Alfred Dawes | Tek yuh bun and gwaan!

“Call me Fatty.” I could tell her story but she wanted a name change. Hers is the wickedest bun story I ever heard.

At the time, she was living with her baby father in the house they had bought together. Often, her best friend would come over and spend the night. They were that close.

When she had morning sickness, it was her friend who cleaned up the vomit with her bare hands. She suspected that her baby father was giving her bun and would often vent to her. When he left of the house or arrived home late at night, it was she who Fatty called to complain. She was always there for Fatty. And Fatty, in turn, was there for her.

When she got pregnant, it was Fatty who lent her money for the abortion. She never asked who it was who had got her pregnant. So when someone told Fatty that it was her friend that her man was sleeping with, she refused to believe it.

After all, when he had come home one night with a hickey on his neck, she had offered to help Fatty beat him because enough was enough. The friend’s anger at the hickey would later be explained by the fact that it was put there by a third woman. It would also come out that Fatty’s man and best friend did their fooling around in the marital home, guided by her snoring.

Fatty went home bawling that day after learning of the betrayal. When he asked what was wrong, she said that the clinic called her and told her she had AIDS, so it must have been him who gave it to her foolish, faithful self. He denied it and started to bawl, too.

When she told her friend, she joined the bawling. When Fatty asked why she was so upset, she said she felt sorry for her so till.

“Don’t worry. Nobody has AIDS. I know it was you sleeping with him,” Fatty told her.

Her friend was remorseful. She never meant to do it, etc, etc.

Her man later admitted it when confronted with the friend’s confession.

It was done.

Nobody could believe Fatty never knew all along. On the road, he had been saluted as a gyalist because he was living with two women.

Fatty felt foolish, hurt, betrayed, angry, hopeless. She moved out with the children. Left everything behind and started life over as a single mother in a rented house.

Today, she has her own house, car, new job, and side hustle. Most of all, she is happy.

ANGER AND BRUISED EGO

That is one of the worst bun stories I ever heard.

Mine pales in comparison even though at the time, it felt like the end of the world for me. The girl said she was going to the country to look for her mother and went to Ochi with her ex. Her phone had no charge because the charger had been left in Kingston.

When I found out, I could not go to school for two weeks! I lay in bed playing ‘Age of Empires’ and watching TV for the entire time in my dorm room.

Some people lose weight when they get bun. I lost weight and height. I felt smaller as a man. My ego was bruised, in addition to the range of emotions felt by Fatty.

Bun is not nice. You go through grief, but it’s worse than death because you add anger and damaged egos to the pain. If you can’t handle bun, you will go mad.

As the spate of killings of women by their lovers dominated the news cycle, a friend and I were discussing the prominent role of alleged bun and relationships ending in these crimes of passion. Although one has to be careful of rumours, the word was that the men in many of the killings just couldn’t deal with the thought of bun.

A recent story on a murder attempt involved the attacker returning home and chopping his girlfriend repeatedly because he was being teased that he had a jacket.

Is it the toxic male ego, or is it that these men never got bun early in life to develop coping mechanisms? They can’t handle the emotional tornado that follows allegations of bun, and they lose their minds, violently taking it out on the women. If Fatty was a man, would you be reading his story here, or would it have made the news?

A COMMON THING

The truth is, bun is more common than you think. Some say that women give bun hotter than men. Why? Because when a man goes outside, he is only attracted to the physical without any emotions attached. Women, on the other hand, have full-blown affairs, falling in love and all. (N.B.: Not my theory).

Whatever the reason, women handle bun better than men. One violent female friend of mine said that the only reason women don’t kill men for giving bun is because there would be no men left. But women don’t kill cheating partners; they just slowly nag them to death. It is the men who cannot see the way out of their depression with their damaged egos and public embarrassment.

But worse than what happened to you has been someone else’s back story. It is not the end of the world. Egos get healed, people forget your shame, and time heals all wounds. If smarter, richer, nicer, and more handsome men than me can get bun, I don’t see what is so special about yours truly why it can’t happen to me. I will just have to accept it if it happens to me in the future.

There is no shame in bun. Maybe if we all shared our bun stories then those who are dealing with allegations or confirmed cases of bun will realise that it is just another hurdle in the race of life. Maybe there will be fewer angry, embarrassed men vowing revenge, and fewer incidents of domestic violence.

I got bun. Fatty got a hot piece of bun. If you don’t get bun yet, bredda, just hold it when it comes and remember that this too shall pass. Stay with her if you like, or just hol yuh bun and move on with your life.

Dr Alfred Dawes is a general, laparoscopic, and weight-loss surgeon; Fellow of the American College of Surgeons; former senior medical officer of the Savanna-La-Mar Public General Hospital; former president of the Jamaica Medical Doctors Association. @dr_aldawes. Email feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com and adawes@ilapmedical.com