The Odyssey of a Scribe: Fancies of a scribe

I began penning this article a long while ago. I had my thoughts put together, ideas flowing and the structure in place. Except I had not humiliated the keyboard by tapping at it yet.

Finally, I have managed to lay hands on a pen and, most crucially, a grip on the eternally elusive time, and here we are.

Shall we say, Bingo!

You see, the alpha man is not an idler blogger as most wannabe writers are. Any feathers ruffled? Many, I bet.

Sir Nkurunziza has his professional duties and a million other enthusiasms, all competing for his hard-to-come-by attention, as to afford to have surplus time to attend to scribal compulsions all the time.

Damnit! What the deuce am I saying? Anyhow. Take me wrongly at your own peril.

So, here is the chronicle. A chronicle you must hear.

Wait, it’s not a chronicle, really.

FYI, I don’t lay any solid claim to being a chronicler worthy of any note, shout no. Chronicling is a pretext we idlers fancy using whenever we want to put our inherently cheap thoughts across, to whoever may care to listen.

Rather it’s an analysis and a vision. An objective, perhaps.

What type of spouse do you envisage? What kind of man would you want to father your children? What species of woman would you want to carry your children? What breed of human would you wish to grow gray hair with?

The pedigree type, most will shout. Yet how do you arrive at that special mate? Good question, folks. I will tell you how. In just a moment.

Lately, the alpha man has been thinking real hard about this oft-ignored subject that is otherwise of massive substance, and hefty repercussions.

Following is what I came up with: the threshold that my partner must meet. Fancies though these may seem, yet it is what I want.

Even before I begin, please note that ours will be pretty much a contract.

Conduct

This is the central pillar. Mannerisms of an invalid are unwelcome. Behaviour should be impeccable. Someone who can answer me when I ask what programme is showing on TV even when I can see it’s the horribly-cast Muchacha Italiana.

Beauty

We all go for this. But my lady must be Natalie Portman-smoking hot. And when I say Nat, I mean just that.

Yet here is where I get so utterly subjective. Plump has never been my thing, never will. Curves though I may, repeat may, allow, but not so much flesh as to fall free in the shape of flab. Hapana!

I fancy ‘em petite, much as a fellow scribe insists that ‘these little devils can really raise hell outta nothing.’ A 5’1 like Lady Gaga’s is just fine.

Dressing

There are no rules for this. She will dress as she pleases, but sexy and appealingly. I would fancy it more if she can put on a pair of onesies, shorts, loafers and dresses, and look strikingly the part.

Have I mentioned before that a lady in sexy flats and socks makes me squirm with need?

Smile

It has to be evermore winsome. The variety that melts an icy heart –sometimes I can allow myself to get really cold. She can help exorcise my gloom. The Rooney Mara type of beam.

Exercise

A gym-animal would be most suitable, for fitness is a big plus in the matters that I should not mention here. She should however not have muscles of a career weightlifter.

Complexion

The tone has to be bright. Skin that sparkles is what I mean. The kind you see on sassy models on Nivea billboards. She must not have a freckle. Hell, no!

If she is not of light skin complexion, I may take her in on the condition that this gene runs in her lineage.

Language

English and French are a must. English –and this has to be flawless –because it is the favourite tongue of the alpha man.
Dear Lord, I loathe girls who speak with outrageous accents, saying nothing really. Miserable souls, the god of language will have no mercy on you.

Some French will do because the boy studied (some!) French in college. Never mind he benefitted very insignificantly from the syllabus. Thus she will have the honour of learning me. And learn I must.

Intelligence

This value is so sweet to not possess. Sometimes the alpha man allows himself to wallow in thoughtlessness, and in such instances, she will be there to temper my idiocy. I can’t claim to understand what I meant by this line. Not without telling a fib.

But that she must be brainy is the base line.

Reasoning

My missus must possess an analytical mind. She must possess deductive genius of jaw dropping status. Having read Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot’s detective exploits, I must say I fell in love with people who boast this venerable quality.
Dude, seriously? Dude. I'm not sorry, it's what I want, and what I must have.

Mediocrity will not be permissible in our union. I will bust her without a second thought, poor soul.

Relations

I will love my duchess' family. And she will have no choice but reciprocate. But one thing I must forbid is her relations to dictate what we must do.
Toughee
I want someone who can do a five-kilometre jog in the morning and prepare breakfast without whining. Someone who can go watching the Rhino Charge on a rainy May morning, or go mountaineering when Mt. Kenya forest is at its gloomiest. A lady who can punch back when threatened.

Really not the mushy type that would call dial 999 and my workplace in an emergency for "Darling there is big mende inside the kitchen cabinet."

Enthusiasms

She may love literature: reading or writing. Having both would be an added advantage.

I am a film maniac, thus she should be a friend of the screen. Strictly, I cannot even start to date someone to whom Inferno, Deadpool, The Jungle Book and Apocalypse sound like, at best Double Dutch, at worst, Gypsy language.

She must have the capacity to draw amusement from many a faculties. In other words, we should have similar hobbies and interests. Not all. At least several.

Independent entities

Between us there will be autonomy. I do not wish to place any stringent measures on how she should conduct her life, especially when her actions do not impact on my life in any way.

She will have her financial latitude, freedom and all she may desire. This I won’t tamper with.

Duties

It has never been my habit to rely upon someone to run my errands. No one should babysit me. I like performing my own chores.

I can grill my sandwich, brew coffee for myself, and clip my nails, can't I?

I will not enslave her in any way whatsoever.

Friends

She may have chums of her choice, it’s entirely upon her. But I would take displeasure to the ilk with hideous tendencies of hovering around long after dinner has been served and late night news anchors gone to sleep.

I must confess my abhorrence for the type that is naturally privy to and discuss everything from what the Kardashians are up to, to what peek-a-boo bras and panties are new in the lingerie market, and their knights in bed.

Drinking

You cannot deny pleasures to a woman who can tell the difference between genuine Chablis and counterfeit Chateau Montelena, can you? Your answer is as good as my guess.

She can take as much wine as her palate will accommodate, except she should not drink outside the confines of our home. I must forbid her subscription to cheap liquor as is sold in piteous joints that are so common in Nairobi. Sparkling wine from worthy joints will be allowed any time.

Children

We will sire just one kid: my goddess Monique. This proviso is not debatable.