It’s become quite dicey to ask certain questions in this day and age. Like, “is that a woman or a man?” It’s enough to get you lynched. Or thrown in a deep dark well. Apparently it’s intolerant, bigoted. Because the definition of a woman or a man keeps morphing.
Gender, it turns out, is a social construct. So, if you aren’t sure of someone’s gender - and you have no ambition to spend a night in a dark well, it seems safer to just keep your question to yourself.
But I couldn’t keep quiet recently when I saw someone at Pinks Bar and restaurant at Muthaiga Country Club and asked my host, “is that a woman or a man?” They said, “that’s a man.” But then the lady at our table said, “No, it’s a woman.” Then someone else chimed in and said, “No way that's a woman.” In the end we all agreed it was a human-being.
We were seated in the garden and this riotous band called Top Classic Band was playing. They were quite good, especially when they started playing rhumba songs. The lead singer had boyish looks but with the voice of a winged- creature that fell from heaven.
Most of the chaps at the table were golfers so all they wanted to talk about was golf because when you start playing golf everything in your life, everything you are, is reduced to that tiny ball. I zoned out as I gave attention to my 15-year- old Dalwhinie.
The sky was cold and the air felt like menthol through your nostrils. I requested for a song called Nzele, by Madilu System - my brother's favourite rhumba song - and the band simply demolished it. (That’s a high compliment).
When the band finished playing their last song and started thanking guests, the ladies in our group, with a bit of gin in them, protested, summoning the poor band leader who they bullied into playing for another 10 or so minutes.
After the band left it became so quiet in my head even though the chatter around the table was loud. I had to sneak out. As I executed my Irish exit, I took a good look at the person but still wasn’t quite sure of their gender.