We’ve had this conversation three hundred times now. Well, I’ve been ranting and you’ve been kind enough to listen. For that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The first time we met, I was a struggling new recruit into the crime-fighting family. I’m no veteran by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve sunk my teeth pretty deeply into the bread of life. I even got married (common-law only, though it is) to the most beautiful woman in the world.

Police work hasn’t changed much, although recent events have gotten us hated a little more. There are still some of us who are good, though, some who still wish and strive to treat those we are responsible for as human. I’ve gotten older, but when I mention this to people in their fifties and sixties, they give me the eye. I might still be in my twenties but I tire faster now chasing the likes of Jamo and Stevo (Blasted early-20-somethings!).

Marriage… Now that’s a different pot of ugali. Whoever said it has its highs and lows must have been a bachelor. The person I believe came closest was the one who said marriage is like a public toilet; those waiting outside are desperate to get in and those inside are desperate to come out. It’s necessary but stinky.

The only way I know ours working is because we’re still together. If someone knows where a guy can take marriage lessons, please drop me a hint. And I don’t mean counsellors. The last one we tried talking to (a church elder, no less) told Sophia, my wife, that she could do better. That night when I prayed, I told God the same.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Sophia asks.

We’re knee-deep in floodwater that poured into the house overnight, ruining almost all our meagre possessions. We’ve been trying to scoop it out into the corridor since morning. My back hurts, my legs are numb and every time I bend to scoop water into the bucket, I feel like I am about to drown. My fear of water is back with a big bang, and Sophia isn’t making it easier by teasing me about it.

“What do you mean?” I ask, because I’m a man and we ask stupid questions.

“Like you want to drown me in this water. Is it because I made you make supper last night?”

“No, dear. I was thinking how much I love you.”

She scowls. “And that’s the face you make when in love? Lord have mercy. How did I ever agree to marry you?”

“First of all, I’m irresistible. Second of all, it’s clear the Lord wasn’t happy with you making me cook.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. How else do you explain this flood? Remember the time he dropped that great flood in the Bible? He wasn’t happy, Sophia. It never rains like this when He’s happy.”

Arms akimbo, she slits her eyes. “So, dear husband, you are saying the reason the country is flooding is because God is mad at me? He’s not concerned that thousands are dying in Palestine, or that a new war just broke out in the Middle East, or that one of His creations is ruining His other creation?”

“Isn’t that what I just said? Women who make men cook are ruining them.”

“Not that, stupid. I’m talking about global warming. None of those things bother the Lord but Makini cooking — attempting to cook — ugali vexes him so much that he sends floods?”

“How would I know? He works in mysterious ways.”