The Girl I am Marrying


This is the girl I am marrying.

You probably remember the girl I met sometimes whose phone number was nothing easier than an equation of a toxic chemical reaction. This just reminded me of the most influential trait in me which helped me wear a gown and a cap – cramming. I had met her for the first time and hadn’t I had a correctly formatted memory, I wouldn’t be saying this.

This girl has a tattoo on every part of the body, some being slideshows. She uses make ups even in her internal organs, and, she speaks English with an ascent native English speakers would admire. Yet she comes from the remotest part of east and central Africa.

Men usually know the duration every relationship will take from the beginning. If it is a 2 hour event, months years or a lifetime affair, we have that gift form the holy spirit to know. For this case, I am not sure how I my medulla got convinced that this is was lifetime event. Someone must have done something while cooking chapatis.

I am thinking of getting this girl to the village. I am wondering how my mum will react when she sees a girl who dresses in a short, shorter than my boxers, with no single sensory nerve to detect shame. Think of a mother who laments for close to a week when the cow accidently breaks the rope and eats the soap. A mother who beats up her children whenever they talk stories relating to women wearing trousers. Now this is the mother I have and this is the girl. Which cables will I use to connect these people?

We just got home. I leave her with my mother, to familiarize and get some wisdom. All she does is to start storying with mum about selfies, a time when mum is telling her how to pluck coffee from the firm and giving her tactics on how to jump the line in the coffee factory as well as how to spend the hard earned money. They appear like they need a translator because no one understands what the other is saying! My greatest secrets are eventually out! She starts talking about Napoléon, gluiness, blue moon, tusker, alongside my name and our fridge. My mum knew sprite as my hardest drink, until she decided to listen to this girl. Though she never understood most things, from the least she knows, tusker is not juice and for that matter, Jesus’ sermon on the mountains will be reiterated today, for me!


We have spent a month in the village; she doesn’t know where the river is. All she does is to remind the villagers how everything there lacks swag, a word which no one can define. The old wazees are pardoning my decisions about girl I am marrying! They remind me that with her, I am still a member of TeamSingles.

My dad has since decided to seek help from fellow elders. He just spent the money I gave him to write as many letters as possible to reach as many people as possible to come and share with him a word that he has. I don’t need to construct diagrams to understand what will be discussed there.


I just have noticed that I will owe everyone an apology if I ever marry this girl. Until I get a solution for this, I am not ready for curses. I would like to take this opportunity to remind my medulla that perhaps it was under influence of the strepsils I had taken (I can’t trust any drug), hence the wrong judgments because, ideally, this is relationship that was to last the shortest period in history, maybe-if much, a single night.

Dear sweetheart, I might be young for marriage, but am definitely too old for a tattooed breast!



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