By: Denise N. Fyffe
A Rubix cube is much easier to solve than trying to understand why Jamaican men do some of the low down, dirty acts that cause females, emotional genocide; Gena considered.
Why? How could they? Are they possessed? Fi wah reason? Did their mothers abuse them emotionally? Those are just some of the questions women would like answered, when their hearts are grounded out like ganja weed in a black man’s palm.
Just last evening, she spent the night consoling her good friend Candy. Her boyfriend had proposed several months ago and they were planning their wedding. She was happy and positive about the future, but that was all before she saw a wedding picture of her fiance on Facebook, at the aisle, with another woman.
Smiling, happy; kissing another woman.
What cut deep, was that she had seen him just the morning before when he slept over. They weren’t broken up, they did not have a fight, and they were very happy and in love; or so she thought. Candy was devastated. Her life in turmoil. Her pride, ego, self esteem swimming in the sewers.
“I feel like shit Gena,” she cried. “How did I not see this coming? How could he do this to me? How could he love me and yet marry someone else? How could he sleep in my bed, drive my car and look me in the eye and say I love you. I don’t get it!”. Tears streamed down her face, soaking the faded cotton night shirt she had been wearing for three days now.
Gena had spent the night consoling and counseling Candy; cursing the very air her fiancé Damion breathed. She thought, the name Damion should have alerted her that he was the devil’s spawn. She had always been wary of him, but she never spoke out of turn or harshly about him because of Candy’s love for him.
Damion was younger than Candy, selfish and spoilt. Gena cooked all his meals, washed his clothes and even paid his cellphone bill. She ‘wifed’ him before he even deserved it. He stayed at Candy’s house most of the time and sometimes went home to his mother’s house. He had 3 kids, with two different women, which he rarely supported and was most times out of a job. Gena often had to listen to Candy complain about Damion texting his ex in the nights while she slept.
Now if that wasn’t a sign, then what was?
Gena thought about her romantic encounters with men – if you can call them that – she shook her head as each disappointing Act played out in front of her eyes.
Gena sighed in despair. She was certainly jaded, over it and felt hopeless.
The Jamaican landscape was void of any real gentlemen or suitable lifelong partners. She didn’t so much blame the men directly, but more so the culture and it was not getting better. From what dancehall artiste spit across the airwaves and the conversation of ‘boys’ on the roadside; Gena thought things were very hopeless indeed.
Caribbean men were doomed before they were born, while some do grow up to be outstanding, kind and reflect the attributes of proper Christian gentlemen a vast majority were players from birth. As over 80% percent of families were matriarchal, with no older male role model, boys are doomed to lean sway to any fad or trend. They walked around in packs like rabid dogs, with no moral compass to properly guide them. Societal peer pressure has ensured that they act more barbaric than chivalrous.
“It is a pity there are no convents in Jamaica, associated with my faith,” she said to no one in particular.
It seems this relationship jigsaw puzzle carries more pieces than the ark did animals. It seems like rocket science could possibly hit the pre-school curriculum and still women would be as lost as if they were in the Bermuda Triangle, when it comes to understanding the cheating and deceptive men that they love.
It seemed like a waste of time, because Jamaican men often make Jamaican women feel like camel dung. They use, abuse, ill-charm, ignore and bring about the ruin of good women in this world; often turning them into nags, bitches, emotional wrecks and whores. It is unfortunate that this should be the case.
Gena heard celibacy calling her name and she would gladly answer until her miracle bore fruit or pig’s fly, more than likely till the former happen.
Copyright © 2014 · All Rights Reserved · Denise N. Fyffe