Hell hath no fury…

Sophia is insecure and agitated after conman ruined her face

In Summary

• A baffled Makini has to fight for the right to get back on his wife's good books


They say that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But I’ve come to learn that as much fury doth come from a woman with a face ruined. There has been no peace in my household since Sgt Sophia applied a concoction on her face that turned it black and broke out pimples as fat as a toad’s.

It was supposed to make us rich, that concoction, with Sophia as the sole distributor of the new facial mud and yours truly the faithful husband and custodian of the ensuing millions. We are not only nowhere close to being rich, we’re now poorer than we were before since she used up our spending money to start the venture.

“I’m going to get that bastard,” she declares, mourning her lost face in front of a mirror. “And when I do, he’ll rue the day he was born.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t spend so much time before the mirror?” I suggest. “It will only make you sadder, staring into it like that.”

She plants her arms akimbo and drills into my soul with her eyes. “Is this funny to you?”

Don’t ask me what part of my statement was a joke because I, too, have no clue. But that’s how my day progresses from then on.

“What would you like for breakfast, dear?” I ask her.

She bares her teeth in a frightening fake smile. “Why don’t you make me a nice large bowl of locusts and bees?”

I’m genuinely baffled. “Why would you say that, honey?”

“Isn’t that what toads eat? You think I look like a fat toad, don’t you?”

Dear reader, I’m aware I used that simile above, but I swear I never used those words to the face of my common-law wife. And that’s another thing I’ve come to learn about irate women. They develop another sense that enables them to read men’s minds.

Come lunch time and I am well educated on the ways of the mad woman. So, I eschew my earlier mistake and prepare Sophia’s favourite meal: spaghetti and minced meat.

“Dear Lord,” she mourns.

“What is it, dear?” I ask, concerned. “Is it not to your liking?”

“I see why it would make sense to you to feed be a tonne of carbs. My face is ruined, so why not ruin my figure, too? That way I’ll be a nice round fat Fiona. Isn’t that so, Shrek?”

“Spaghetti has always been your favourite,” I insist. “Not once did you ever complain of getting fat.”

“So, you’re saying I’m fat?”

“No, dear. Not at all. I’m saying you look as beautiful to me as you were the day I fell in love with you.”

She walks up and shoves her face into mine. “Really, Makini? Really? The day you fell in love with me, my face was black and bloated?”

I have to change tack if I’m to get out of this with my skin intact. “It’s not what’s on the outside that matters. Beauty is on the inside.”

“Uuui!” she screams. “Do you hear that, Jiji Ndogo? Now my so-called husband thinks I’m ugly. Oh, what does my hubby think of me? Let me count the ways. I’m fat, as black as night and my face resembles that of an amphibian. But I shouldn’t fret because I am beautiful on the inside.”

“Honey, you are putting words in my mouth,” I protest.

“You should feel lucky that’s all I’m putting in your mouth. Next it will be my foot.”

“But why?”

“Because any husband worth his salt should be out there beating that stupid salesman to a pulp.”

You heard her. I have a fight to attend.

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