Why work hard for a living when you can just marry rich and be his queen and toy
Time and again, I have found myself desperately reminded of just how much a marriage could save me from poverty. It is an option I have been socialised to keep in mind as a woman.
Perhaps the first option to consider before I risk bruising my delicate curves while carrying the brunt of corporate success. The possibility of finding a made man - a gentleman whose wealth will cushion my life and complement my beauty. Submit to him, and never have to lift a finger.
I have asked about him. Seeking to understand his journey, and hoping to reach his heights. In spaces where I should be shown his tools, his sharpeners, his maps and all his guides - I am taught how to find him, and keep him, the elusive rich husband.
You know that clean-shaven guy with a confidence bigger than his garage - and that thing fits three cars.
Yes, he with a rich history and a few Ltd (Pty) under his Holdings.
The one whose turnover has enough zeros to pay an accountant and a psychiatrist to play golf with him.
Yes, the one who doesn't smoke, but cigars, because Cuba! You've probably read about him, because you Googled him trying to find out how he lost it all and got it all back and is still giving some away.
You read his profile while he gathers knowledge, and writes out manuals for your path. The guy who sleeps late, and wakes up early and still manages to fit in a six pack from gym.
They say he runs, but he never chases after girls, because curiosity slows them down anyway. The guy with the plan, a business plan and a back-up plan.
Him. Yes, the guy we all grew up with - we are all grown up now, unaware that he never stopped growing. I hear he's busy chasing summer offshore the upper ends of the global village.
A trail of stamps with every new language he learns. That guy...
We want to bed him
We want to need him
We want to wed him
We want to be his beneficiaries, and maybe even take his surname and half of his glory.
We want to be his trophy, and calculate our worth so he can work even harder to afford us.
We want to enjoy the spoils of his association, and pack more luggage than his when we trot the globe holding his hand. We want to bear his spawn to secure an everlasting connection and loyalty. We want to be his queen, because he is King.
And while we spend time beautifying ourselves in front of the mirror, for his amusement of course, we do not see the truth.
We brush our expensive hair strands carefully, colour our lips and pout, and turn to admire the castle built around us. We did not lay a single brick on there. There is no trace of our sweat on the walls of his empire.
We have been lodging like all the other King's guests. Spoilt. Catered for. Pampered. Even on days when he gives us the keys to his kingdom, we will not attempt to explore.
We do not open any door. It is our confinement in his bedroom that deprived us the opportunity to learn how all this came to be.
We have no desire to learn how all his success was begotten, we are too comfortable with the benefits. We know that he loves to share with us. We are his, he belongs to us.
We do not learn the tricks of his trade.
We are not to be successful in our own right. We will not be like him, but we're happy because:
We bed him
We need him
We wed him