Tell Them How Much You Love Me

Tell Them How Much You Love Me

I’ve wondered sometimes.

That if I left you, wouldn’t my life be better, much better than it is right now?

That today, this very day, if I looked at my image in the mirror and told myself, “Woman, you’ve had it. You deserve better. Enough, woman, is enough,” if I convinced myself to leave you and get myself a better marriage with a loving, non-cheating man, I’ve wondered, wouldn’t happiness find me finally?

Well, it very well could. There’s a chance that any other relationship I get into might be better than this one. Because this one is bad. This one is really bad. When I dare to be honest with that image in the mirror, I can tell it to its face that this marriage is horrible.

And it’s not just about you having affairs left, right, and center and lying to me ever so blatantly about them. No. It’s the fact that even though I’m willing to turn a blind eye to the lipsticks in your shirts, the strange scents you carry home with you and the whispered phone calls at odd hours of the night, you still cannot treat me like a decent human. You continue to treat me like trash. Why can’t you have your cake, eat it, and still appreciate how good it tastes?

Because, fine, you’re having an affair with Mary, Martha, or Maureen. Fine. That’s what you’ve decided. And I’ve heard it said to me n times that men have a problem keeping it in their pants, married on not. Not news to me. Not news at all. So have your affairs. But where is my “Good morning, darling?” Where is my, “You look good in that outfit, beautiful?” Where is my, “How was your day, love?” Where are my jokes? Subsequently, where did you take my laughter? Where is the decency I deserve for putting up with you?

Because I’ve wondered, you can have your affairs, true, but does that mean you have to check out from this marriage completely? I don’t think so.

We can still go places, you and I, can’t we? After all, the Maureens, Marthas, and Marys, those are affairs. You technically should not be going anywhere with them. They are the ones you should be sneaking around with.

Me and you, we should be seen in public. Holding hands. Exchanging kisses on our cheeks. Wishing each other happy anniversaries on our social media pages. We should be updating our status updates with hashtag #MarriageWorks, and #NiJesus or #NiGod. Whichever you prefer. Because who cares if others prayed fervently for their failed marriages. Me and you, we’re special. Our marriage has to work.

But I can’t do this alone you know. So where are your hands when I need to hold them in public? Where is your status update with my paragraph on how lucky you are to have me? Where is your picture of me in your #WCW collection?

Because look here, they cannot be right. Those who claim that marriage doesn’t work, fuck them and their inability to keep a man. Those who warned me against you, they can’t have been right. Your exes who kept warning me that I was setting myself up for a life of misery, they were jealous. They still are. And we need to show them.

So show them how much you love me. Show them that you’re happy with me. Show them that we are happy. I’ve been doing it alone while you’re out eating your cake. I’ve been holding the fort for both of us. Keeping this marriage image squeaky clean. But I need you to help me out here.

So, listen. I’ve been wondering.

Maybe you should consider keeping your affairs a teeny bit discreet like other men do? Help a woman out, husband! Kwani your boys don’t talk to you about these things? Maureen, Mary, and Martha they need to stay hidden. They are affairs for a reason. Why are you being seen clubbing with them, getting drunk and touchy-feely with them? How is that helping my narrative when I post a paragraph on Instagram saying what a loving, thoughtful, kind and amazing husband you are? Damn it, husband! Nobody has to know that you’re not loving, thoughtful, kind nor amazing, do they? They really don’t. So could you help me out here?

While at it, I’ve been wondering, could I please still get my “Have a good day, love” and, “You look lovely, my beautiful”? I’m committed to this marriage. And marriage does work. And you said it yourself when you married me. You said it on our wedding day – I could never forget this. You said that I will make a good wife. That I make you look good. Remember? So here I am. Being a good wife. Making you look good. So let me!

That can’t be hard to do can it? Just go online and – once in a while, it doesn’t have to be every day – say a few kind words about me and pledge your undying love. That can’t be hard babe, is it? Because I see you do it every day. The other day, you wrote a thread on Twitter telling pro-choice women how despicable they were to imagine that they could choose who lives and who dies. But that’s not really how you feel, is it? Because I also saw a text you sent to Maureen telling her that the 10,000 shillings you had sent her was for her to take care of “it”. And I also know what “it” meant because the text preceding your text was her text announcing that her fears had been confirmed. That she was, indeed, pregnant. So you’re not new to this game. You do this online all the time.

The other day, still, you wrote a status update on Facebook stating how, “IMO, men who beat their wives are cowards. Nigga, go fight a man your size.” Impressive. So impressive that I gave it a love instead of a like. This was when that lady was in the news after being beaten to death by her husband. With no sense of irony at all, you jumped on the hashtag #JusticeForJanice and tweeted a few pointers on how men should treat their wives. But, hey, look at me. Look at me. What is this black eye about? Did the wall acquire a fist and hit me with it? I don’t think so. But they don’t have to know that, do they?

So go on, husband.

Tell them how much you love me.

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