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The bedroom begins at the dining table
Every morning we both leave for work
My wife and I,
And return in the evening exhausted and moody;
Time for the househelp
To provide us services,
Serving us coffee or dinner
She has prepared, a wide smile
Perhaps meant for me,the head of the house,
Pasted in her lips,
Perhaps anticipating for my approval
About the fragrance of the food,
The deliciousness of the biriani;
Subsequently wins me over
While my wife, Wellimina ate
And snoozed off to slumberland.
How unfortunate to be
Invigorated by the food
And smile of a househelp!
Someone confided to me that
It is the romance of the stomach.
When a woman loses his man's stomach
Must be sure to have lost her man too;
[Can't confirm this to be true, or is it?]
But poor wife, she is as tired as I am,
Isn't it unfair to have her in the kitchen
Preparing me my favourite dishes
To tame my heart?
My African ettiqette says a woman is a woman
No matter her work or calibre or cadre;
Some things, whether natural or societal
Cannot change to fit feminist facets;
A woman must concern herself
With her husband's stomach;
A real woman never says,
"I ain't a kitchen mama".
A man loves to taste the sweet aroma
Of a meal fired by his wife's hand,
To witness the simple gestures
That reveal the woman in her;
He wants to witness the hand
That wields feminine power;for
The bedroom begins at the dining table.
