As a lover of history, I can’t help but wonder what next now that the US has attacked Iran and removed its leader.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m only a consumer of history, and I possess neither the mind nor the will to influence anything that happens on this rock we call home. Hell, I can hardly influence much that happens in my own household as you’re about to hear.

History teaches us what could be. Modern life parallels history in more ways than one might think. When anyone mentions Burj Khalifah, I go, “Pshaw! Tell me about the pyramids.”

The other day, I saw a video of someone saying how Roman politicians used the Forum to sell propaganda, often focusing on style and rhetoric over substance. Social media anyone?

That’s how I know this war with Iran won’t end well. As things are, it’s already started having an effect on my life. Don’t let all this talk of history fool you. My wife Sgt Sophia is the smart one in the family. She’s also the one who introduced me to watching the news on a regular basis.

As we we’re listening to the news of the Iran invasion, I make the crucial mistake of voicing my opinion. “This won’t end well,” I say. “You can’t change people just because you want to.”

Sophia looks me in the eye the way she does right before I begin to regret stuff. “Really?” she says. “You don’t think it’s good that a despot has been ousted?”

“Okay, first of all, you have to explain what a despot is, and why you mispronounced outed.”

“Ousted means ‘removed’ and despot is a dictator.”

“You see, that’s why we can’t have a civilised argument. You use words regular people don’t know.”

“You’re no regular person, Makini. You’re one of a kind and when God made you, he broke the mould. What I’m saying is, I think it’s ripe time for regime change everywhere.”

I nod. “That I agree with. If that Trump fella is truly honest, he should have removed Putin first. Or even Netanyahu.”

Her eyes grow wide. “You think Netanyahu is a dictator?”

“You don’t? Anyone who orders death at his will is a dictator in my book.”

She rolls her eyes. “And that’s why you, too, should be ousted.”

“Me? Wait a minute. How do I figure in a conversation about dictators?”

“I’m talking about regime change. I think it’s about time women rebelled against the tyranny of men.”

And just like that, Trump’s war plants its roots inside my house.

“Again, I ask, how did we go from war in the Middle East to women toppling men?” I don’t know why I persist, but sometimes words come out of my mouth before they stop in the brain for evaluation. “Besides, dear, all men are not dictators at home. I bet even Putin’s wife makes him remove his shoes when he enters the house.”

“Putin is divorced, stupid.”

“Exactly my point. If I was the ruler of all of Russia and my wife made me remove my shoes before entering the house, I would divorce her. He probably has a line of women waiting outside his house every time he comes home.”

Only after I finish my sentence do I notice the scathing look on my wife’s face.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t… Wait, what did I say wrong?”

“Nothing, dear.” She shrugs. “But you just made my case for me. You’re on supper duty today. And I want something else, not your usual spaghetti.”