This thing they call chivalry will be the death of us. Not only does it put immense stress on African tongues used to glide across consonants, but the action it describes is also one that should be included in the roundup of ‘1000 ways to die. As a man, there is an unspoken but very real expectation that when the sh*t hits the fan, your first priorities are your lady’s honour and safety, and you should be ready to roll up your sleeves and fight for them.

If, for example, you are out and about, sampling the nightlife with your sparsely-dressed madam, and some idle ruffian introduces his mjengo-hardened palm to madam’s buttocks, you are supposed to throw haymakers.

Or if you are escorting her through the streets of the town, and a fool with a penchant for stating the obvious announces to the entire Moi Avenue that your person is the spitting image of a rotund toad, then you have no option but to locate the fool and separate his jaw from his dentures.

You are, in short, meant to be on constant high alert for even a whiff of disrespect directed at your woman.

That includes any comments about her appearance, any language that sounds derogatory, inappropriate use of the sense of sight to document her personality, or basically anything that does not align with her position as the most magnificent of God’s efforts. It is because of this expectation, I imagine, that Nairobi gyms are full. Men are pouring buckets of sweat on weight machines every other day, running on pavements in lime green vests every evening, and folding themselves like Samsung earphones in the name of yoga. The goal? Is to look swollen in the upper torso and dodgy in the lower one.

I have been assuming people are blowing air into their muscles so that when they meet with those merciless Nairobi thieves, they can ‘talk like adults’. I was labouring under the impression that the people who live in gyms simply want to be ready for when Baba does not sweep Tharaka Nithi, and they need strength to yank railways off their tracks and javelin them back to China.

But alas, those swollen muscles are in defense of women, who have been loudly telling anyone who cares to listen that women are very capable of taking care of themselves, indeed, and it is an affront to the ideals of feminism to cast any one of them in the role of damsel in distress.

I would have to check, but I am fairly certain these are the same women who joked that they would be happy to step back into the kitchen until the whole Russia-Ukraine thing blows over.

Chivalry. A problematic notion if I ever saw one.

What if I am not Mohamed Ali? What if I cannot float like a butterfly unless I imbibe a 47% concentration? What if I only sting like a bee when someone challenges me to mchongoano? What am I supposed to do when I find myself in one of those “My boyfriend is not afraid of you” situations?

I would not throw hands even on my own behalf. Someone once told me, as I was cat-walking in town, that they thought I was a lady because of my ‘convincing childbearing hips’. Not only did that comment end my brief romance with skinny jeans, it also made me laugh. Instead of challenging the man to fight to the death.

How then, am I meant to swing in the name of love? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I am indeed Mohamed Ali. I have responded to an affront to my lady’s honour with a quick uppercut and a liver shot, and the perpetrator lies, discombobulated, in a heap. What am I meant to do about the perception of violence that will follow me for the rest of my life?

That same woman will tell everyone I choked her when we disagree, and they will remember the whimpering insulter and say, yes, that sounds about right. And what if that fella decides to drag me in front of a magistrate, who agrees that I should pick on people my own size, and Kamiti happens to be full of them?

So, the next time your lady gets into a shouting match with a tout, and gives you a look to suggest you should turn into Stone Cold Steve Austin, please remind her that what men can do women can do better.