by Ucheoma Onwutuebe

He should be a liberal man.  In simpler terms, he should possess a ‘chop-my-money’ mentality.

I would begin with what he wouldn’t be.

No metrosexual. There are things I would not share with my man. My relaxer, my nail hardener, my lip gloss. There is only one woman between us and it’s not him. All I require is his cleanliness: let the shirt be crisp and the pants be ironed; let his hair lie low and his breath be fresh. Can his nails be well manicured? Can he wear cologne and can he please shine his shoes? These would suffice, my darling, thank you very much. Leave the titivating and fusing over a pimple and pouting in front of the mirror for me. That way, we would not suffer any confusion when we are out in public and another man ogles and winks. I want to know who he is ogling and winking at: my man or I?

He’d be no burgeoning artist of any kind in music, in writing, in photography or in arts.

I have met no vainer people than young artists (of which I am chief). They hug the spotlight and are unwilling to share their little fame. I can’t stand the gaudiness of an upcoming artiste and  the forceful vocabulary of the young writer (don’t sweat it, you mustn’t sound like Soyinka). I can’t stand the misfiring jokes of the new comedian when we are out on a date and I can’t stand the touchiness of the young artist who thinks it’s a mortal sin that I don’t like his painting. I have my own vanity to deal with and I can’t bear the brunt of another’s.

But supposing he has a stint with the arts, say the literati, let him be a writer gone past the beginner’s stage, who would help bring me crash-landing to earth when I get lost in the thoughts that I am the best thing to happen to the literary world since Shakespeare. That way, he would save me cost of finding an editor,by calling shoddy work what it is: shoddy work. Or he could be a devoted lover of the written word without knowing a fig about how to string words together, just as I get goose bumps listening to good music without knowing the hows. Let him be of the school of thought that  writers should be the next beings to be revered after spirits. That kind of guy that introduces you with awe in his eyes, “Do you know my chick is a writer? Like seriously, she writes.”

Now here comes what he should be.

Let him be a jealous man. Jealousy here doesn’t indicate over-possessiveness. No, don’t put up a fist fight over me in public. But let him notice I have been grinning ever since I got a call from that former class mate. Notice my glee when I am about to have a sleep-over with the girls. Notice the guys flirting shamelessly. Don’t notice and keep mum. Notice and vocalize. Nothing turns me off than a nonchalant lover.

He should be a liberal man.  In simpler terms, he should possess a ‘chop-my-money’ mentality. I am no leech but I am among millions of women world over who enjoy being lavished on while still feeling the warmth of their own money in their pocket. You are my man, aren’t you? I am not asking you to hold-up a bank. If you get caught, I will deny you more than three times. All I ask is, with the much you have, don’t hoard. Wasn’t I sitting quietly at my corner and you came professing your interest? Show yourself liberal and I’d be simply devoted to you.

Let him be a praying man. The beauties and virtues of a praying woman have been so extolled. But I too want a praying man, so that when I am too tired to importune deity, all I have to do is throw my legs on him and ‘tap anointing’ while he kneels by the bedside.

Age is not a factor to fuss about. If he is my mate, OK. Older? Beautiful. But younger? Well, well, well.  I am too proud to be a cougar and I cannot stand the atmosphere of uncertainty surrounding them, (Demi Moore as case study). But if it comes with benefits, (as in Janet Jackson’s case), no qualms.

So in return what do I have to offer? I shall do well to inform him now that I am not endowed. Endowed in the sense of our artistes and how they portray ‘endowments’ in their music videos. I am proudly unendowed.  All I can brag of is that I am 5’5 with a remarkable face and well chiseled dentition.  But do not be discouraged; what I lack in size, I make up for in wit and grace. And as time flies, grace becomes more endearing, wit becomes wisdom. But for endowment, you cannot know and should not bother. Tide and market come and go and so shall endowments.

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