I read an interesting blog post the other day. By a guy called Bikozulu. You might know him. No? You don’t? Isn’t he, like, one of the hottest writers of our time? You should be ashamed of yourself. You should be evaluating your life choices right now. You probably don’t even deserve to read my humble post if you don’t know him. But I’m feeling sufficiently philanthropic today so I’ll allow you to read this. OK now, go on, read it friend. But you must promise to visit his blog sometime.

Alright-y then. So Bikozulu wrote this really long post. He drew me in with that post. Oh yes he did. He described in dramatic detail his evening with a woman he was wishing would chipo him before or after a couple of drinks. I felt like a voyeur reading that post.

As I read it, I imagined Bikozulu restlessly tapping his fingers over a taut thigh praying the woman would invite him in. I imagined him restraining himself from high five-ing himself when she did. I could imagine him trying to look calm yet at the same time in awe of the woman once in the house; standing politely at the door waiting to be invited into her dimly lit sanctuary, while his mind and loins churned with the anticipation of what they would do to each other once all the pretense was stripped away by that heady feeling of fuck-it-let’s-do-this; that sexual vortex of alcohol-induced lust.

I saw him standing there, watching her bare feet pad silently towards him; I watched her watch him under hooded eyes, trying to look demure while knowing full well what she was doing; what they were doing. I watched them seated there; saw him rubbing her feet (I thought this only happened in the movies) in what he thought communicated that he wanted to rip off her dira (is that what those insanely comfortable Somali kaftans are called?) right then and there while at the same time saying: “I’m just happy you allowed me in, I’m not trying to get laid tonight, I just want to get to know you a little better.”

In my mind, I saw him excuse himself and ask to use her bathroom before she got too caught up in her Sauti Sol monologue, knowing the only similarity between him and Bien is height. And being a dark African. I thought to myself maybe he wanted to show her that he might not be able to sing or dance like him or Shabba Ranks, but at least he has something going for him. Like he was telling her: “Yeah baby, take a long hard look at all this; take it all in.” Pun intended.

I watched her gaze linger; watched her lick her lips subtly as she watched him walk away. I saw her inhale deeply as all sorts of nasty thoughts went through her mind. She was no innocent, she knew this game they were playing.

And so did he. But he wasn’t prepared for what he saw in her bathroom. What he saw jolted him from his naughty reverie. Or at least that’s what he said. Yeah, turns out he saw a bunch of big panties hanging in her bathroom and was more than turned off. That stiffy he was probably suppressing died a very natural death because he saw – not the sexy, lacy undies he imagined she wears everyday – no; he saw BIG PANTIES. Also disdainfully referred to as “Mother’s Union.”

I’ve tried to imagine what they looked like, those big panties; what was so wrong with them that poor Bikozulu puked a little in his mouth when he saw them? I mean, what does he have against big animal print underwear? Did he imagine that she looked like Mo’nique in them? Has he completely forgotten that half his moniker ­– Zulu – comes from a man who was often portrayed in leopard skins and other game skins? You’d think with that in mind the man would be going ga-ga over leopard print on a large surface area, not losing his boner over it!

Anyway to each his own. Point is, Bikozulu insinuated that men hate big underwear. He at least conceded that it’s probably pretty uncomfortable wearing thongs all day, but the bottom line – the key message as we in PR call it – is that men wish big panties were never created. And that the person who created them should have been punished dearly.

But I choose to disagree. Why? Because the “Mother’s Union” is so damn comfortable it trumps – probably owing to its size – thongs and G-strings and their ilk. There’s a reason all women own and wear big panties: because they allow you to just be. There’s no pretense when you have those on. It’s like taking off your make-up and allowing your face to breathe. Like removing your bra when you get into the house. Like taking off those skinny jeans that forced you to suck in your tummy all day to reduce the chances of muffin top. Like pulling down your stockings or unhooking your corset and just letting it all hang.

Granny panties say I’m off-duty. They say I’m not trying to impress anyone, not trying to be cute for IG, not trying to be your freak-in-the-sheets kinda girl right now; I’m just chilling. Granny panties are like your butt’s chance to cry freedom. Granny panties are the equivalent of boxers for men – if we choose to compare them by size. I bet if men had to wear tight lacey Y-fronts and thongs all day they’d understand.

Which is why I own two cotton pairs, given to me by my Mom. They’re not the cutest, but I wear them once in a while (Mr. Nice Guy might say otherwise). Never outdoors. And continuously extol their virtues whenever I see him giving me the side-eye. Despite their reputation, or the fact that they do not fit the way they should. I wear them because they are comfortable. And comfort sometimes beats looking cute. Same way a guy will wear a really old t-shirt while indoors and say the fraying and the worn fabric give it “character”. Well, my granny panties have character too. Big, obnoxious character in fact.

So you know what fellow women, go ahead and wear your “Mother’s Union” if that’s what’s you’re into. Wear them with pride. Allow yourself that comfort, just like men do. Feel no shame in owning granny panties. In fact, wear them even when you’re not on your period. Yeah, flaunt them honeys. Nothing beats comfort, especially when at home. Think about it: we sacrifice comfort to look cute all the time – the skirt I’m wearing right now is positively cutting into my waist even though my tummy’s sucked all the way in but I look cute so I’ll just eat less today – so surely we can allow ourselves that not so little pleasure.

You might not get to recreate your own version of Dej Loaf’s You, Me and Hennessy, with your chipo of choice that night, but you’ll be comfortable.

Though I would still strongly advise you to hang some really cute underwear along with your granny panties. And make sure the ratio of cute to not-so-cute is 7:1. Not for the guys, but for yourself. If your vanity is larger than your biggest underwear it won’t allow you not to have cute underwear. And for chrissake do not hang your ugly underwear wear guests will see it!

Oh and Bikozulu, maybe the universe saved your life that night. Everything happens for a reason. Even “Mother’s Union.” J