Everyone I knew asked 'why him' when they met him. I always replied, 'why not him?' Truth be told, I wondered a few times myself. He was not what I felt at the time, was ‘my type’. He was just about my height. I liked them tall. He was Nzema, I was Fante; and my mother had vowed she would disown me and call upon the 99 gods of Kakumdo to visit every imaginable curse on me if I disrespected her wishes and brought an Nzema man home.
She said her great-great-grandmother had made her great-grandmother promise, who made her grandmother promise, who made… you get the picture. Yet here was I, helplessly enamored of my (insert sufficiently Nzema sounding name here)
I liked to observe at parties. He was the life of every party we went to. I was a diehard democrat. He was republican. I loved chocolate and ice-cream, he was lactose intolerant. Seriously so. Even watching me eat these could trigger his, ahem, intolerance.
I liked hugs, and subtle public displays of affection, like tucking my hair behind my ear, or brushing your hands over my unruly eyebrows in what we both know is a futile attempt to tame them. He believed his hugs and suchlike had to be ‘earned’ or taken. His arrogance and my pride made for many a frustrated encounter.
When I was with him, I couldn’t name a single difference if my life depended on it. When we were apart, they became glaring and once I start listing them, I become convinced Cupid was playing a mean prank the day he shot us....
(To be continued Tomorrow)
Etoile
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Waiting for Part 2 Oye!
ReplyDeleteDee... It's all out now. :)
ReplyDelete