Give roaming Romeos their own medicine

For a long time it looked like my friend and I were managing her façade just well, until this weekend. We thought if her roving Romeo got a bucketful of his medicine now and then, it would purge the truth out of him. We had it all figured out. Every time he crawled back home in the wee hours and didn't find her in bed, it would send him galloping back to the bar in dismay. I don't know why she listens to me.

For a long time it looked like my friend and I were managing her façade just well, until this weekend. We thought if her roving Romeo got a bucketful of his medicine now and then, it would purge the truth out of him. We had it all figured out. Every time he crawled back home in the wee hours and didn't find her in bed, it would send him galloping back to the bar in dismay. I don't know why she listens to me.

Not only did he never look bothered at the counter-reaction, he threw a petrol bomb at us when we least expected it. My friend received a call from her man's squeeze asking nicely if she could kindly speak to him. Yes, on my friend's phone.

We went ballistic. A love triangle right under our noses? And she was calling to make it official. Clearly she's always known that my friend is her, err . yes MK, that's what they used to call it in Randfontein, back when Bob Mabhena was playing vinyls when he was supposed to be writing his maths test.

But there's no name for it these days because those who have walked that troubled path have paid dearly for this act of indiscretion.

I need to get a life and stop interfering because all my rantings about how we would unravel his mission has not yielded any positive results.

Instead my friend is bouncing between her shrink's coach and the bar and I'm the ass that orchestrated it all. Yes, I need to get a life.

But before that tall task, I sat down Citizen X to break it down for us.

"What is it with you men always messing with our heads. Is it a ratio thing or are you trying to prove something?"

We ganged up on him. He gave a long, retarded explanation. At one point my friend remarked that he was deliberately confusing us so that we walked away feeling like bigger asses.

The more we listened the harder it got to understand the things that came out of his mouth. You just can never get a straight answer from these lads and it is very calculated.

Be that as it may, the fact is that men think we ought to deal with the possibility of polygamy now and then. One fellow even remarked. "Sharing is caring." My polygamist uncle reprimanded his third wife saying: "Don't be greedy, other women don't have husbands, at least let me service them."

He meant he was free to shag beyond the borders of his kraal too.

My helper tells me that in her village women are okay sharing a man among two, three, sometimes four of them, as long as the man doesn't bring in an outsider.

Who are these women? Or rather how do men get women to dance to that tune and be so deranged that they start living such a sad life?

Are we such a spoilt-for-choice generation that we could be losing insight on the realities? We won't find the answer until we kick the bucket. The fact is, there are four women for half a guy in South Africa. It doesn't justify infidelity, but it sure makes it easy.

We had to walk away slowly with our hands raised up in the air. There was no winning this one. The damage had been done. As some form of leverage. All that my friend could do was to send her a message saying: If you are going to sleep with him, buy a bullet proof vest. And she didn't get that one from me.

We need to exorcise the demon from inside her, clear her head so that we may go back to the drawing board, time permitting. I know I need to be thrown somewhere cold for playing the pro when my own house is in shambles.

But before all that happens, we need to teach these two-timing bastards a lesson. If you want polygamy, be prepared to deal with the fact that she could easily do it and will do it three times better with the help of karma. You've got to love the laws of attraction.

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