Brother-man. You’re in a relationship. The two of you do not live together, but she visits. One or two or seventy six times, you’ve brought another girl home. A few, actually. It was not to debate the technicalities of respiration in unicellular organisms and neither was it because you fancied a hearty debate on the effects of climate change. You’re not heartless so you make sure the side-baes know that there’s a lady of the manor. No false hopes there. No one’s judging. After all variety is the spice of life, ey? There’s a slight problem, though. While you were spanking one of your side-baes like a naughty avocado, she decided that she wants to be joined with you in holy guacamole for life. Brother-man. Here’s what you do. Hama tu!(just move!) Pack up your things in the dead of the night, and go. Better still, leave everything and walk out with just your phone and your wallet. No forwarding address. Waachie hata deposit.( Leave the deposit you paid for the house) You can send the location of your new residence to your mother and your girlfriend later. Brother-man, run!!
Because why? Let me tell you. If a side-bae who intends to stay in your life has been in your house, then nothing short of fumigation, incineration and building demolition is going to erase the evidence of her presence. The subtle marking of territory is an inate skill that females of all species possess. Your Madam will walk into your house, sniff the air once, run a finger over several surfaces, lick a tomato that side-bae bought, and then she’ll sit you down and recite ancestral, genetic and biometric information about side-bae like she works for Interpol. You will stutter and act outraged and deny it confidently because you know you got rid of the green top, toothbrush and undergarments that she left behind. Madam will then excuse herself and go into the bathroom for a few seconds. She’ll go into your bedroom and all will be silent for about 10 minutes. Brother-man! Those 10 minutes are the end of life as you know it.
Madam will re-emerge from your bedroom with a ton of incriminating loot. A pair of stud earrings that side-bae forgot she’d pinned to the inside of the curtain near the bed. A black jewelled hair pin that got caught between your mattress and the headboard (Madam shaved off her hair before you met). A panty liner wrapper that just happened to fall and get caught between the water cistern and the wall. Oh, there’s also the name Cutie pie and a number conveniently scribbled on the back of a supermarket receipt from last week. The most difficult to explain though, is that tiny foil packet corner with the letters _’rex’ still visible. You have no idea how that got inside the pillowcase. In your own defence, you can always plead insanity. It worked for The Son of Sam, yes?
Now, if after all this the Madam somehow finds the wherewithal to forgive you and you still haven’t learnt to stop dipping your pen in multiple ink pots, then perhaps that insanity plea isn’t so far off the mark.