Reason Boys Don’t Cry – KingsMan

🖤 I grew up with the dogma that men don’t cry. Most times I wonder why my dad comes back from his daily business at lagos trade fair market, choose to lock himself in his room and not talk to anyone. Sometimes he orders me to buy him a drink at mama nkechi shop, most times he doesn’t.

On random occasions I have watched him exchanged words with my mum, in situations I know my mom was fully wrong. Yet, as women always do, she gets overtly loud and wild, tempting him to hit her. But he still ignores her, while I rage in my room over such female audacity, instead he storms out of the house kicking the furniture on his way out and refusing to eat her meals for a week or so.

The day I lost my younger brother, I came back from school and met a crowd at the front of my family flat door, my mum was in the balcony behaving crazily amidst screams and tears.

I was perplexed as I walked in.

Just as I increased my pace, my dad appeared and told me what’s going on.

“Chiemerie just died” he said placing his hands on my shoulder.

Chiemeri was my juniorr brother and last born.

He was so sober but his voice nonetheless remained strong.

I dropped my backpack, walked into the crowd, climbed the balcony, sauntered to my mum and acted more crazier than she did.

My senior sister was in school, she is not yet aware. I felt the absence of my brother, as I imagined how life would be without him.

He was very amazing and intelligent, I love him.

“We lost him to the cold hands of death as he was knocked down by a motorist on his way back from school.” My father further added.

I clenched his blood-stained schoolbag and offered profanity to his runaway killer.

My dad stood by, tired from consoling me and my mum. He just placed his hands on his chest and take deep sniffles at intervals.

Just like elders do when they lost a kinsmen.

Later that night, as I came out to urinate, I perceived an aroma, that type I inhale when I go to mama nkechi shop to buy provisions/drinks. I wondered where it came from and my curiosity took a better part of me.

I traced the smoke, as my sense of smell directed, and saw my dad seated drowsyly outside on a plastic stool, in the cold, as he drew from the brown folded rizzler.

It was the first time seeing him smoke. But I don’t think he saw me. So I just sneeaked back to my room and lay dejectedly.

I never saw him cry, but I have watched him bear pain of the highest order in calmness.

One day as we discussed, I asker him the reason he never shed a tear and he told me “MEN don’t cry”.

Today, I seat outside my veranda, far from home. I’m married. I have already consumed more than 75 cl of McDowell’s as I reminisced over those things that had happened over time.

The last time I drank was 10 years ago, after my high school sentfort. But here I am again drilling my pain over a bottle.

I had just returned from my friends house and I returned worst than I left.

I wished I never went there. Somethings are better left unknown, truly.

I had gone there out of boredom and hope to hang out.

My wife had called me earlier that she won’t make it home tonight, that she has an evening gala to cover in Eko hotel and suite, here in Lagos.

She is a journalist, she works with one of the country biggest media houses, headquartered in lagos; and it’s in one of those her news coverage with her team- did I meet her and got carried away. The rest is that we are have walked down the aisle and bonded.

it’s not the first time of her sleeping out of home because of her job, but since we married it has reduced to an extent.

I was surprised at this, tonight, for she always tell me in advance when such a situation comes up.

I spoke into the receiver as we conclude the call. “okay Darling have a nice night, see you tomorrow morning. I love you”. I blow kisses into the receive as an act of love.

It was 30 minutes after the call, did I make up my mind to visit my guy -who was my former classmate and also my wife colleague – for hangouts and provably drinks – Hollandia yogurt of course.

His house was the next estate after mine, so I saw no need going with my car. I choose to use the local town service or even trek.

I didn’t even call him, I never did whenever I visit. In fact he even came by my office today for lunch. That is how close we are.

On entrance to his compound, which was quite easy for an estate -the Gateman, Musa already knows me -I walked straight to his flat -which is a 2-bedroom-bungalow, -With the fragrance of my wife Cologne filling my nose as I walked in- which I waved aside as paranoia from missing her

Getting there to his door, I was about to knock when I heard moans, not just moans but it was that of my wife.

Haa, has me missing my wife really messed with my psyche, that I now hallucinate and connect everything to her; I thought.

I quickly retraced my step, strode around to the backyard, to my guys window, I don’t want to disturb his man action -Which I know he always keeps open- peeped through it and saw a shocker- my wife doing missionary work.

It was unbelievable.

The same way she moans for me, the same intense way, was she moaning right in front of me.

Her legs dangling in the air and the so called gala she went for, settling, sliding in and out of her journal.

I came out, flagged a bike and went back to my house.

The urge to drink have never been this strong.

I drank till I felt my head loosing form.

“Boys don’t cry” now made meaning and sense all over again.

For in this situation I don’t know what to cry about.

Should it be for

An unfaithful brhoe?

Or a cheating wife?

Which ever happens, I hope I live with the pain, I can’t tell her I saw her.

Article Written By: KingsMan (Turnup) - Writer and Partner at Rotary International
Article Written By: KingsMan (Turnup) – Writer and Partner at Rotary International