Dear Future Wife

Dear future wife,

The suspense is killing me. Where are you? Calm down. I don’t have dirty laundry. I don’t need a sandwich. Chances are you have internet and you know those are the very things you shouldn’t do. You’re a woman not a maid. So right now I’m fine. I mean why wouldn’t I be? You’re not here yet but I’d like to think that once you get here I won’t be able to live without you. Cliché? So is this letter. But… here we are.

I hope you’re having fun. People usually smile around me. They laugh at my jokes. They drink my beer and I think that’s why they laugh. And smile. But I promise you I am very boring. So you better be having fun. I don’t want awkward 2 AM conversations as to why we don’t go hiking like akina nani next door. Okay? Hike all you want now. Sky dive. Get scars. They won’t put me off. Matter of fact we can flaunt them so when mama mboga thinks mid-month is the best time to ask for her dues she’ll know better next time.

Speaking of which. Mama Mboga. I think she likes me. She smiles a lot when I’m off to buy vegetables. Says romantic things too. Like ‘hii ni ya leo’. I don’t know but she doesn’t say that to everyone else. Everyone else seems to know what they’re doing. Like this lady. In her work clothes. Balancing on her heels. She was knocking on a melon. I don’t know why. I half expected her to say ‘hello from the other side’ or hear it from the melon itself. Then she put it down. Disdain on her face. She picked up another and knocked on that too. She looked like she watched sponge bob. Don’t ask me why. Because it involved me looking at her bosom. And you know us guys can know. That there’s a kid. I don’t know how. But it doesn’t involve us knocking on melons. Get it? Of course you do. But maybe it was the same way she could tell a melon was good by knocking. Back to Mama Mboga. She likes me. She does thoughtful things like picking the veggies for me. So I’ve never had to knock on a melon. Someone said that she does that to sell off the unsellable ones. But I think I’d know a bad tomato. Or bad greens. They’d be a shade darker than the jealousy of such people. They wish we had what we have. When I leave she says ‘God bless you.’ Maybe she knows I am single. Maybe you are the blessing. Please be.

Right now I’m in traffic. I probably won’t be when you read this but I thought I should mention. I might be late for work. The drone of the buses engine is annoying. Next to me is a lady. Huge. The weight of her shoulders is restricting blood flow in my arm and I can hear a ringing sound. This might be it. No, wait. It’s an ambulance. See these ambulances they serenade us with the music of death. The very thought that someone is taking their last is unnerving. More unnerving when I think that could be you. So if you see a white light hang on. I’ve never been in one. An ambulance. I’ve never been inside anything with a siren. You know what this means? No. We will not steal an ambulance and joy ride around town. What are we Bonny and Clyde?

A lot is happening right now and at the same time nothing is really happening. They call it the twenties. Yes, I have a twenties. Remember to tell the kids that. When they think I’m too old to listen to their kind of music. Or I can’t operate whatever gadget they’ll have invented then. Or when I have to wear my spectacles to read the paper. Even when I have to read the paper. Especially when I have to read the paper. Do you feel the same? Stuck? Redundant? Not knowing what to do. When to do it. Who to do it with? Some say I will look back and laugh. I say we will look back and laugh. Because that’s the whole point right? We?

I read something pretty funny. That by the time we are twenty, chances are we have already met the person we will spend the rest of our lives with. I’d like to think it is a joke. Why? Because how could I have been so blind all this time? Imagine if we’ve ever dated before. And I broke your heart. Or you mine.  Or I was sitting pretty in the friend zone.  And I know almost everything about you. So there’s nothing new to discover. I’m already biased. We can call this off now. Yes. I’m serious. Okay. No I am not. Don’t stop reading. But can you imagine if we met but never really met? Like I would be at Mama Mboga getting greens and you’d be knocking on melons. And we’d never even know we met. Sounds like the start to a great story. Maybe we’ve been chatting for hours on end. It hasn’t even hit us yet. But it might. When it does I’ll be in denial. I will act like there’s nothing there. Nothing happening. It might be something we will laugh at later. Or we might let it go and we might never happen and I’ll be sad. Can I be sad over something that hasn’t even happened yet?

Valentine’s just up and went. On a Sunday none the less. It got me thinking maybe I should let you know in advance that I don’t celebrate it. I know everyone says that. But I mean it. I don’t celebrate it. I don’t wear red. I don’t get people flowers. I don’t send cute messages. It’s just another day to be me. Boring. You might read this and think. Oh he doesn’t know. Wait till he meets me. I’ll change his mind. You know what? If it is important to you it will be to me. But no on the red. Santa wears red and he isn’t real. Danger signs are red. When the world end the bible says the sun will turn red. The only thing good about red is tomatoes. Ripe ones. See I do know how to pick.

So now I have to go. Where? To do things. You know? Things like things. Maybe buy veggies at the exact time miss melons shows up. C’mon! What if it’s you? I can’t pass up on that.

Quick one, if you do read this remember the suspense is killing me!!!dear future wife

Advertisements

27 thoughts on “Dear Future Wife

Add yours

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: