Music For Sunday.

Downloaded from Google. For ‘fair use.’

“I charge you daughters of Jerusalem, that if you find my beloved, you tell them I am sick of love.
What is your beloved more than another beloved. O’ you fairest among women? What is your beloved more than another that you do so charge us?
My beloved, is white and ruddy- The chiefest among ten thousand!”
– The Songs of Solomon.

As I intended, this post is to reach you my (future) wife. I am twenty-three years old and today I choose to write to you.

Something tells me you must be out there. Or maybe you’re already here and I haven’t seen you as the woman I will spend the rest of my life with. ‘Something’ tells me a lot of things. Like my blog is about to sound very effeminate. ‘Something’ doesn’t know that there’s a diva inside everyone. It runs besides the alpha within. So ‘something’ could be wrong. This is happening. I am sounding you out.

***
My dear wife,
You must be someone very special. Thank you for getting my hopes up. We have dressed each other’s personas, like little children and brought out the best about us. Look at you. I have a pretty wife. Beautiful smile. You’re crazy funny as well. You have a big heart. And you say the same about me. That there’s parts of you in me that you love. Can I tell you the best part? I believe you.

How are you?
I mean it.
How are you?
Do you get asked this a lot? Me too. Do you say the truth about it enough? (Maybe?) Me too.

The day was Sunday. In the afternoon, after Sunday school, I asked mum why there was no lunch. “We’re going to the beach.” mum said. And she made these sandwiches as I went to change into shorts. How I remember it- I was going to build a sand castle like the ones on TV- I couldn’t wait.

The tide was low when we arrived. Beach sand was mostly covered with washed up plankton. I didn’t care. I wasn’t there for a swim. Okay-maybe a little swim, but a lot of sand castle moulding. I can remember the colour of my sand bucket. It was yellow. I have a feeling it’s because the ones I saw on TV were of same pigment…The sand castles came out fine by the way. But nothing like what was shown on the TV.

I hadn’t known they paid people to act perfect before the screen.

When you’re young and television is your friend, all the dreams it sells you are pure ;and very convenient; and very possible. Such was the idea of love for me, my lady. Pure. Convenient…the television said it was free too. With guile and game, you could have anyone you wanted. Trust me-like you, I am unlearning all of this.

I’m at that phase where I don’t believe in love. Here is what I mean. I can invent characters and give them personality and chemistry. I will make my readers care about them the same way I do. Then I’ll come out here, the real world and not believe in the art of love. I am not my art all through. Not yet. I’m afraid if I meet you now, I will stammer my way into the frienddzone. I even mispelt it. I’m afraid I will not try at all in the name of not wanting to try too hard. Or that you’re not into teddy bears and cuddles (and look, I’m built like one). These are the bullshit stories I tell myself today…Understand -right now, I can love only me. I believe in putting myself first. Doing so, I get to build against my deficiencies. I have a chance at eating and living healthy. A chance at having a firmer foundation for my faith as my mama had wished. (When life bothered her, she bothered God instead.) I have a chance at regaining all the strength I have lost while putting other people’s needs before mine. A chance to be selfish. And understand self-love as a given gift. Smile, baby. I have a chance with you.

I’m thinking it must be different for you. I don’t know what your insecurities are. I hope you have the mechanism to drain such a swamp? That when it’s raining in your heart, you have a competent scheme to mop up the mess. I’d love to hear it. (I’d love to be amused by your theories about everything as well.) You women-you’re the luckier gender-you get to be smarter than us…So remember it will work out…I’m always praying for you. Hoping to God that whatever decisions I make bring me closer to you. I tell Him to wipe your tears away-to make the strain of your insecurities bearable. All your joys and pains are by design. (For you to identify Yahweh as your pillar.) However, you should know, when I’m annoyed with God, I ONLY pray for my food. You too?

When we meet, you will not be my first love. What you will be, is heaven’s choice as my true love. The one to dream and grow with. The one who challenges me to not be shy about using my gift. I hope for two. That I’m equal in returning the favour. There’s always this question ‘Where’s mine?’. Last time I asked the sky this, I saw a couple who were making out during their photoshoot at Central Park. I cringed. I sighed. ‘So naïve. Who will tell them?’ I tsked. ‘Wataachana tu’. I said. I didn’t mean it. It’s because you were on my mind. I wanna hold your hand. To kiss it. To kiss you assuringly. To hold you and never let you go. To give you a safe space to be vulnerable.

An elderly relative sat me down to talk. He should have been a poet, he said it would soon be my turn. He said ‘a woman is like a bird. And she will land on your palm. If you take care of her, she will stay, she will sing and fly around and give your life joy. If you’re not gentle, if you lack appreciation. And all you do is squeeze and torture. You will kill her spirit. And you end up killing the love as well.’ I promise you, you can count on me. My purpose will be to let our romance breathe. You won’t stop smiling-even through emojis.

It’s not my intention to make our union seem like it will be pixel perfect. Forgive the dreamer in me. I confess- shit is going to be hard work. But this post isn’t about that. I’m not here to tell you how easy or hard romanticism should be. Not today.

I speak for myself, marriage is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And we humans are guilty of ruining good things. What with all the comparison between the relationships of those around us. And elements whose job is to tell you that you don’t need a man…Too late, you’re mine. There are writers who say-good things never die. I believe them.

Same way I believe in words like ‘I’m sorry’. I will not use them sparingly when I wrong you. I do not intend to be proud whenever I come short of being your good man. TV says your kind is always right- I will keep that in mind but still speak my mind. For instance, I do not subscribe to feminism. I have distanced myself from its many definitions. I have contracted and entertained several misconceptions about feminism. So I am proudly anti. :-) . However, I sincerely hope you are a feminist. And an unforgivably good one at that. I’d be willing to learn from you. For you to set me right and teach me about gender equity without sounding like you got the very definition from Wikipedia. Or Chimamanda. I don’t know the difference. (Your husband is a tease!)

Baby girl, I do not know how to end this post. I’ll always want to say more because this is for you. I haven’t mused about anything in a year. I don’t know what you do on Sundays, but I can only hope this finds you in good spirit. Or if you’re out there and don’t believe in marriage-or love-or God, or even in yourself, may you derive inspiration from the examples set by others. Take all that you need from them. It will take time. But when you do as ‘they’ do, you end up doing better. And being better. If you believe me-it’s a start.

Happy Sunday.

Sincerely, your future husband.