I always blame the hit series “How I Met Your Mother” for making me the hopeless romantic I am today. Whenever I downloaded an episode, I could not help but feel like I was low key the real life Ted Mosby who just happened to be black and from Ghana. I appreciated his hustle to find “the one”, someone who was not your textbook model with the fetishized features and façade. “The One” was that person who made your heart skip a beat and who you relentlessly fight for.
Finding you, my “the one” has been an exercise I have cherished dearly. Ghanaian girls are not fond of holding yellow umbrellas so there needs to be a different pointer to who you really are and that has been my obsession for quite a while now. I have crushed on one too many girls since I became conscious of this search. In lecture halls, Waakye lines, debate meetings, after Jummah prayers, on the streets of Madina Zongo, during my exchange year and every other space I have been in since I became a teenager. Your face still evades me.
The prospects of finding you eons later or in another life is a little troubling. It seems like that jolt I feel whenever I see an apparition of your face or what I think your face should like is not self-sustaining. Of what use is a stomach wrenching experience when it last for the duration we meet and part. Those butterflies need to stay longer and birth cocoons.
When those butterflies decide to sojourn a little longer, you tend to leave before announcing it. My lazy self sits back and watch you take flight without making an effort to prevent you. As you will eventually know once we bump into each other at a library or Chipotle, I am lazy with relationships. Even the platonic ones! I get excited about meeting new people for a day or two, texting them non-stop and then it is time to moonwalk back to my cave. Maybe you will baby walk me into getting better at all this. Texting you the minute I wake up and sending you snaps of lunch.
Sometimes I feel like meeting you would happen sooner than later. You might have been the one who stared at me earlier today and smiled for a second but I got cold feet and never said hi. Or even the Khadija in my Econs class who always says “Salamun alaikum” gracefully. Are you the foreigner I have been low key crushing on for a while? We would never know.
That is why I decided to start penning these epistles. Sometimes I need someone to talk to about a lot of stuff. Someone who can lend an ear to my whimsical thoughts and utopian dreams of an early marriage. I write knowing that in your curious surfing of the internet, you would come across a blog by a Zongo boy whose primary aspiration is to be a “kick ass father and husband”.
2018 is about 2 years from now by the way!