To be honest, I don’t understand how some people have five, six children. My common-law wife and I are expecting our first and it’s already a problem. The first fight came as soon as we learnt she was pregnant. I want a girl so I can name her after my mother. At first, Sgt Sophia seemed to go along with this. Then high school girls began misbehaving and torching their dorms.

“I want a boy,” she declared.

“They’re behaving just as badly,” I contended.

“It’s my baby and I decide what we have.”

I know that’s such a ridiculous thing to say, but that’s not the only ludicrous thing to happen with this pregnancy. She has such distinct mood swings, I’ve given them names.

There’s Miss Rude. Every sentence is a personal attack. “You’re breathing too loudly. Did you choose that shirt on purpose?”

Captain Crybaby. She gets emotional about everything. The other day I left a single biscuit in a packet and she started crying. I asked what the problem was. “But it’s so lonely,” she said.

General Grumpy is permanently offended. “Why is the sun so bright? Who invented Mondays?”

And of course there is Madam Appetite. She’ll eat anything, except for meat. There will no longer be meat stew, soup or anything that smells like meat.

And then you know what? She has cravings, which is normal, although sometimes she’ll want the exact opposite of what she asked for. The other day she asked for pizza. Pizza! I’ve never seen one with my naked eyes. I only see it in movies and at first I thought it was fictional. Like the Big Kahuna Burger in Pulp Fiction. Where the hell am I supposed to get it?

Then she woke me the other day saying she craved the smell of washing powder. I mean, come now. Also, we didn’t have any in the house. I had to climb on a boda, ride to Jiji Kubwa where shops stay open late and get washing powder.

“She’s messing with you,” the boda rider said laughing. “But I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you. My wife said she wanted something called pickles dipped in peanut butter.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Nothing. I know what peanut butter is. There’s nothing called pickles. Have you ever heard of it?”

Now with the World Cup afoot, I’ve come up with a way of discouraging her from wanting a boy. I know we can’t control the outcome, but for some reason, it’s important.

“I want a boy, too,” I said.

“Really?” She looked so happy, I regretted what I had to say next.

“Yes, dear. We’ll have the best name for him.”

“Oh, yes. Something strong like Evander or Hudson.”

“Or, just hear me out, what about a name with true history.”

“You mean like Kimathi? No one in our family has that name.”

“Think deeper, farther. I was thinking we call him Messi Ronaldo Fernandes. That’s a beautiful name with all sorts of advantages.”

She punched me in the arm. “Like what?”

“First of all, he most likely would grow up to be a professional baller and make us loads of money. Secondly, no one would even know what country he’s from. He’ll travel so easily all over the world.”

That’s when she started crying again.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Don’t you like the name?”

“Nooo! You want my baby to travel all over the world and leave me. I’ll be so lonely. Waaah!”

Please, somebody save me.