So I adapted, I let the scorn of immature girls barely old enough to wear training bras haunt me for the next 20 years.

by Teddy Fikre  written:  Thursday, January 12th, 2012

So yesterday, after much anxiety and buna searching, I finally got up the courage and strength to write an article blasting the Ethiopian women in the Diaspora for being a collection of finger snapping and neck popping bulls.  It took a lot to write that scathing article, and trust me; I caught quite a lot of flak from the ladies after popping in Side A of that cassette in BC radio and listening to my arsenic aimed at their eyes.  Fortunately however, as much as I was scorned for my willingness to put most Ethiopian women in the same boat, I did not lose 80% of my followers on twitter nor 75% of my women friend on Facebook.  In fact, I actually gained a couple in the process.  Who knew having the courage to speak on taboo subjects could gain you the admiration of folk throughout the ether.

So it with that in mind that I have decided to flip the cassette in BC radio and put it on side B today.  Side B shall be a correspondence of the collective failings of us—would be Kings who refuse to grow up and stay boys ad infinitum.  I shall pen this denunciation of our moral failings by pointing my pen straight at my forehead and squirting that black ink of truth in my own eyes.   It is my hope though—that as I write this condemnation of my own flaws—that the fellas reading this side B of my cassette—press pause, rewind, and play a thousand times over and let these words burn into your medulla oblongata as if you were trying to memorize an Al B. Sure song as if you are a teenager.  This should be easy to most, because most of us men have never crossed the finish line of maturity; too many of us would rather saunter down the lanes of the oval circle that is life—sometimes moon walking backwards—before we dare think about reaching the yellow tape of being a real man.

Like I said, this shall be penned from a personal perspective, I am not about to point out the splinter in the eyes of women when I have a huge plank protruding from my retina.  Thus, I delve into the illumination of my sins, nah today no popping collars in the hurricane; I shall instead be sanctified by her monsoon and swept away by the Zephyr of change she puffs at my bald head.  You see, I am in no position to talk about the wayward ways of women, because for the most part, it is me and my ilk that has managed to make women wayward with our deeds and actions.  Men like me are hypocrites, we want to do our dirt and then hope to find after we are done playing in manure a beautiful red rose of our own.  We—really I—think that there is no repercussions to our actions, we act and live indifferently and then pop our heads up at the last minute hoping to get our dessert in the end.  For the most part, I have found it easier to live in the shadows of being a player and a pimp instead of stepping up to the mic and living up to accountability and taking responsibility for my actions.

I have used many crutches in the past.  I have played the part of a wounded animal and used that as an excuse to never get close to another woman.  Funny thing, when a woman thinks a man is wounded; she falls enchanted to his scars and falls in love with the idea of salving his lesions.  Of course—as any man will tell you ladies—this is a perfect situation for us men.  We tell you from the outset that we are too hurt to love, that we are too wounded to care, and that all we can do is offer physical accompaniment.   Instead of seeing this as a flashing red light to run away from, most women instead see an opportunity for the accoutrements of love.  Trust me on this ladies, when a man says he is not in a place to love, that he is hurt, please know that he is not telling you that out of hurt but as a way to entice you into his web of deceit.  And that is just what you do, you run over in your nurse’s outfit ready to operate on your heart, soon enough the patient will be nibbling at your heart while you still have your nurse lingerie on.

So in a way, I don’t blame women for acting like men sometimes.  Really, I don’t blame women for refusing to submit to a man.  After all, how can you let a man be a man when we refuse to act like men ourselves?  How are you going to let us be the head of the household when we have our heads up the panties of every woman we encounter?  Yes the Bible said to submit, but only to the one who is worthy, and most of us are about as worthy as a used tampon.  Yeah I know that was a bit too explicit of an analogy, but really that is what we are sometimes. Think about it, most of the time, you can only insert us once, and then we end up being discarded by our own careless behaviors—left with your blood of hatred  on our collective hands.  I can quote a thousand different ways on how women should defer to men, but that deferment can never take place if the men refuse to take the lead from the outset.

I am after all 37, by the time my dad was this age, he already had two daughters and was well on his way to conceiving me.  I am a seed who grew from a might oak, but by his standards, I might as well be a mustard seed he threw on the top side of the soil.  He did all he could to nourish this seed, with love and guidance he saw me sprout from the soil, yet I have yet to grow as mighty as he.  I have a ways to go before I take my place next to my dad and say with conviction that I am in fact Wedi Fikre.  I don’t know, maybe I act this way because I did not gain the favor of too many girls when I was a teenager.  Shit, in high school, intellect, writing, and well speaking Negros like me were about as popular as the high school cafeteria steamed broccoli.  I did everything I could to get their attention, those high school debutantes,but they were not interested in dudes with their collars done properly—so I learned to pop my collar in their hurricanes.

It was from this moment that I transformed from pimped to player, from dismissed to mister.  I learned that women wanted men who were bad boys; there was no place for good guys in their minds.  So I adapted, I let the scorn of immature girls barely old enough to wear training bras haunt me for the next 20 years.  Sure, I was rewarded plenty by the affection of unabashed one night stands, countless women whose names I have forgotten, and patron soaked memories of unending sexual escapades.  I have planted my seeds in latex coverings—enough children that could have defeated the Italians in Adwa.  I am not much of a basketball player, but I am pretty sure that Wilt Chamberlain in heaven is probably giving me a high—a very high—five at my conquests.

But you see, all’s well never ends well.  I have found out that when you lay with a woman, she takes a piece of you and you take away a piece of her.  This is universal rule number 3—no amount of condoms can protect you from inheriting the spirits of those you sleep with.  I lost my innocence a long time ago, my childhood dreams have evaporated into nothingness though countless moans and incalculable orgasms.  All I am left—it seems—is memories of toxic encounters and smoked out dreams of unadulterated love making.  In the process it is my hope that I find redemption through a redemptive woman who won’t judge me unworthy.  It is my hope that I in fact will find my red rose even after I roiled and rolled in enough manure to fertilize the Sahara desert into a botanical garden.  So you see, when I judge a woman for her lacking, it is because I have the best view, I am the one bringing up the back of the band.  Trust me, I am not really judging you, I told you yesterday, I am more like a detached observer.  So ladies, take what I said yesterday with a grain of salt.  In time, a worthless man will find his worth with you and be redeemed by your loving hands.  But don’t be in a rush to be his nurse like I said before, if he is really ready for your dose of medicine, you will realize it when you see him acting more like a patient and less like a detached apothecary of toxic love potions.

Let this be my final statement on this topic as the tape on side B is coming to an end.  If you really want a man to lead and men if you really want a woman to submit, then let us—the men—lead and in the process show you how to submit to us as we submit to your grace.  Otherwise, women, refer to universal rule number 2 from yesterday and fellas refer to universal rule number 3 above.  In other words, our choices will either have us walking Chihuahua alone or spewing worthless seeds in latex containers for an eternity.  This, a confession from an Apologetic Habesha man; tape over, game over, flip back to side A if you choose.  Peace.

“But to see her was to love her, love but her, and love her forever.” ~Robert Burns

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[may another woman never sing this song because of me, click to listen]

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Teddy Fikre

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