women will probably disagree with my anecdotes, but I don’t care. This is my observation and some of it is true for most people.
Here’s one more that hopefully will convince you guys that women are in love with this wedding/marriage thing. At a wedding, the symbolization behind throwing a bouquet is this: The bride will throw the bouquet to all the unmarried women gathered behind her. She goes “okay single women, gather around…” She turns and faces the other way so she’s not seen as prejudiced to one person, and then starts to count, “…One, two three…” she would start from between her legs, hurls the beautiful floral bouquet to the group gathered behind her and then one lucky woman will jump to capture it. One lucky lady catches it and then everyone exclaims, “Wow, you’re next to get married. Lucky you!” What’s happening is that the bride is throwing away the good pussy that caught her a man. She’s saying, “Bitches, here you go! Get the good pussy that caught me a man! Hopefully you’ll get married next from my good pussy’s omen!” And then they all jump and try get that symbol of good pussy, where, hopefully, it gets their man to propose marriage, where the man declares his red-hot burning desire to marry his best friend/soul mate, where they would build this home full of love, with a dozen red roses delivered to her workplace every Monday making her colleagues/FaceBook friends green with envy because they’ve never caught bouquets at weddings and shit. Female ambition completed!
I fell in love once. Never again, I told myself.
At Mmabatho High I had a girlfriend. Her name was, erm, let’s call her Lerato… Yes, a nice and vague name… Lerato from Unit 5, not far from Mmabatho High, near Bra Skhalo’s place. Light skinned, slim, C-cup titties, mostly had her hair natural with Afros or plaited. Looked like a slim Alicia Keys! She’s gonna know by the end of this chapter what her name is, though. Lerato and I were in the same grade throughout school. We only started going out towards the end of our High School career. She was in the same grade as I was but in a different class. I used that old school mack to get her to go out with me, “Lerato, ke a go rata. So wena wa reng?” “Le nna ke a go rata Sipho.” So me and her started going out from that point on. I would buy her teddy bears, flowers, coffee mugs with tiny teddy bears in them, clothes, PJs with pictures of teddy bears, jewelery (Glass for diamonds and coloured glass for ruby’s, really, but who TF knew what real diamonds were in Maftown?!), money and sometimes groceries! This was what a man in love did, and do I did. As a man I understood that you took care of your woman, and this meant providing for her le go mo betcha ka nyuku le dilo nje. You gave her stuff because you were her man.
We were both “virgins” when we made love the first time in matric. It was my first time having sex with a woman and not my hand, and it was her first time with a man. She had a lesbian lover in High School, so basically I was her first penis, hence I broke her virginity and she broke mine. The first time I, of course, gave it to her the best way. She had an orgasm and everything! I felt I was the man! From there we bonked like rabbits every time her parents were on work trips and shit. Her little brother would be told to go play outside and the domestic worker would be told not to disturb us as we were studying and shit. Yeah, studying the kama sutra for new positions.
Matric finished, schools closed and she went to UJ and I studied at UP. Arrangements were made that I would visit one weekend and she would come visit me the next. This way we always hung out and would not lose our connecition. I got a warning from one of my friends, though. “Sipz monna, don’t you know that when a woman goes to Jozi o fatlhiwa ke mabone? It’s not called Jozi Maboneng for mahala, chief. Once this woman comes to the city of lights just know she’s gone! She’s not yours anymore.” “Hai ftsek wena. You’re just jealous of the regular pung-tang I’m getting…” I thought to myself.
So when schools started I visited for the first time and it was cool. I went to her digs and we banged like we used to. This time it was louder because, well, Mme-ga-mpone!
The following weekend I waited for her to come and visit me like we planned. Dololo! Damn, alright. “Baby, I was busy with orientation. I’ll see you next weekend neh!” No biggie, this shit happens and you can’t block a poor girl from getting her O Week on!
The following weekend I managed to go see my baby! This then became a weekly thing though.
Since moving to Jozi she had never been to my place. I always went to her place. Peculiar, I reckoned, but never put it to mind.
I caught a taxi to Jozi, sports bag over one shoulder, bus to her campus, and off I walked to her crib in Braamfontein behind the Helen Joseph Hospital to find a small gathering of niggas who apparently were visiting the other chicks at her digs. Her digs was a house that was turned into a student complex type of thing. It had a lounge, kitchen, a couple of bathrooms and 8 bedrooms. It was women only house and a nice garden. That Friday afternoon I walked into the digs there was a bunch of guys standing outside, an A3, a black GTI and a green Citi Golf with some BBS rims similar to the one in that Thebe “Ungawakum” music video with DJ Fresh and Oskido.
The guys were playing some deep house, drinking Amstel and Johnny Walker Black Label. I nodded my head in acknowledgment of their swag, thinking to myself, “Oh yeah! This is the life that I want. A nice car and money to spend on shitty liquor!”
I walked into the house and there’s this bad vibe going on. I didn’t put my bag down even. One of the first things she tells me is, “Baby I’ve this church thing in the East Rand in Thokoza to attend over the weekend. I’ll probably be so busy I won’t see you.” She continues… “Besides, Masione (The ones who wear red uniforms) are singing this weekend so you can’t get any.” “Bona, I might also be allergic to the condoms we use. You’ll have to stop for a while.” “Sipho, I want to be serious with my Christianity, so we can’t have sex anymore.”
“No problem my love…” In acceptance to her requests… “We’ll just chill I guess.” “”Baby, I guess you don’t understand. Are you gonna sleep here this weekend whilst I’m at church?” “Baby, what do you mean? I thought you’re going to church and then you’ll come back and we can have some time to ourselves? It’s fine if we don’t have sex.” “Hee motho! I said I’m going to church this weekend! I won’t be here the entire weekend?” “Huh?” I muttered, now even more perplexed!”You said you’re going to church in Thokoza and you’ll be back?!” “No, I’m going to sleep there!” “So what about me?” I asked. She said nothing and walked to the kitchen.
“Lerato, what’s the problem now?”
Lerato walked her phat ass out of the house and went to stand outside. I followed her outside, with my damn sports bag still over my shoulder, and she said “Bona Sipz. I think it’s not going to work out. We’re different people now. We should move on!” As she says that this monkeyfucker walks up to her, gives her a lamza right in front of me, and then says, “Sho bosso! Why o bolela le cheri yaka?” In school I learned a word called gob-smacked, and I think this was it’s definition.
This is what happens to girls in the Jozi city lights… They go to Jozi, see a “better” guy, dump you, start wearing make-up and expensive weaves. And they break our hearts and turn us into playas!