You asked me a year ago why I loved you. I blushed. Then I said something about not having the words for it. Imagine that. A writer lacking the words to explain an emotion. I’ve thought about it long and hard. Of you, of me, of us. So here’s your answer; a year later….this is why I love you.
I’ve spent many a night with you. I know your scent immediately after a shower. When there’s not a hint of perfume on your body. Just you, your skin and memories of water. I know your scent when you haven’t had a shower for 3 days. And I love both versions of you. Though I love you a little more when you shower.
I’ve traveled miles with you, and for you. I know you fall asleep exactly 15 minutes after we hit the road. You can sleep on tarmacked roads, but your superpower is drooling on murram roads. I still don’t understand how you slept through the road from Rumuruti to Maralal. We literally broke the vehicle’s suspension and you still did not wake up. You enjoy it when I drive. You say I look beautiful when I do it. I love it when you drive. You look so strong and I have always loved my women powerful.
You like beer but you never drink it in public. Your mama always told you women only drink wine. This is why you always chase vodka with wine, then insist that the bartender pours that awful concoction in a large wine glass. It tastes like rotting grapes. But you love it. Your ratchet side comes out when you’re drunk. Do you remember? Kissing him after a night out drinking with your friends. You told me he just happened to be there, you didn’t plan it. As if that made it any better. It was the first time we broke up. It was the last time you ever made me feel like that.
I hate your cooking. The first time I ate your food I had diarrhea for days. You laughed every single time I ran to the toilet. It was my fault really. I should have accepted it when you told me you couldn’t cook. There I was, trying to mold you into the perfect girl who cooks and cleans. Yet God made with everything except those qualities. You love to eat. Woman, I never knew girls could eat until I had to feed you. My monthly shopping budget has increased significantly since you moved in with me. Good thing you earn your own money and I know your Card details. Do you remember the time you first came over to my flat? I served a large portion of ugali and nyama for me. Then handed you the smaller portion. You were so disappointed. You looked like you were going to cry. You did not. But I had to go back to the kitchen to cook more food.
You have a surprisingly high libido. You want to make love in all the wrong places. Remember that Catholic Church, just past Njoro on the way to Elburgon? They never lock the main door. You defiled it, in all the right ways. With all the murals of angels playing harps looking down on you. You will burn for that.
I want to grow old with you. Get arthritis and share back pains with you. Change the way we do our sex because our knees can’t support some positions any more. Maybe make enough money so that I can buy that house in Limuru where it rains constantly. Imagine the quality of cuddles! I want a house with a porch. If I can, I will have it made with wood. So that every time you step on it, it creaks. I want to have 4 PM tea there with you. Watching it rain, while clutching on to a steaming hot cup of chai with masala in it. Mine will have a pinch of cinnamon. We will get live in help. Preferably someone from the coast who knows how to make Kaimatis, Mahamri and Biriani. That way you get a taste of home daily. I know you want to live at the coast, near your mother. Somewhere with easy access to a beach. Where black ripped men walk shirtless daily. I hate it. The men and the weather. It’s too hot for me. I have a slightly protruding mid-section and I smell like a goat’s carcass every time I am at the Coast. We have both given up on ever looking like models. Plus, my body is not meant for exercise.
You are remarkably shameless. I haven’t figured out how I will go about introducing you to my family. Though I have a feeling my dad will like you from the get go. My mum will need some time. (Pssssh, she is the suspicious one in the family, please be patient with her). Though that shouldn’t worry you too much, she will go with whatever her husband decides. You are smart, intelligent and you hate sports with a passion. I am still working on changing that. I haven’t figured you out in these 3 years of dating you. I have given up on that ever happening. I guess we are going to be arguing well into our old age. I will die first, then you will have to bury me. I know that is the only time you will cry in public. Maybe even send a nude to my phone in the hopes that that will bring me back. If I don’t wake up, then you can rest knowing I am in a better place i.e. in a heavenly mansion enjoying my allocation of 7 nubile girls.
I want you…. I want to be with you. I love you. Deeply. I was hoping to write a book or at least 17 reasons why I love you. Instead, only stories of you, of me, of us keep coming to me. I hope these are enough.
So how about it…Will you marry me?
Thank you for reading, make sure to SUBSCRIBE and share with 1 friend. Keep Reading.