At the risk of triggering hell-like fury from our sisters, I want to ask: Who is actually a successful woman? Is the successful woman the one who drives around the city streets ‘fingering men’ with that obscene middle finger? The kind of woman who think that every time she gives way to a male motorist is like giving consent to be deflowered?
Is she akin to the one I saw last weekend, swinging a Guinness Kubwa straight to her mouth as she swirled around the high ‘sina tabu’ stool? Or is she like the one I saw the other day at a banking hall, with a skirt short enough to be a handkerchief or face towel, tiptoeing around on high heels that produced tick tock sounds akin to that made by cockerels fighting over a hen?
Is she the one who hangs out with the big boys in exclusive members-only clubs late in the night without a care for her asthmatic son who has not taken his medication? Or maybe she is like one I once saw in Kisumu who walks away and all the eyes – both male and female – escort her big backside.
God damn it! Who is this successful woman? The female bank manager that will make me feel worthless as I beg her to lend me a mere Sh100,000 despite signing a heap of papers? Or is she one of those who have broken into the male dominated fields such as mjengo, matatu touting and mechanics?
Maybe she is among the handful of female pilots like a certain captain who a couple of months back dropped that Embraer 190 at Mombasa International Airport like a sack full of potatoes straight from Kinangop.
Is the successful woman the so-called glass ceiling breaker? The woman who has climbed the corporate ladder and now brushes shoulders with male corporate gurus but still offers herself to serve tea at board meetings?
Or she is the athlete millionaire, who after a casual jog around a big city in the name of a marathon, pockets enough money to bribe an entire parliamentary committee? Seriously, ladies, who is this successful woman? Where is she hiding?
Could she, by any chance, be a woman from Nyeri, world renowned for clobbering her husband? Or is it the woman who manages to convince the biggest fool in town to spend the largest amount of money on a wedding just to mesmerise people and then six months down the line they are sleeping in separate bedrooms waiting for the end of the world?
Or, just perhaps, she is that woman who masterminds the theft of toddlers from the loving arms of their rightful biological mothers? Worse still, is she that woman who will convince mortuary attendants to chop off male organs from our dead relatives so that she can travel to Tanga and sell the wares to a mganga?
Enough of the circus! A successful woman, methinks, is your caring mother. No drama, no frills. She is the one who worked so hard in the fields just to pay your school fees.
As you globe trot, remember your dear mother who never had a passport, not because she did not have money to grease the palms at immigration, but because her fingerprints would have been so damaged as to be unrecognisable by biometric machines. She became damaged goods after years of toiling for you, and now you have the temerity to call yourself successful.
Shame on good-for-nothing you.