Foreword: I find a disclaimer distinguishing the writer and the character in this piece unnecessary, but really (as an advice now), it will make more sense reading this with absolute neutrality. In other news, happy independence-plus-two-days… and happy birthday to me. I’m excited! Please waka come and share in the excitement. Bring a gift or two along. 🙂
Dear Future Bae,
I wish I know an appropriate quote by a great philosopher—or someone of immense reputation, living, in comma, or dead—right now to express how I feel in the shortest possible way. Unfortunately, I don’t. Fortunately though, I have something almost nice and equally brief:
Brevity be damned!
I will try to be coherent, but I can’t even assure myself that. So I’ll rant, ramble, rumble, and tumble if necessary till I let it all out— white, black and the shebang. I hope this gets to you somehow (probably in your dream) before future competing lady, if any, intercepts it.
Scattered all over the internet and every other places information can lodge in or perch on, even if it’s for a moment barely long enough for me to ask “what exactly is it sef?”, are statistics and supposed facts about humans of my kind (I hope): the XY species with healthy body system. I mean the reproductive system and its major organ, to be near specific.
Some random websites or publications tell me with authority the ridiculously unbelievable number of times I put sex in the front page of my mind; as though they are privy to my thoughts and always alerted on every bulge against my trouser fly. I have no problems with the figures. They’re absolutely free to adjust the rate to as high 30 times per hour, or something close to the safe speed limit of an empty fuel tanker on the expressway. The one thing that I sure won’t be quite comfortable with, however, is a (judgemental) speech on why I shouldn’t think about women, especially now that it’s not one woman but many.
Isn’t it strange that I’m writing this to you without trying to hide the fact that I think about lots of women in a similar way? Please try not to hurl a stiletto or break something for my annoying audacity. Don’t be quick to call me unserious, strongly possessed, flirty… or a to-be polygamist. I’ll tell you why I do the things I do.
There is this young lady I see every night on my way home. It has almost become a duty to always look in her direction, and she never disappoints. She’s always there; eyes well located on a welcoming countenance, wide open to stare right back at me. She’s of average build, slightly fair, well-carved face beautiful enough for me to see in the dark… and a structure that tends towards the eight. She’s blessed, but not so blessed. She’s about two inches from the category “short”. I’m not very tall myself, and I won’t like to be blamed by my offsprings for their inherited “brevity” (“short” is derogatory!). We kept staring, but I’m never going to make the move.
I made a new friend not so long ago. The way she talks is like music to my ears. Momma would always lecture me (as though I’m so dumb not to know these things already) that choosing a bae isn’t totally about beauty, but also about other qualities like intelligence, good nature, and all other things eyes even behind Harry Porter glasses won’t see. She’s got all that too. Irrespective of how you view her—with a magnifying spectacles or discerning church mind plus a touch of wizardry—she screams “hawtt” through and through. You probably know already, but I’d like to explain “hawtt” according to a trusted dictionary. A hawtt lady is one who makes men whistle unconsciously, twist their necks at odd angles, and fall into gutter like dominoes when she passes by. The ma’am, however, is 2.688years (yes, I like figures) older than me. Age is just a number right? Hian! Puhleease! In this circumstance, age is also a bucket of cold water that dilutes all “hawttness”. Yes you guessed right, another no-no.
The stranger-turned-friend from the bus the other night is another great handwork of God. You know what they say about the Creator moulding some creatures with so much attention to detail, interest, and patience on a day likely to be a weekend in heaven? I kid you not. From the way she picks her words, to the disarming smile that reveals her well-spaced gap teeth (this is the part where I’ll hold my head and scream “ojigbi-jigbi!”), down to the other “God-given features” that adorned her here and there (the little the description the better, don’t you think?)… she’s the full package! Nay, I mean she’s almost the full package. I found out about some little things later and ratings took a sharp and disappointing dive into nothingness.
In case you’ve got your analytical game on, trying to establish a trend to arrive at my type of girl, please bae, do not filter by colour. Yellow bus or red BRT, they both transport. Dora is many nautical miles away from fair. She’s a quintessential pretty dark lady Sir Don Jazzy himself would gladly dub the Doro title. But then, Doro is a useless title—and I repeat, a VERY useless title—if the ma’am is so impressive only to the eyes, but with a not-so-desirable attitude (I can almost hear momma’s advice ringing in my ears, again). A crush could be in existence, but it would remain a crush and nothing more. Hopefully, it won’t crush this son of man.
There is also the mulatto on my device’s messenger, and the very responsive cute belle I met on the Badoo I never use. What of the radiating Clara that sparkles all the time from the choir stand? I dare not forget the beautiful almost albino chic beside the confectionery, and the unbelievably “tush” walnut babe (*shudders* What was I thinking? Bae, scratch out the last part, that was a joke). The more I add entries to the list, cutting across boundaries, tribes, colours, heights, ages and temperaments, the more I nail myself to the cross of likely infidelity. I don’t want to make the wrong impression.
So here goes the right impression.
Right now right here, I don’t know who you are bae. In fact, you could be anywhere on the surface of the planet. You could be in Czechoslovakia or France right now (Syria is not your portion IJN); or doing some stuff only you understand in an Indian village somewhere (no offence); or even close to home hanging out with a boyfriend (a boyfriend you’ll have to break up with soon by the way) some few miles away from here. What I know and sure of is that I want the best; an outstanding woman I’ll gladly spend the rest of my life with. I picture you at every attempt I get, bringing up images of the lot of things that thrill me in a woman.
Is it now a crime to think of you? Will it be so difficult to understand how all these ladies get into my head any time I try to think of the perfect you? Is it an offence to picture you with the eyes of Kemi, amazing “wicked” structure of Tola (jcheesox!), the radiance of Clara, disarming gap-toothed smile of Lara, the pretty cool finesse of Sandra… bla, bla and more bla? Believe me, I’ve considered this a problem and tried so much to find a remedy, but I’m not doing so well at achieving the desired result.
A friend once told me I shouldn’t bother looking for the perfect one—since I won’t even find her—but rather, find one I’ll be perfect with. Besides, I’m also not even close to perfect. She implied that I shouldn’t center my idea of perfection on the stuffs I read in books or see on the big screens (you know the sharp bright eyes, firm jaw, curvy this, supple that thinggies), but rather face the plain reality. She said a lot of sensible things, but it didn’t change much. Not yet. Perhaps I’ve got a very weird and rare strain of perfectionism affecting me. Perhaps I need the service of very good and experienced shrinks (I fear one would turn out to be inadequate).
Getting to you eventually depends on this; I’m sure you have your own flaws too. Perhaps I’ve found you already, but putting you in a no-no zone because of a little “but”; flaw(s) I have as well.
I’ll try harder to get better and come for you (definitely not on a horse nor in a shiny armour; preferably in an S-Class Benz), but while I do that, try not to listen to that guy sending you messages, calling you angel as though you’ve got the halo and wings, and bombarding you with pseudo-affection. We know what he wants, and NO, we… no, I mean you, are not giving it to him. He won’t like that, yes, but friend zone doesn’t kill… it makes one stronger. (Unknown author)
I know I’ve got no right or say now, just try and consider the advice.
I’ll anticipate a reply, if by any weird but fortunate means you get this.
Imperfect Future Hubby
I am @jossef69 on twitter
Would you like to share this?
Let your friends read too.
It’s just a click away↓