John Ekongo
I am sure that many of my peers have at one point or the other tried writing a heart-crunching love letter to confess undying love to a beautiful lady, or confession by words.
Even though at 13, one could hardly distinguish between a lustful crush and real love, it did not matter. What counted was that you really believed that your heart was completely meant for this female species who occupies your dreams, day and night, sometimes wet dreams too.
Now, I had my fair share of such moments, the unfortunate part was that your efforts always ended up as a big hilarious moment at the end of the day.
So there was always this lady I had fancied in primary school, she was from this side of Gibeon. She had the most glaring yellow skin, with a well-blessed curved frame, like all of my colleagues from that side of the country.
I wrote to her an unquantifiable number of letters via a pseudonym declaring my love, and each letter she received from me ended up stuck on the mirrors of the boys’ toilets. I once even wrote her a masterpiece and for a classy touch I sprayed it with Charlie Red deodorant by Revlon that I bought her. It was always the same thing. Everybody at school was curious to find out who this mysterious romantic scribe was.
Lest they knew that it was none other than me the nerdish Kondjeni — but I had to tell her I have heard my mom once saying that a woman cannot resist a man with his ride (meaning bicycle). It just goes to show. My old man was a bicycle freak, from “Bombers to Cobra Classic to Five Speed Classic Single Pedal – you name it – he had it. Daddy got me a BMX and remembering my mom’s advice, I was now ready to approach my “my wife to be”. Being my first time you know I had to opt between creativity of words or bluntness from the top of my heart.
I opted for the latter and it backfired. You see I was riding my bicycle from Freddy Fisheries, where granny had sent me to collect a box of “maasbankers” – not a very delicious fish but it can feed masses by refugee standards – a poor man’s fish.
That was my downfall. I stop my “my wife to be” and as frank as I can I say the words “Yolanda ek het jou lief will jy nie my meisie word nie” – (direct translations Yolanda I love you a lot don’t you want to be my girlfriend.)
“There I said it, as easy as pie I thought”. In reply Yolanda nicely gave me a “lekka smack in my face” and goes like “do you really think that I will want to catch a ride on your BMX with your box of maasbankers nogaals. ”
I will tell the entire class tomorrow, that it was you all along sending me letters, she remarked.
I was in for trouble knowing my class.
As a result I had to do something fast – change grades or remain the joke of the term.
Charles once told me how he confessed loved to a classmate in a masterly lyrical poetic confession that could have left iconic late songwriter Barry White in envy. The only problem was that his lady friend wanted absolutely nothing to do with poor love-struck Charles, even the teachers had apparently to be called in to stop the colleague.
This in fact took me back to a conversation I had with a partner once, who said to me that kind of magic has died out. Back then, it was the effort that counted and persistence is no longer there.
Ladies even though they won’t admit, the fact is that once in a while loved to receive an odd letter or two. That is what’s missing in today’s courtship – the effort.
People, more often than not, don’t even make an effort to visit the ladies anymore at their homes so that they bring their relationship to light, nor pick flowers for the dames anymore or write that poem to make the lady feel special.
Dedicate that lovely love ballad for her, or once in a while forget about cost-effectiveness and take her out, not to “kwasa-kwasa” and kapana, but somewhere nice, cozy and relaxed, so that you get to know each other better.
Instead gents have resorted to sending sms’, once in a while or giving miscalls. And going drinking with buddies, girlfriend can come along if she wants, if not, that is her baby.
And that had my good friend Zile in great fury: “Men don’t value us anymore,” she once said.
Where is that guy, the one who was always behind you at school, willing to carry your books, buy you lunch, do your homework and send you mail full of love letters.
Maybe they got tired of carrying books, buying lunch and writing letters. I know I did.
Where to start again, I have to say Sorry Ngoo.
Sorry Ngoo