Ladies, put away your big knives, meat cleaver and other dangerous kitchen utensils as you might be tempted to use them on your beloved once you have finished reading this.
I know I am going to embarrass my family with this confession. But they must take solace in that all my life I’ve been trying to be a good Catholic, and it is in that spirit that this confession is being made.
After 20 odd years of blissful matrimony, I’ve had to leave my wife. The fault is mine. My mistress has taken me over on a full-time basis.
In fact, at the same time I tied the knot with my wife, I also started seeing the mistress. But the crisis, aided and abetted by me, is such that the differences between me and my wife appear intractable.
My mistress has me dancing, irrevocably, on the palm of her hand. She is in charge of every breath I take. I drink from her bounteous, bottomless reservoir of generosity.
Gentlemen, be careful, it could be you next time. These things start out as smallanyana affairs. We even jokingly call our mistresses “roll-ons”, the allusion being to the fact that, like a roll-on deodorant, we can hide them under our armpits and the wives will be none the wiser.
In fact, some wives do know about the roll-ons, but choose to turn a blind eye, hoping that the man’s obsession will evaporate like dew under the hot sun of reason and common sense. Most times men do wake up from the stupor of infatuation – and dump the “roll on”.
Other times, however, the narrative unfolds in a manner that reminds me of that biblical story of a camel and the owner of a tent.
This is how the camel story goes: In the middle of a snowstorm, a man is cowering inside his tent when a camel pokes his head in and says, “Sir, it’s so cold out here, may I hide my head in the warmth of your tent until the storm passes?”
Feeling the milk of human kindness sloshing inside him, the man allows the camel to warm its head inside his tent.
Next, the camel asks for the neck to be accommodated. The man shrugs, and says yes.
Then the forequarters are allowed in. Before the man realises it, the entire camel is sitting inside his tent. Then the camel says, “Listen, bro, this tent is too small for both of us. Get out!”
Mistresses sneak into our marital tents just like that – then start calling the shots.
Like the tent owner, my wife allowed the camel into her tent – meaning she allowed me to continue the affair with the side chick – as long as the whole thing remained discreet and I still gave her what was her due.
But the more space my wife conceded, the more brazen the mistress became. It got to the point where I would be at home, in bed with my wife, when the mistress would call and tell me to get out of bed.
Like a somnambulist, I would get out of bed and traipse out of our bedroom, into my study.
She would be there, waiting. Yes, inside my study, at 3 o’clock in the morning. She would demand that I perform on demand.
Sometimes we would be with friends at a party. She would start whispering in my ear: “I want you to do me now!”
We would sneak to the back of the house, or even into the toilet and get on with our business. As you know, gentlemen, stolen pleasures are splendiferous. Unfortunately, these sweet stolen moments are building blocks of marital imbroglios.
I hang my head in shame that I have to bare all these details here. But the Catholic Church teaches us to confess without reserve.
What makes my side chick so bold is that she has a bag of magic tricks.
Out of nowhere, she can organise us an overseas holiday. In 2009, we spent three months in St. Nazare, France.
We were holed in the room for the larger part of our stay. What happened there is better left to the imagination.
A few months ago she got us accommodation at a beautiful castle owned by the Johannesburg Institute for Advanced Study where we spent three months.
I am writing this from Cologne, Germany, where I have been staying with her for the past month.
Unfortunately, she is very whimsical. When she wants things to happen, she wants them now. She’s just told me to pack as we are going back to Joburg.
With my wife, I knew which buttons to touch; and she would obey. With this ‘skebereshe’ of a mistress I never know where I am standing. Sometimes she forces me to start something, then tells me to dump it.
Yes, journalism was a nice, tolerant, understanding wife. But this mistress called novel writing is so demanding, impetuous and unpredictable.
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