His name is Whiskers. He will return to the house with us
from Ghana. He is peak brown masculinity, personified and encapsulated
within this small, yet mighty form
that will remind me of Fuad, when Fuad is not home
and provide safe, mesmerising delight for my skin. Softer than my own heart to the touch.
That's it. Whiskers is really not very much,
if you attach a market value to him. We got him for 99 cedis
and not on a whim; there was sustained deliberation
about whether he would fit in, and what we should name him
and whether without Whiskers, we would be, sadly, far less masculine.
And this last was stinging. It required a deep examination of the values within:
would Whiskers also embark on a post-capitalist millennial exploration of Anthropocenic survivor's guilt alongside us? Would he win
the hearts of those who need to hear this? That
it is fucking okay for two grown men to buy a very soft and very inviting tiger cushion,
and to carry it around Accra, and later Addis Ababa, and later Singapore in nuanced pride and respect? That it is not a sin
to love the tangle of gentler things? To open one's heart with compassion
and regale in
the way having something so safe to hug
would have probably done it in
for most of the combatants of both World Wars,
and also whoever has the guts and malevolence to actually enjoy hanging people at Changi Prison?
Whiskers is an inanimate entity.
And yet even he recognises
that what is really wrong with masculinity sometimes
is that no one tells us that cuddling
is the apex of sentient life.
You want to be an apex predator?
Learn exactly where your biceps should go
and where to tuck in your chin
so that in the end, your whole smellful body really does come to rest
ever so lovingly inside your own skin.
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