On Sunday morning, new mothers smell of lactating and insomnia, and their husbands smell of last night’s beer and a host of perfumes. Teenage girls smell of freshly painted nails, broken hymens and heartbreaks. The house smells of baking, fabric softener, and the boys smell of masturbation, anti-virus and video games. The house girl smells of a secret affair with her boss’s husband.
It is Sunday you people!
Somewhere else, a young man stretches his hand and reaches for the left-over sex that sleeps next to him. Afterwards, she will make him coffee and pancakes, and he will escort her to the Matatu stage. Then he will go back to the house for a Skype date with his girlfriend.
Another one reaches for his phone and sends an obligatory Good Morning message, groggily, and quickly to get back to his sleep. He misspells ‘Morning’, but she smiles when she gets it.
The good husbands will wear cardigans and drive their families to church. At church, Pastor Dan will call on the congregation to repent. Repent your sins, for the end is near. Do not despair. Your God is a God of the next. Everything he has designed is handmade for what is ahead. Therefore Brethren, be faithful among the faithless. Then the choir will sing. Rebecca, the lead vocalist, will be on the piano. Rebecca always leaves you floating. The kind of feeling that language alone cannot describe. Sometimes, language is inadequate to divulge matters of the heart, the touch and that of music like Rebecca’s. Language is also not enough to describe death by holy matrimony.
After church, the housewives, in an attempt to escape the sterility of the conversation with their husbands in the house on Sunday afternoons, will congregate at the salon. Here, things are irresolvably complicated. These beings, the victims of holy matrimony, meet to talk about their conquests in the homestead, their husbands’ inadequacies and their distorted days of marriage. They will prattle on and on about the unfortunate things they belong to. I do not remember how sex used to feel like before the flabby muscles. The love life of stones. I like it when he comes home late and I pretend to be asleep. The other day, I threatened to tell his mother about his bastard child with the house help. Then they will turn to the unmarried girls giggling in the salon, and tell them to have as much sex as they want right now. For many of your married years, you will turn and face the other side every night, running away from this thing you fondle so much right now. When they are tired of guilelessly pinning their life’s misfortunes to their husbands, they will confirm that their nails are painted right, their split ends well trimmed, and they will buy meat and milk, and then go home.
Monday is near. Soon, we will all die of severe cases of holy matrimony.