It is a curious thing how an entire society can become so captivated by one narrative that every other experience quietly disappears into the shadows. Jabu Kumalo reckons those shadows are often where the most uncomfortable realities have been waiting all along.
By Jabu Kumalo
The longest month of the year is upon us again. The month most dreaded by the majority of men.
This is the month that is supposed to be the happiest of the year, as women celebrate their womanhood.
It should be a time when our sisters celebrate being queens and princesses who carry life within their bodies for nine months.
They should be cherishing and taking pride in their natural ability to nurture and mould a life from the moment of birth until adulthood.
But alas!
Unfortunately, that precious moment will be lost as the majority of women compete to see who can hurl the most colourful insult at the imaginary “filthy beast” that is man. It will be insult upon insult directed at poor, innocent men, particularly African men, I must say, without any provocation whatsoever.
Every imaginable blame will be placed on the shoulders of men for anything that goes wrong in the lives of women.
The problem is that women who are inclined towards, or mostly attracted to, mavukuvuku (scoundrels) think every man belongs in that league. They get into relationships with these unprincipled tsotsis, yet expect them to treat them differently from everyone else.
A scoundrel will always be an unprincipled, dishonourable person, whether dealing with a loved one or with society at large.
These women march alongside their abusive partners during Gender-based Violence (GBV) campaigns, yet, in the same breath, insult every other man who has absolutely nothing to do with their abuse.
There are times when you hear women wishing they were men. They think it is all pap and vleis. I wish they could put themselves in the shoes of African men for just one day and experience what an ordinary man goes through every day. By the end of it, they would be begging to be women again.
Let me whisper a little mgosi (gossip) to you, my sisters, because I trust you not to tell anyone else. Do you know that there are men who finish work and dread the thought of going home? They would rather park undercover at a shopping mall and get three or four hours of peaceful sleep than go home.
Others choose to go to the bioscope (the cinema, in today’s language), not to watch the film, mind you, but simply to have a nap in the darkness where nobody will notice them. They do it because they are starving for peace. They have beautiful homes but dare not go there except to sleep. If they arrive home early to relax, they are bombarded with problem after problem, shouted at in voices that frighten even children. Not in a gentle, soft voice, mind you, but in a chilling, heart-piercing tone that would make even the toughest man want to end it all.
What man would willingly go home to that?
In the workplace, many sisters have been used to bring brothers down. They are bought with a few pieces of silver to trap a brother whom employers want to get rid of, especially those occupying senior positions. They do so without any shame, provided there is financial gain at the end of it.
Believe it or not, magoshas have saved, and continue to save, many marriages. They are a blessing to countless men who are deprived of conjugal rights. Some men use their services because they have no alternative, or because their “monthly ration” of sex has long been exhausted.
There are even men who pay sex workers simply to sit, chat and enjoy a conversation. No sex at all.
Many married men are trapped with women who suffer from perpetual headaches that somehow last for twenty years. Yet these wives never make the effort to consult doctors or even so-called traditional healers.
We are expected to believe that these headaches affect only their sex lives and that men should simply understand and stop complaining. In such instances, some men see sex workers as the lesser evil compared with the untidy complications of extramarital affairs.
Others choose to have a side dish because getting sex in their own relationship is like digging a grave in rocky ground with a small kitchen fork.
How wonderful it would be if this precious month of August were used by sisters to strengthen one another; to encourage and uplift one another instead of tearing each other down. They should be teaching one another how to survive without becoming wholly dependent on men.
Although men are largely blamed for the hardships women endure, it is often sister against sister who proves to be the greater culprit.
Take matters of tradition, for example. Who makes a widow wear black mourning clothes for a year, or even for the rest of her life? It is other women, either her in-laws or sometimes even her own mother.
They compel her to mourn her husband publicly as proof of her love for the deceased. It is also other women who refuse to sit next to a woman wearing mourning clothes on a taxi, bus or anywhere else.
Women will rarely offer a seat to a heavily pregnant sister on a bus or train. More often than not, it is men who stand up and offer their seats. Yet it should be women, of all people, who best understand the discomforts and burdens of pregnancy.