IT GETS DANGEROUSLY CLOSER (PT 2)

...I want to believe that the marriage institution is undergoing a generational evolution. You want to know why? Ok. As a child, I remember that the IVs to the weddings we used to attend simply bore '...cordially invites the family of XYZ to the Marriage of their children...' Gradually, it shifted to inviting us to the Wedding Ceremony of their children. Then again, it changed to inviting us to the Wedding Solemnization. It didn't stop there. They began to invite us to the Exchange of Marital Vows, then Marital Bliss, and now Conjugal Bliss. Conjugal Bliss? Wow! I think I already know what to invite people to whenever I'm ready. The idea of a marriage full of blissful conjugation sounds very very exciting.



Recently, when I welcomed a good friend of mine, a visiting Professor (he is a Prof, and he visited me), in my crib, I enquired about this generational evolution. Initially, he told me he doesn't want to be bothered over such 'mundane' issues; he had this research that was uppermost in his brain. But I've known Prof for 10 good years; and I know he cannot fool me. So I sent for the key that unlocks him, a frozen bottle of big stout. Expectedly, it worked. One remarkable thing about Prof is that the mere sight of a sweating bottle of big stout gets him delirious with excitement.



''You know I've been thinking about this generational evolution theory of yours,'' he started as the bearer of the 'dead' bottle of big stout came within sight. ''It is simply a palpable manifestation of the inherent transitional character of humans.'' I relaxed and braced myself for the impending lecture.



Each of the IV statements, he began, summarises the couple's relationship in a nutshell. So you can be sure that in conjugal bliss, there would be tons of lovemaking (not sex?) in the marriage. Nothing matters as much as sex, and variety is its most important ingredient. ''Darling I'm ready to leave.'' And the man will reply, ''Ok dear, but could we hit one quick round for the road?''



Marital Bliss is about the best any couple can hope for. There is a well balanced and robust relationship between all facets of the couple's lives - physical, social, sexual, emotional, etc.



If the would-be couple are Exchanging Marital Vows in their IV, then it's going to be a chatter box marriage, full of talking, argument, and counter argument.



But that's child's play compared to Wedding Solemnization, also known as Holy Matrimony. Here, the couple's 1+1=2. Period. They are two separate entities joined only by their consignment into the marriage asylum. There is hardly any emotional connection between the two, except, of course, during sex (not lovemaking?). It is usually every forth night, or if the man is lucky, once a week. And it MUST be the missionary style!



''My dear friend,'' said Prof, releasing three long belches in quick succession.



''Do you ever wonder why children of the same parent do not have the same character?''



''Well,'' I replied, ''It depends of the genetic make-up...''



''No no no,'' Prof interjected, 'There is no need to impress me with your knowledge of science. It has nothing to do with heredity and transmission of genes.''



And he continued.



For every normal couple, there are hundreds of rounds of sex that precedes the birthing of every child, but it is only one round, one critical round, that produces the foetus. And what you do during this one critical round pretty much determines the future of your baby. In our days and the days of our fathers, there is a huge population of missionaries, people who GENUINELY dedicate their lives to spreading the gospel. Then, being a missionary brings a lot of honour and respect to you and your family.



You know why there were a lot of missionaries then? Our fathers respected the missionary style of lovemaking (not sex?). It was so sacrosanct that the mere dreaming of any other sexual position could invite the wrath of the gods onto the unfortunate dreamer. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of this present generation. They have invented such horrible positions that the mere thought of it is capable of causing one heart problem. They even went as far as laterally inverting our dear old missionary style and handing the woman the baton. And then they would turn around and wonder why women nowadays are becoming more domineering; most of them have been conceived via this ungodly position. Even the gods have become too numbed with shock to react.



But some men who are wise have exploited this one critical round to their immense benefit. You would discuss with your wife and then fix a mutually agreed date for this one critical round, preferably when the woman would be ovulating. And you would begin planning ahead. You and your wife. Two heads better than one. What do we want our first child to be when s/he grows up? A footballer? You start looking for video tapes of great footballers. A lawyer? You start shopping for legal movies that are bestsellers. If you want a journalist, then you would wait till the evening news begins before you start. And the list goes on. On the day and hour of this one critical round, when you must have decided on the future of your about-to-be-conceived baby, the chosen tape is slotted into the video machine just before the commencement of lovemaking (not sex?).



And, oh, there must be no interruption whatsoever. It could be disastrous to the about-to-be-conceived baby. So lock your door from the outside and pull the window drapes to make sure no jobless visitor comes calling. And all mobile phones must be switched off. When eventually the lovemaking (not sex?) begins, make sure you keep your eye on the TV screen as you conduct the business. Imagine your about-to-be-conceived child is the star on display on your screen. Your eye must NEVER be taken away from the screen until orgasm and, AARGHH!!! you have just conceived the next world player of the year.



''What if there is power outage,'' I asked.



''That is your business,'' Prof snapped. ''If you don't want to bring a ne'er do well vagabond into the world, then you better make sure nothing interrupts the baby-manufacturing process.''



''But Prof,'' I chipped in, ''You keep emphasizing the difference between lovemaking and sex. Why?''



Prof stared hard at his bottle; the drink has almost run out.



''That's a story for another day,'' he replied, and quickly drained the bottle.



Of course, sending for another 'dead' big stout could bring that 'another day' to this moment, but it was a risk I was not prepared to take.



So we left the 'another day' for what it was - another day.

IT GETS DANGEROUSLY CLOSER

I'm frowning into a wedding photograph I attended in 1994 (I think?) that features my humble self, neatly tucked into an oversized yellow tuxedo with designer shoes to match; my mum, and the just wedded couple. A pool of sweat had gathered in the middle of my clean shaven skull and I could almost visualize myself move in the photograph, every now and then, raising my left palm to swipe off the puddle that gather periodically at the centre of my head. Oh! And those shoes! How could I ever forget them? I never referred to those shoes as one pair because, in all honesty, they were not.

Ah! Those brown shoes. With a silver shiny Luigi Pastore, which I guessed was the name of the designer, glued on the floor of each of them. It had to be a designer product; after all, the name was Italian. Only problem was the left one seemed bigger than the right. So while my right foot fitted effortlessly into its right counterpart, my left leg had problem filling the spaces around it. To cross that hurdle, pieces of paper, cloth, and plywood found their way into the left shoe.

But I'm still looking at this 16 year old photograph and wondering if that was me in my former life. I can't even understand it. One moment it seems like I never posed for that photo shot, the next it looks like it was just yesterday. Let's see if I can recall some milestones over the past 16 years – Ok, I lost my old man and grandma… wrote WAEC and JAMB… university… NYSC… and now this. Did I leave out sex? No! But I would have loved to leave out that unpleasant incident in my last year in sec school. Chikere Amadi. Oh Chikere Amadi. One name I'd definitely carry into my grave. My face. Oh my face. How you suffered under the impact of Chikere Amadi's blows. I can't actually remember what led to the fight but I remember, vividly, that by the time he was done with me, I was barely recognizable for the next one week. My face was so swollen up my glasses could no longer fit. I couldn't even inspect the extent of the damage in a mirror. The horror I saw in people's eyes whenever I appear told me it was quite bad. As if that was not enough, the wicked fellow also appeared in my dreams to continue from where he stopped. Nightfall became a nightmare. And I stopped watching Boxing on TV. It brings back the bad memories.

Back to this photograph I've been staring at. I remember how I'd always feel that weddings were for grownups and as a child; it'd never get to my turn. Well how wrong I was. If only time had stood still. First, it was the very elderly ones. My reason? I'm too young. Then the elder ones, and I still reasoned I was still young. And then the bug crept to my immediate seniors and I'm like, 'Hey, am I getting old or are people getting young?' Now it is my peers and colleagues and cousins. An unseen umpire seemed to have blown the whistle and everybody seems to be scrambling to get married. Hmmmm.

I thought I had my life and future all planned out - graduate, get a very good paying job, buy a house, and at least, two cars. And then go hunt for a lady I can shovel off her feet. Now I realize the effect of those things I was smoking back then. If I still have to stick to that plan, then I could (not even would) wait till I'm 60 or 70. When my contemporaries would be retiring to their children and grandchildren, I would be hunting for a lady to shovel off her feet. Who knows if I would even be strong enough to do the shovelling? Kai!.........
(P.S This piece has been suspended till further notice. I became traumatized at this point and could no longer continue).