The romance of Mothers’ Day

EVERY Mother’s Day, I do the cooking! And I must announce it here that anybody who wants the best of goat-meat light-soup should contact me through my lawyers or bodyguard. I’m available to be hired to provide you and your family the best light-soup ever. My fees are pretty high though, and mind you, I charge in dollars.

Well, it isn’t that I’m an American, and my name is more Israeli than Yankee. The only consolation is that when you work in dollars, it can stand the vagaries of financial somersaults and gymnastics. The day the dollar loses its worth beyond a certain threshold, the world is finished. The world would have to go back to the days of barter -salt for bread, milk for cocoyam.

When I do the Mothers’ Day cooking, I remember my beloved mother. She is not alive but she lives in the hearts of those who knew Marion Adwoa Alomele and the kindness of her heart. She died at 58 and on May 6 every year, I shed a tear for mummy and pray for her soul.

Normally, I go to the market and do the shopping myself, against the loud protests of my wife. She doesn’t see how a huge six-footer of a man with a rotund belly can go from one market stall to another shopping for pepper, tomatoes, ginger, etc. Moreover, she thinks some women will cheat me. But whenever I do the shopping, it is the complete opposite. For certain unexplained reasons, the market women give me more than I deserve and my wife is always astonished.

Of course, knowing women for their petty idiosyncrasies, she might be thinking that because of the generous manner the market women treat me, they are giving me more for almost half the price. But if my wife ever asks me to do the shopping, then the very pronouncement is tantamount to domestic violence.

Yes! Why would she ask me to shop and I’d think this is normal? An affront to my dignity and integrity-a form of assault and battery against my good self, actionable at DOVVSU. Check me out!

Of course, when I’m driving and I see some fine yams, I sometimes stop and ask the vendor to put some in the boot. I also fancy driving to Kpong during weekends, if I’m in funds, to buy tilapia and those river fishes that taste real good if smoked. I can also decide to shop for the home, but if my wife asks me to do so, then that is a matter for arbitration. Sounds like a joke, isn’t it?

Well, there are various types of husbands. Some are so nice, even too nice and too docile. Some are iron men, even their wives’ clothing. Nice gentlemen, and that is their nature; they are born helpful and die helpful. They are active and always on the move, displaying a lot of physical capacity and expending energy on domestic and other chores.

Other men will only fix the bulb, check out on the plumber or carpenter or electrician to fix faults and that is all. Other responsibilities are lived up to on the marital bed. Looks like I belong to this group unless my wife thinks otherwise.

The third group of husbands just do not bother. They leave everything to the woman. They are typically lazy and even on the marital bed, they cannot get it up unless the woman takes over operational matters. Some wives even say, “My husband cannot pump. I have to do the pumping myself.”

But coming to think of it, when a woman takes over the romantic initiative, she definitely must be atop the mountain. That sounds pretty geographic but its romantic connotation is quite clear. Most women do not want to climb the mountain, though. Sometimes, it is too steep for comfort! But those who are believers in the romantic world will tell you that the steeper the better.

I will encourage men to cook for their wives on Mothers’ Day, because from experience, I have noticed that when you cook for a woman, she really appreciates it. Wallahi, she does! And because she has not expended energy in cooking that day, her energy is reserved to be used when it is bed-time. And it can get pretty hectic, if you ask me!

Isn’t it, therefore, in the interest of husbands, to occasionally cook for wives? Man, it is in our own interest to become occasional chefs at home, at least during weekends when romantic issues become heavier, and humans are likely to turn into animals and go on all fours.

People who think it is only Nebuchadnezzar who has walked on four legs, they do not know that every man has had his legs turned into something else. If you are not sure about yourself, go and ask your father.

As usual, this Mothers’ Day, I did the cooking, but I asked my wife to fix the shopping, because I was busy sleeping and when I am sleeping, I do not like disturbances. One thing my friends do not know about me is that when I am sleeping, they are politely turned away. I am politely told my daddy is sleeping — is what the last-born child is likely to tell you.

Even if, taflatse, you claim you are Jesus Christ of Nazareth, she will welcome you back to earth, but still remind you that, “My daddy is sleeping! Can you wait small?” If you persuade her to wake up daddy, she will tell you it is not possible. “He doesn’t like that.”

It was this last-born child of mine, Elorm, who loves me so much but loves her mummy more. I don’t blame her at all. After all, the woman carried her for nine months and laboured her out. The only thing I did was to pump it all up. No sweat at all!

Whenever it is Mothers’ Day, the children come to find out what’s for their mum. Last year, they talked about the chicken, salad, biscuits, cakes, drinks for mummy, etc, and me Kwame Alomele was forced to fund the show. When it came to Fathers’ Day, nobody approached me and I was downcast.

I called Elorm,

“Do you realise today is Fathers’ Day?”

She said, “Yes.”

“And what are you folks doing for your daddy?”

“Banku!”

This article was first published on Saturday, May 15, 2010