Mostly, boys are spoilt by their saved shaved dads who cower to the whacks of the societal expectations of them and their gigantic titles, ‘Dads’. Men of liberty and wisdom. The building pillars. The corners of the world. Immediately a man walks down the aisle with a pregnant or ‘soon to be pregnant’ girl, something changes. His judgment is clouded with a substantial amount of fear and uncertainty. Some men even think, what would people say if my wife’s round power assets were to grow scraggy only a month after marriage? What would her ex-boyfriends and all the suitors, who she turned away, say if all over a sudden her cleavage skin were not as fair as it was a month ago? What will they say if her visage looked like a sema-phore, sending signals of remorse and despair? The fear is fatal. The fear snatches such a man the only power men have, the volition power. Such a man can be venal to protect her woman’s power asset, only to avoid public ridicule, which is in most cases baseless and invalid.
The similar happens when a man becomes a dad.
When a man gets his son, he becomes even more afraid. The wife is now challenging, I have vouchsafed you with a son. Make him a man. His grandfather’s words are still fresh in his mind. Remember your family name, preserve its worth, and never gamble with its honor. Pass it down your son, and teach him of its honor. The reality that you are now a father to another man is compelling. I know of a man who hit the gym for four years only because he wanted his son to be sure when saying, ‘My dad can whip your dad’s ass to hell!’ The pressure to deliver to your son hits a dilemma when the society’s expectations punt in. Give him all you want, just don’t make him a crook- we will torch him. Again, here men loose their volition power to make decisions.
In the attempt to bring up a laudable son and arbitrate between the reality and virtual bits, they end up lying to their sons. The biggest lie being not telling them anything at all. The culture of belly dads and TV game sons is an erratum in the modern world and a correction is necessary. That is why I call upon all uncles to sprung and help dads bring up these sons.
I have a game plan on how to bring up my nephew, Rayton Maganjo. I will teach him all the half-bit lies all and sundry assumes to be the truth. I will teach Rayton that skinny is not African. A scrappy infinitesimal behind is not beautiful. I will tell that little nephew of mine that a black big woman is enhanced than a skinny TV model. We are African. Black has always been big and that is why you seldom see small black shoes. Only big and huge black shoes, because here in Africa my nephew, big is always good. Love big and you won’t perish. I will tell him of how these fake models undergo hunger pangs, seeking to slim to win these titles but still wear fake-ass pants to win men at night. How stupid my nephew.
I will teach my nephew to be neither the villain nor the victim, somewhere in between is always the best position. I will not teach my nephew to be ashamed when he gets angry and slaps a nigga, sometimes virulence is all we feel. I will teach him to be sedulous in everything he claves, be it a woman, money or a title. My nephew will not grow to a city weakling for I will teach how to scythe until he boils his balls. And with the boils where it hurts most i will teach my nephew to carry on. That is all life my nephew. You need it.
Rayton will learn how to be an instigator, sometimes peace is for the weak and less determined. He will grow to be having a soul of antiquity kings with the swiftness of modern shrewdness. I will teach him to be an insurgent genius when the situation dictates. Among his peer he will be an arche-type of perfection.
He will learn that it is possible to date two girlfriends in one month, my nephew, some ladies are just mistakes. Don’t always be committed. I will drive to any hot teenagers joint to pick my drunken nephew; I will even fight his drunken fights. I will not complain if I was about to ikush and he calls from Central police, I will get him out, behind his dad’s back and pay his damages. I will just be a bad-ass uncle.
The most importance thing I will teach my tiny nephew is, never cry. Let mum not mislead you, with the talk that sometimes women love a crying man, it is a prove he feels something. That my nephew is a lie, women love hardened iron men. Men of horses. Redeemer of situations, not crying Alejandros. And there is just something gross about men with pets. Lastly my nephew, you better be self made. People are either self made, or never made.
Twenty five years from today, I will have a masterpiece of nurture. A man who can dine with pastors. Talk his way out of terror. Command the audience of Gurus and still beat his way through the street happy like hell, and can even wear a power suit on a Saturday. Whose business is it after all?