The shrew untamed, unashamed
On days when I ‘m facing writer’s block, I usually step into the balcony to have a glimpse of the world below and refresh my mind. Let me stop your wow moment right there, mine is not a magical view of silhouette pelicans against a backdrop of a beautiful African sunset. My immediate view is a bedroom window of a cohabiting couple.
Here is my predicament, this couple is way out of its honeymoon days (or they’ve never been there). The man is tall and slender with a receding hairline and a stifled voice. The lady is a rotund petite lady with a mouth that really needs a zipper. I don’t like eavesdropping on other people’s conversation but when I need that pure breeze to hit my skin, I can’t help it.
It’s dramatic to watch them argue, the way she flings her hands in the air and leaps to thrust him in the chest. It’s more like watching a native Indian tribal dance. This is the kind of picture that could go viral on Youtube but I restrain myself.
This woman is loud, way above the normal pitch range. Sometimes she hangs out her head through the window like she doesn’t mind broadcasting their bedroom banter. At this moment, you can see curtains being drawn, windows being opened and hear back doors creaking open (the official neighbourhood gossips cannot miss such juicy details).
This goes on for hours as she shreds the poor man’s ego into pieces. I am certain that she can do this to twenty men in the city square and still have the energy to go on.
She is a shrew, a woman with an inherent (almost sadistic) need to embarrass others in the full glare of the public- often aggressive without any qualms. She is the woman in the bus who won’t forgive you for accidentally brushing against her shoulder.
She is the neigbour who always competes with your alarm clock to wake you up with her overbearing morning tantrums. She is a public nuisance even on personal matters that need to be discussed behind closed doors.
She explodes even with the slightest provocation, rants on and on like she is high on some designer drug. When you breathe a sigh of relief thinking she’s cooling down, buckle up, she’s just warming up.
During the early centuries, being a shrew was considered a petty criminal offense in Europe and the colonial New England. The culprit was punished by being placed in a chair and then submerged into a river, pond or a muddy puddle. Simpler times for men if you ask me, but this never did tame the shrew now, did it?