A letter to, Nanyonga, my Valentine’s Day date

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Dear, Nanyonga,

First off, I am sorry to address you by your biological, ancient, ancestral, mother-tongued name. The other name skipped my mind. Will you allow me call you Nanyonga for now? Okay. I am writing this letter with my heart in my palms. I plucked it out of my chest because every time I thought about Valentine’s Day, it would slap, kick, thump, pinch, mstchewww, beat and clobber me. And I hate slaps. Can I fax it over to you, sweet Nanyonga?

Nanyonga, my sweet binyebwa. My calendar told me mbu Valentine’s Day is soon. At first, I thought it had lied, but on close inspection and consultation from National Valentine’s Day Council (NVDC) settled the argument. Will you be my date, Nanyonga? Forget that silly TV show hosted by that thing with nice legs and swollen things on her hips. Be my date, Nany. I have been waiting for this opportunity to pour out my feelings to you. You know I love you, don’t you? Remember when I beeped you late at night? It was a sign of love. And the silence meant that I never wanted to bother you. I hate bothering people I love. Yes, yes, your phone call I switched off, I never wanted to chew your airtime.

Val’s Day is on Sato. I am consciously constipating myself, waiting for the big day. On that day, Nanyonga, you will know that nze wuwo like Jamal. NRM, oyeeee! Kati, I am these ends combing Owino Market for the best garments to unleash on that day. I want us to be trendy and dapper. I want us to show Kanye and Kim that we own this shit. I want Jay and Beyonce to sing a song about us in abject nuggu. I am looking for red garments; stockings, handkerchiefs, et al. What should I get you? A purple half-petty? Will do. Forget that roses claptrap. I will get you something bigger. If possible, I will carry a tree. Or a bush.

We shall walk on the streets, holding hands. The street kids will beg us mbu ‘Sebo, sebo..’ I won’t listen to those haters. We shall walk to the cinemas. Have you heard of Sixty Greys of Shades? It is a new film. Oba by Van Damme. But I hear it is romantic. We shall watch it as others will be boring themselves to death. Thereafter, we shall have a candlelit dinner. I have already bought my packets of candles. And packets of matchboxes. I haven’t bought the dinner yet, but in this era of Rolexes and all food, we will be covered. I might not buy you an acre of land in Lake Victoria. That shit is overrated, by the way. What if you drown in that little piece of land? Loss. I might not buy you a car. Cars are stressful. In this traffic jam of ours. But Nanyonga, sweet baibe, I will buy anything on that day. Even chewing gum. I will buy.

Would you be my Valentine’s?

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