Why Girls Should Celebrate Young Men’s Resistance to Commitment


Yes, I know how it sounds. Another write-up by a male chauvinist who is afraid of commitment and therefore seeks to justify his fear through illogical rationale.

Except that no illogical rationale shall be used here, nor will fear drive this discussion.

This is a piece written by a male of 30 or so who has accepted his lack of desire for early commitment (i.e. permanent romantic partnership of any sort), where “early” means “before the age of 40 or so”.

“Good men are hard to find”, is the general complaint lately. In fact, some people, as exemplified by a certain lady whom I follow on Facebook (details available on request), have even gone to lengths of encouraging sharing of these scarce “good men”. It is easy to dismiss these people as good-for-nothing home-wreckers.

But…are they?

It is a fact that our society has undergone rapid change in terms of freedom of sexual orientation and the expression thereof in the last decade or two. In addition to “normal” men (“normal” in the traditional sense), now termed “straight” or “heterosexual”, we have homosexual (“gays”) and bisexuals (basically every man who is either married to a lady or has a biological child conceived via natural routes, but which man occasionally “strays” to holding hands with another man).

What this results in is a factual reduction of men who are available to women. I will not discuss statistics from studies conducted by the University of Minnesota or its peers. Logic only shall rule in this discussion. Oryt.

Then of course we have our era of the “hustler”. The guy who practices the 2Pacalypse “M.O.B” doctrine, i.e. “money over bitches”. This guy gets aroused by money first, oestrogen later.

Then of course we have the incarcerated. These tend to stay locked in for a minute. Remember the guys who robbed the SABC journalists on camera? They each got 15 years. Robbery is the typical SA crime, so plenty of young men spend their first 10 to 15 years after attaining majority status, in jail.

So after gays, bisexuals, hustlers and convicts, we have a significantly reduced number of men in our society as compared to ladies. You may be thinking, hey, but ladies also have lesbians, bisexuals, hustlers and convicts. True. However, reason tells me that there is a significantly lower number of such as compared to men. Again, logic only shall rule the day, so we shall accept this logical conclusion (cos frankly, I’m lazy to google stats, so…).

Then we have the unemployed youth.

Then we have the nyaopes (druggies).

Then we have the already married, and happily so according to their Facebook posts.

The final number makes a sad unbalanced ratio of men to women available for marriage.

That final number is the number that is accused of being unmanly. “The men of today are afraid of marriage”, girls wail. “They will date you, cheat on you, break your heart, make babies with other girls, re-break your heart, love you, disrespect you, buy you trinkets, take you to clubs, make love to you – and at the end of the day never marry you. You end up marrying some other guy that you dated for a month, but you would have dated that other fucker for decades!”


This final number of men (let us call these final men the “eligible bachs”) does not want to do the traditionally honoured thing of stepping up and marrying you as quickly as you would like. They baulk, trip and stall when the altar is mentioned.

However, consider the alternative. Imagine if each of these eligible bachs selected one girl and married them as soon as the girls liked. Imagine if the bachs never strayed, never cheated – just did their wives, klaar. What then?

Let me tell you.

Girls would starve out there. There would be zero booty calls, zero clandestine dates, zero second wives, zero baby daddies, and zero people to bring drama to. Ladies – you would starve.

Right now it seems bad that you enjoy men until you maybe get to 50, then because you are unmarried, you then spend the rest of your life alone. However, you do at least get to enjoy men until then, because they are unshackled and can be with you without much harm being done. If the men committed to one girl, plenty of you would need to enlist the services of your gay friends or spike married men’s drinks to at least get some human attention.

You would enjoy that, would you not? Yes, I’m sure you would.

All I is sayin’ is, by men defaulting from doing the honoured thing, ladies get more time to enjoy themselves – you get opportunity. If you do get to 50 without someone marrying you, then tough luck, at least you had 30 or so years of action.

However, I think that fate will favour you. I think that the situation is normalizing. Hustlers are getting old as well, so be it may work out that when the hustler eventually tires at 40, you are there at 30, sweet 30, ready to cradle his tired head. Or when the convict eventually gets released at 45, you are there at 35 or 40, sweet, fresh and ready to give him money, food, kids and a shopping trip to Dubai in exchange for his surname.

Meanwhile, you frolick and make money.

Is that not what life is about anyways?


A youth’s question to the married men of this world



Wondering how many musings start with that expression,

Surprise, shock at one’s own emotional construction

When foundation builds different walls, different houses, a different residence

When foundation never changes, and a young man cannot fathom

Which house to build, which one to make his permanent place of abode


At twenty eight years of age, heart still as fluttering as a swallow’s wings

A glance equal to a crush, and for that day his heart is broken

Seeing a flower in bloom, promise of the sweetest nectar

Seeing the flower sway this way, then shortly disappear from sight

Feeling heartstrings constrict, there we go,  tomorrow maybe, see her I might


Who painted the moon black, she may ask of the world

Who tinted the sea red, he may ask of his Maker

Who filled up the sun with cold, they may ask of psychics

My query is not as vexing, no, not a quarter as complicated

Why one heart, one body, when heart and body respond to so numerous calls?


Who made it a rule that one foundation shall only sit one house

What happens when a youth wants a different building, on the same foundation

Who do we call, when a youth wants more than a single design, as his fancy calls

When youth says, keep this that you have, it is good

But get that other that you do not have, for itself also, is good


Why does mankind have to grow, choose a single being out of all womankind, and settle

Settle…settle…settle for that one single person?

Mankind is impressionable, everyday mankind gravitates towards various people

Why settle for one being, and imprison one’s body forever?

Why enslave, why chain one’s self in fetters, never to be free again?


This question shall I pose to married men of the world, you MUST have a secret!

Hide it not from a youth willing to achieve freedom, if freedom indeed does come with links of steel

For at every traffic stop sign, I see a lover; at every turn I see a soulmate

Why is it that these lovely creatures are not all meant for me?

Why is it that I still fall in love every second minute, at twenty-eight, like I used to, at fifteen?

Ooops! I popped your seal, I hope you don’t mind





Meet Shoes. Shoes is a hypothetical human being. Every weekend, after brunch, Shoes likes to go to the hypothetical shops and buy a six-pack of hypothetical beer. Windhoek draught. For this alcoholic purpose he likes to walk instead of drive to the shops, mainly to place himself in suspense. Such suspense starts during breakfast as he anticipates the taste of the first sip of the contemplated beer. The suspense continues as he walks to the shops, and is prolonged as he walks slowly back, the saliva going on a gargerious ram-page in his mouth while he strolls leisurely, taking some sort of perverse satisfaction in frustrating the atavistic urges within his very own self; to a point where he feels like he may just burst asunder with want. The beer is never opened until he has positioned himself comfortably in front of the telly. All this is part of the ritual; every weekend it’s the same.




See Shoes reach for the beer can in front of him. See his hand clench around the cylindrical body of the can while the other hand automatically reaches for the aluminium lever on the seal. Hear the metallic crack! of the seal being broken. Feel that first sharp bite of the cold fermented hops and barley as it sinks its teeth onto tongue and slowly lets go, as Shoes, our mythical creature, gives a satisfied grunt, rolls the beverage along his most notoriously abused tongue and finally sends the resulting confusio racing down his parched gullet, into his stomach. This routine is as close to religion as one can get, because it’s a combination of faith, hope and love; the three pillars upon which most religions are built.




Meet Lulu. Lulu is a hypothetical lady whose role in the story is to be Shoes’s girlfriend.


Scenario: It’s a typical weekend, and our hero has had breakfast, walked to and from the shops, and has entered the house, beer in hand. He puts his beer onto the table and starts preparing the couch for the grand purpose of accommodating his ample, scantily exercised bottom. Done adjusting the cushions, he deposits himself on the regal couch, reaches for his beer, only to find that – OMG!! While he was busy fiddling with the cushions, Lulu broke the seal open and poured the beer into a glass! A glass!!


Do we blame our hero as he storms off in a fit of rage? Do we blame him as he sulks for days, angry at his woman because of the gross insensitivity that she has displayed – the awful insensitivity of being so considerate as to open a beer can for him (robbing him of the pleasure) and kindly adding salt to an already open wound by pouring the beverage into a glass. Goodness me, a glass!


That draws us to the moral of the story. Yes, there is a moral to this heart-breaking story and here it is:


Some people have the most peculiar habits. Most of us, as “normal people”, cannot even begin to understand why they do what they do. Their valuations of what constitutes “the meaning of life” are so removed from what you and me see as  normal, that we cannot help but think that we must correct their obvious insanity. Their perceptions of life vary from ours by a long, long shot. What we fail to grasp is that it is that variance that renders this species of mammal superior to every other, not only in conscious thought, but in the subconscious, in emotions, in spirit, in actions.




Shoes, though an abstract man whose lifespan will probably be equal to that of this article, may represent each individual on the face of the earth. For Lulu to fully grasp why, out of all the good things in life, Shoes would be satisfied with cracking open his own beer-seal and getting the first sip from a can, would constitute a miracle surpassing turning water into wine. To an observer, the importance of the proper completion of the regular ritual could be lost. Yet it is what fulfills the life of the said mythical creature: it is what makes him feel that indeed, a weekend was well-spent.


One would just imagine how life would change if we all accepted those tiny little peculiarities on the part of others, and respected them. For one, Lee Rigby could still be alive today. 



His attackers would have respected his own little peculiarity – to be a drummer boy in an army. Then of course we can escalate the argument to say that in such a perfectly tolerant world, the “civilised” would not have colonised the “savages”, countries would not have fought each other, Hitler would not have murdered the Jews and Stalin would have accepted Trotsky as a worthy competitor deserving respect, not persecution. Oh yes, and we as Africans would accept our leaders’ tiny little peculiarity of desiring eternal reign or embezzling a few dollars out of the national coffers! Such examples demonstrate that the theory of tolerance does fail sometimes. There are limits as to the kind of peculiarities that would generally be found acceptable to society.


As a person I can recall a few situations where I got annoyed by someone else’s apparent eccentricity, vanity, showing-off or aloofness. I find myself remembering names that I have christened people with; snob, psycho, weirdo, stupid, serial-killer. I can also recall the stigma that came with such name-calling. I can see the behavior of other people towards the victims, changing as the name gained popularity. If I think really hard I can also see the stigma-bearing brother/sister changing, subconsciously, to conform to the name, and eventually becoming enveloped snugly by the name. At the end, I see the name making the man, and such a person becoming a social outcast just because I, bully of bullies, would not understand their own unique take of life.


All I’m saying is,: let us sometimes let them break their own seals. It won’t hurt anyone, will it?


Great weekend y’all and remember to break those seals responsibly 😉