Why testicles win worst shock-absorbers award

LEAVE! That’s what I’ve been on. Yes, rejuvenating, resting…but I laugh! The snappy, clap-like laugh that oozes with sarcasm.

If indeed leave is rest, pray tell me, how come my bones and brains feel more worsted than the day, three weeks ago, when I hopped out through that office door?

Eti break to relax. My foot! It’s just switching one boss for another, commercial for domestic. At least that is what ‘leave’ is for me –and most men I know. Overrated. A big con.

But it’s what I’ve been on, thank you for asking. That, and smashing my marbles on concrete.

There, I have said it. No more “why are you walking funny mister?” each corner I take. Now you all know why. Nearly castrated myself. Probably did. The pain was majestic. Like one nifty boy observed after he stubbed a toe, the damn thing hurt too much to laugh, and I was too big to cry.

Yes, that was my predicament on Saturday –the other Saturday, not this one. It was one of those days…you know, everyone has one. That one day Lucifer is struggling to find a scrumptious example of misery because he is inducting some freshers in hell.

Then, for some crazy reason –or just old-school cockiness –you wave both arms his way, middle fingers upstanding. Really dumb thing to do, believe me. What started as ordinary a day as any other, turned into that popular composition topic, ‘The day I will never forget…’. Let me tell…

So, Saturday, and I was home alone with the girls; my daughters aged two and five, and a niece aged nine. Their mother was pretty unsure of the arrangement, just that options had run out of stock.

But then again, she has never attempted to disguise her limited confidence in my gender’s ability to look after babies –among many other things.

She is of the stubborn opinion that the male brain sacrifices its growth at the age of 12 for the development of ‘more useful’ components like muscle, beard and ego.

Us men, she claims, have a misguided believe in our immortality and regularly do things that repeatedly prove us wrong. It is a phenomenon she conveniently ties to our inferior life expectancy.

That’s my mother-in-law’s daughter there. In one simple theory, she dismisses half the world’s population as juveniles. And taking her on requires powers few men are blessed with. That’s because her’s is a mouth gifted with unlimited volume and wit.

It was as such that when I promised uncompromised safety of the little ones during her and the house-girl’s absence that Saturday, she said it was actually my safety she was more concerned about. And before I could recover from that blind-siding, she instructed the girls to look after their father.

Didn’t see any of that loading. When I recovered enough senses to move my open lips, I hurled a weak “m-i-s-a-n-d-r-i-t…!” through the closing gate. I simply didn’t have a weapon of any more cleverness at hand for the defense of my own, sorry boys.

“What’s that uncle Kim?” My niece Makena queried. She has always been a curious girl, that she has. Perhaps she will become a journalist like me. I don’t know.

“A female chauvinist…” I started to answer, then realised the box of endless questions I was about to crack open and stopped.

“…I was reminding your aunt to call a friend, Miss Andrist…” is what I fed her instead, and felt pretty smart from that swiftness of thought. But then I noticed the “you-think-I-am-two?” look on her and didn’t feel so smart anymore. But neither did she pursue the matter further. Girls are really strange, is what I concluded, even at nine years.

Anyways, ahead of me was an entire Saturday to prove that what woman can do, man will do and have fun doing it.

Well, it took exactly three minutes to realise the futility of trying to get a game of Fifa going on the PC. Everyone wanted a part in the action and while the wrangling is terrible for concentration, the tagging is a sure way to lose a prized gadget such as a game pad.

The lose-lose diplomacy of ‘none gets’ quieted the titters. But ten minutes of flipping through channels also established that there would be no consensus between the JimJam-ers and Nickelodeon-ers. In another 30, keeping up with Nicki Minaj’s violent dance moves faded out of vogue.

That is when an idea of astounding daftness sneaked into my dome. Generally, I am a bloke of highly rational thoughts, a voice of reason, so how an idea with that magnificent levels of stupid breached my defenses is a matter to be unraveled by a commission some day.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have dismissed Zuwena’s five-year-worth of wisdom when she suggested the idiocy of my intentions. But which grown man worth his beard takes the reasoning of a five-year-old serious?

Besides, the thought didn’t seem so foolish then. In fact, walking on the brick wall dangling a young future woman from each arm sounded like a fun way to cement macho-father status under the tots’ braids.

So, it was with an overflow of defective confidence that I flexed my right hand for Makena, the heavier girl to hang onto. Zuwena, her reservations beaten by the prospects of thrill, claimed the left.

Kendi was torn between cheer-leading and soaking her kinky hair from the tiny stream of soapy water foaming down a nearby furrow. A tenant was doing laundry.

My stunt was a wondrous success –for the first three steps. It is when I took the fourth that disaster struck. Inexplicably, I lost footing and slid. On cue, good, old gravity took over, dragging me downwards with a foot on either side of the cold, rough, concrete.

I smacked the inverted-V-shaped top of the the walling with the force of my kilos –plus that of the two damsels going delirious from my arms. I was certain the silly babymakers had burst. I heard them pop, I swear I did.

There was a brief second or so of nothing, no feeling. The consequences of my actions were loading. Then they struck!

And in that instant, I made the startling discovery that testicles make outrageously terrible shock absorbers. The pain…!? I won’t compare it with that of labour because I’ve never been pregnant. But I’ll say the agony was probably worse.

I slid off the wall like a wet blanket, a lifeless lump of man, sweat and anguish. There is so much I wanted to do right then and there; pee, shit, scream, curse, cry –especially cry –but I couldn’t. My silly body had shut down everything, channeled all resources towards making me appreciate the agonising returns of my choices.

All I could hear were the violent thuds as my heart pushed broiling blood through the veins. It spread the fiery suffering throughout my body. Gosh, everything was on fire. The hair on my head ached. Even the nails on my toes hurt, and they are pretty hardy toenails that I got.

At the same time, my thinker did a random browse through the alternative choices I had but did not take. Why didn’t I go for a walk with the brood instead? Or use YouTube to plait their hair? I should even have let Kendi continue washing my beard with spittle the entire day.

I won’t tell you how long I lay curled on the Cabro because I also don’t know. All I remember are the “Told you…”s from the hysterical older girls.

But Kendi, yet to be afflicted by the confusing human condition schadenfreude, decided two years was too young an age to lose a father and deployed her entire emergency response skills.

She ran her tiny hands in the drain and rubbed the soapy coldness on my face, forehead and ears. The liquid coolness was heavenly. It was as soothing as that frozen block of sugared water we so treasured during primary school sports days.

I accepted her prescription, even when the drain water was smeared all over my cracked lips. By that moment, I knew better than to question a little girl’s wisdom -no matter how little.

It is two weeks since that fateful day when my horrible luck got tangled up with my ridiculous decisions. Problem is, I’m still paying for it.

But I can reveal that the pain has gone down considerably. What I can’t say with certainty is whether contraceptive companies still have a customer. It is a terrifying thought.

The other day, a friend assured me that those nuts are as hard to crack as their famous cliché suggests. It, however, would have been more comforting to hear that from someone who has had the actual experience of crunching their balls on a hard surface and still found them in serviceable condition later. Unfortunately, this friend is a girl.

Need I really be worried…?

 

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1 Comment

  1. jeremiah

    6th Aug 2018 - 12:30 am

    Sorry, I laughed bro…hilarious. but you may be in trouble

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