No, this isn’t one of those posts.
I like cars. I don’t know much about them.
Except that I want a burgundy old-school volkswagen beetle with original V-dub wheelcaps, raised bigfoot wheels, a padded, silenced subaru engine and … the name Sasha if it’s a boy. But no, I don’t know much about cars.
Except that mine will be preeeeetty. And that the Mercedes mini hatchback 205 looks like a Zinjathropus. It looks like the Stig went and drove into a wall and the back wheels tipped forward smashing the front and bumper into said wall and…like I said, I don’t know much about cars.
But one thing has always jazzed me. And feminists, you can take all the shots you like, I’m armed. There’s something about a girl driving her man’s car.
Not just any girl. I mean the nice, sweet, submissive types who look all harmless and helpless and ‘honey-please-open-this-jam-jar-for-me’ types. thoe girls. There is something about them driving their men’s cars.
Now I know that the average male driver will bully any woman on the road. And that the average person will assume that any woman driving is either in her husband’s or daddy’s wheels, even if the woman is Martha Karua or Joy Mboya. Forget us independent women and our bill-paying and gyropracting [no, I don’t know what that means, it just seems like a really cool word]. Put us on the road in a car and we automatically get branded us some old man’s mistress. Especially if the car is big, and has four wheel[drive]s. It’s quite annoying really.
Yet, ironically, when I see the women that actually are driving their men’s cars, I get jazzed. Why?
Let me tell you about my cousin. She’s lovely. Five foot two and feisty. Growing up, she could outrun, outsmart, outcook, and out-talk me, even though I was a city kid and she was raised in shags. Or maybe because I was a city kid and she was raised in shags.
She was different from my other cuzos. She was ambitious. She wanted things. And she adapted well to the city. She hasn’t lost her root – when she speaks you can still tell where she’s from. I don’t mean that she mixes her ‘s’ and ‘h’-es – her english is impeccable, as is her mothertongue. But the way she uses the language, you can tell she is Nyabungu. Yes hun, that is a place name, it is not a direct translation.
So, since she was raised in the … hukos, she knows how to treat a man. She will smile, submit, make home, be a good wife and mother. And she is. Her man is large and sweet and soft-spoken, and they are absolutely adorable together.
Submitting to a man does not necessarily mean demeaning yourself, or losing your voice. She’s quite the ball of energy, and I love to watch their playful banter. But she always put him there, in front, while she follows. She always lets him lead. And in return, he lets her drive his car.
There are two things for me that signify true love; when a man watches you dance and gets that look in his eye like ‘you’re amazing’. Note that said look is very different from a sometimes mistaken look given to dancing girls at Apple Bees.
The second sign for me is when the boy gives you his car keys. That for me says more than diamonds, pearls, dowry cows, or custodial rights to the remote.
This morning, my giggly neighbour was driving her man’s car. I was sitting at the schoolbus-stop looking all independent-woman-getting-my-baby-ready-for-school, when here comes the madam, wearing some uncharacteristically long granny clothes she had hastily thrown on. She hadn’t fixed her hair or make-up yet, and looked positively ordinary. And she was driving her Baby’s car. Apparently, the car was blocking the entrance and Manno was still half asleep, so he asked girlie to move the car.
I was totally floored. First I was jazzed she could drive. Sio kwa ubaya, but all I’ve seen of her is giggly, buxom, walking on her tippy toes, flinging around her dainty nails, clacking pretty spiked heels and looking helplessly frail and gorgeous. So for Manno to trust this frail little creature with his treasured vehicle, for me, that is love. Or a really good driving instructor.
Back to Cuzo. I went to visit her once, and she picked me up in hubby’s car. She was timid, and he had told her to pick us up coz she needs practise, and confidence. I was so proud of her, my little homegrown cousin driving all over town when me, city girl, born and bred, can barely find the clutch button.
Had you going there for asecond, didn’t I? 😀
Anyway, we got to a tricky corner where some idiot truck driver blocked her in, and within seconds, there was jam pile-up. What does Cousin do? She gets out and looks helplessly at the car. I have GOT to learn how to pull that ‘save me’ look. Wouldn’t you know it, some guy got out of his car, walked up to her, chatted for some seconds, got into her car [with me in it] moved her out of the tricky corner, and held the door open for her while she got back in and we went on our way.
Now, first, said guy had dreads, like me. Yet he never said one word to me. No rasta brotherhood here. **pout** Second, I would no-way-no-how let some stranger into my car. What if he drove off with it?
Third, I am a proud child. I would have stayed in that car struggling and ramming every which way but down before I asked for help. Though technically, she didn’t ask, he offered. And fourth, when we got home and told hubby the story, he looked at his little wife with those adoring eyes, laughed … and told her to go park the car. He gave her back the keys!!
So, like I said, there’s something about a girl driving her man’s car…