In the cool of one evening sometime ago, I was driving home with my friend, Somadina (not his real name), enjoying lively conversation. He is intelligent in a crafty way and he has sound opinions even on the basest of topics. Bouncing ideas off each other was a favourite sport we thoroughly enjoyed.
Then out of the blue, he asked me, ‘Would you rather be with a made man or with a man who was yet to find his feet?’ My answer was not prompt.
I weighed in my mind all the sweet possibilities a made man could offer. A made man is trips and vacations to anywhere in the world and you can live out every lyric in B.O.B ‘s track, “Never had it so good”. I am particularly moved by this line:
“Spin the globe, wherever it lands that’s where we’ll go”.
A made man is shopping sprees and financial support. A made man is quitting a daytime job that does not help you achieve your lifelong dream and being set up in a place with uninterrupted power supply and wifi to write and write and write. A made man is lubricant to the grinds and bustles of life.
Then I weighed the blooming man: the much gardening he required, the few moments you would support him financially, the meals you would make him, not just to show off your culinary skills, but because our brother is famished and has no where else to eat. A blooming man is Will Smith’s character in “The Pursuit Of Happyness”. There would be moments of sartorial imperfections and moments when he would have weightier matters on his mind that he would forget to appeal to the world’s olfactory glands with a whiff of cologne.
Even though I love the niceties of life and the multiple things only money can buy, I am beset with a romantic heart. I love the sunlight, I love the rain and I love to watch things grow. I love to be a part of a dream. I love stay up late in the night, gazing at the stars, talking of eternal dreams not yet manifested to the optical eye. I am excited by the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of unseen realities. I love to aspire to greater heights. I love humble beginnings.
Yet one can never be oblivious to the common disheartening aftermath of gardening a blooming man, especially when he becomes a fulltime job you take on. Many women erroneously believe that just because they stayed the lonely nights of a man’s blooming days, they have become custodians of his moments of fruitfulness and their hunger for the reward overshadows their love for the said man. For a man can come to full bloom and find your gardener’s hands too rough and callused for the many dainty places he’d be invited to. Countless men pick new women for their new levels forsaking the ones who, in their years of obscurity, turned their soil and watered it with the sweat and tears of their prayers. Such, dear sisters, is life.
But this happens oftentimes when a woman forgets that she too requires gardening. Her dreams require attention, her vision requires devotion. She is made of big ideas. that can be nurtured, that her soil requires turning and sunlight and rain and sweat and tears from praying, so that when she comes to full bloom, she can offer herself, effortlessly what a made man could have offered her.
My answer to Somadina’s question was this: I would rather have a hungry man. A man who does his own gardening and turns his own soil, a man who never believes he has come to full bloom, whether he is made or just emerging. I would not have a man whose only aspiration is three bottles of cold beer on a Friday night. No. I would not have a man who wants a simple life, a fair enough job to forset the basic wears and tears of life. He could be made, but is he still hungry? I do not want one who feels he needs to humble me to submission because he cannot keep up with the fire in my bones. I would rather have a man with enough sparkle in his eyes, an ambition that can keep him alive even in the midst life’s evil days. He could be blooming, but are his dreams sky high?
Rather than a made man or a blooming man, serve me a hungry man.