Inside the Bean: Namibia’s Female Bean

As I promised last week, ladies, let’s look at the female bean and see what’s eating it from within.

It’s a little unfair to drag the gents through the bean patch without giving you your share of the harvest.

Men were crying that I roasted them too much. Some women were clapping hands like they had finally found their new Bible.

Well, it’s your turn.

The same proverb applies to you: That which eats the bean must be inside the bean. Don’t worry, I will leave space for you to comment “men are trash” after reading, but first, let’s deal with that which chows your own bean.

Let’s start with this modern love you like to brand as ‘girlfriend allowance’. No allowance, no love? Is that not simply the tenderpreneurship version of prostitution? You shout “independent woman” at every braai, but by month-end you are there, lips sharpened like a Staedtler HB pencil, waiting for airtime and rent money.

The bean theory says it’s not men making you dependent, no. It’s something gnawing at your own bean, whispering that being kept is the same as being loved.

And then there is the project mentality.

You knew the first day he ‘jokingly’ slapped you or threatened to ‘slap the saliva out of your big mouth’ that this man was built like a government tender: unstable, overpriced and not worth the paperwork. But no, you decided he was your personal community project.

“I will change him.”

Sister, you can’t even change your own hairline. How are you changing a man who already has something eating his bean from the inside?

The proverb strikes again: That which feeds inside your bean is providing fertiliser for his violent self.

Here’s another one. When Petrus walked up to you at the greasy mechanic workshop, wiping oil off his face, you spat on the ground and said, “You are not my type”. Now, years later, you finally got your “type”. You are sharing him with five other of your type. Suddenly, Petrus doesn’t look so bad with his black hands and blue overalls, does he?

The bean proverb says the hunger for fake lifestyles is inside your bean. Don’t blame Instagram’s slay queens. Tala mekunde (look inside the bean).

And then there’s the ‘pull her down’ syndrome. Men stab each other in shebeens, yes. But women? You assassinate each other’s reputations with surgical precision. You’ll support a man before you clap for a fellow woman. Your friend opens a small business, you say, “Haibo, who will even buy those things?” Mind you, ‘haibo’ is not even a Namibian.

Where is the sisterhood gang you preach about during Women’s Day speeches? The bean is feasting from within, chewing through your solidarity until fake smiles and borrowed wigs are all that’s left.

Yes, borrowed. Don’t tell me you didn’t know there is a place where you can rent a wig in Windhoek. Just like Rent a Friend and Rent a Life, you, my sisters, are the market.

Equality is good. The Constitution says so.

But lately it’s starting to look more like a war against men. You shout “empowerment” so loudly that even your own sons are beginning to wonder if they should apologise for being born male. But wait, aren’t these the same boys you raised? If the men are trash, are you the trash collectors?

If Lucifer turned out like that, does God not share some of the blame? The bean proverb whispers: if you birthed them, the problem came from inside your bean.

Another worm eating the female bean is obsession with appearances.

If half the time and money spent on wigs, eyelashes and skin creams went into land ownership, women would own the whole country by now. Instead, Oshakati salons are full every Saturday with women sacrificing whole cows just to glue Brazilian hair to Namibian heads.

Ladies, don’t get me wrong. I’m not here to cancel you. You are the ones lobbying for Microsoft to add a ‘Cancel’ button on the keyboard next to ‘Delete’.

The worms are local, they are stubborn and they are multiplying.

So here’s my suggestion: a full-scale National Bean Infestation State of Emergency. Bring the workshops, sermons, exorcisms, even those loud prayer crusades at Sam Nujoma Stadium. Maybe then, when we admit both beans are compromised, we can finally cook something decent as a country.

Until then, let’s laugh at ourselves. Because crying won’t stop the bean worms from chewing.

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