Liquid symphony

The rains have come and with it, a liquid symphony. Water waltzes down from the skies and then breaks into a fox trot on the metal roofing sheets that cover the decaying urban sprawl that is Ajegunle. Where it can, this water finds its way to the ground and roughly drags the earth down the hill in an electric slide. This is the best part: watching refuse, sand and discarded bits make valiant attempts to resist the pull of their watery master; pretending like they either do not hear its music or that they do not wish to dance. In the end, water wins and they all dance along to its tune. When it is all over, all has been washed clean or at least moved from one place to another. We forget that the stench of rot remains and that the ground is now a vomit of mud. No, we say to each other: the rains have cleansed the land.

Why then do they not cleanse me? I, who sit here patiently waiting for this symphony. My ticket has been purchased through my homelessness and I have front row seats to the magnificence of the rain's dance. No, it will not cleanse me. It's not meant to. I am to sit here, chilled, hungry and alone. All of my eight years, this is all I have ever known. Still I wait to be cleansed, ignoring the sores on my spindly legs; hunger having long receded and its definition forgotten as there has been no otherwise.

One day however, the rain brought something else. A hand. It reached through the crack in the wall I had made for myself from old doors and forgotten panels from the market place. It dragged my screaming form out and enveloped me in an embrace so tight that I was certain to squeeze the air out of my being. I fought and railed at the hand, cursing the rain because it had deserted me. The rain laughed and continued on its own way.

The rains have returned and with it, liquid majesty. It has never been so beautiful. I watch it from my new seat on the window. The window that is by my little bed. My bed in this huge house where the hand has brought me. Here, no one worries that I don't speak. Here there is no cold. The hand has changed many times. Now it belongs to an old man who smells like baby powder. I now smell like baby powder too. Some other hands gave us alot of it and I have my very own bottle of blue. It is a nice place, this house. He is a nice man too. There are nice children here. And here, the rain is nicer.

The rain sings and with it, liquid orchestra.

FREE JONATHAN ELENDU

Nigerian Government,

When you fear criticism, then what is being said must be true. You are one of the most useless institutions out there and that is because you are populated with incompetent, corrupt and self serving individuals whose usefulness has expired and whose goals and objectives benefit no one but themselves.

As a citizen, I have the God given right to say all this and as a human being, I can do that also. If you are not going to do anything good with yourselves, at least don't do anything worse. Let the man go, if he has not said anything true, why are you worried? And if he did do something unconstitutional, there are the appropriate channels to bring him to justice.

Or are you planning to come for the rest of us too?

Farafina's latest issue out

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It's the Year of Thanksgiving

Picture got from here

The new spiritual new year has begun and it is the Year of Thanksgiving. You have come a long way and I know that if you push aside the mist of challenges that might exist to obscure your vision of your life, you will find alot to be thankful for.

Thus, in the spirit of all things blogger (because asking you for something else might be intruding on your personal space) I would like to invite you to tell me:

1. One blog you are thankful for

2. One blogville sponsored event you are thanful for

3. One new thing that you learned on blogger that you are thankful for and

4. One blogger that you are thankful for.

Leadership by example dictates that I must say mine so I will list as follows;

Blog I am thankful for: Naijablog. I am there every day.

Blogville sponsored event: 14TH AND SERENITY. It was an experience on its own and allowed me to converse with some of the most interesting people on blogville. In the event that people argue that I can't plug my own event, then I say BLOGVILLE IDOLS; because it was the first one that I saw that gave me the idea for mine.

New thing I learned: To seperate the blog from the blogger. Not everything you read is as it presents itself and not all bloggers are as they present themselves online. Thus in real life, learn to look at whatever or whomever you are looking at from a higher point of view. You see more and are never dissappointed but always surprised.

One Blogger I am thankful for: I should have made this option plural because for me there are so many. I will say Rayo because she introduced me to blogging....and because she knows where I live so I don't want her to come smother me in my sleep...cos I really wanted to say...

And you?

A loud silence

Tomorrow, October 22nd, 2008, I am inviting you to join me in a move to

Break the Silence and support the Congo in her struggle for stability and freedom from an exploitative west. This week is Congo Week and this is a way for you to join hands to make your voice heard...through your silence.

From 11 am till 5pm, I implore you to join the CELL OUT!!!. Switch off your phones from 11 am till 5 pm in a boycott of the cell phone industry. Coltane which is used in the manufacture of cell phones and other electronic devices has been the motivating factor behind the exploitation and death of millions in the Congo. Congo has as one of its multitude of abundant resources, this mineral called Coltane.

There was a time when we did not have cell phones. You can make a difference. Join me in the CELL OUT.

You know some of your people have fucked up real bad when this conversation appears as part of the dialogue in a DISNEY cartoon:

BOY
Wha are you up to?

GIRL
I need to get money

BOY
What for?

GIRL
Someone has been sending me emails for investments in Nigeria. I need to get back to them

BOY
Uhh, I wouldn't do that if I were you....


So here's a big thank you to all you mother fuckers who ran this country to the ground and encouraged corruption and crime in all its forms. Nigeria is now a punchline for Disney's prepuberscent kids !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Is it true?

Catwalq: How come these porn stars have such great skin? Ehn, I want to look like one.

Catwalq's Aunty: Don't you know they say that sperm is good for the skin?

Catwalq: Haba! Aunty mi!!!!!!

Catwalq's Aunty: I am serious. Ask someone.

Catwalq: u mean sex? or you mean as lotion?

Catwalq's Aunty: Yes!!!

Catwalq: (rolling on the floor laughing her beautiful african derriere off)


So to you guys: Ngbo?!!!Is it true? Has anyone heard any such thing?

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Yeah, I said it...and...?

I was having a conversation today with a dear friend of mine and we were recounting experiences we had with fellow Nigerian women with regards to the following: sex, marriage and children (to have or not to have). I personally am fatigued from discussing this topic but I still find it fascinating because I find that I am in the minority with regards to how I address and analyse the above mentione topics.

I love sex. I think it is a natural function that can be used for both recreation and procreation. I do not entertain any guilt of any kind associated with it because I am an adult who chooses to responsible for my thought, words and actions. Thus, religious endorsements or lackthereof on me having sex outside of the oh-so-sacred institution of marriage is of no consequence to me. I think that with regards to sex, we all have to be honest with ourselves. In any decision regarding what you allow yourself to experience, it all boils down to you and what your comfort level is. If you won't do something, it's then not your place to impose upon others the same decision. Therefore, if you like sex and want to have it, that is your business and if you want to experience it only within marriage, that is your business too. The pervese comes into sex when the experience is either to someone's disadvantage or guilt gets involved.

I don't think marriage is sacred or any of that nonsense. It is a socio-economic partnership with emotional ties included. It is important only to whom it is important. If it does not work out, it--the contract--can be severed and another created. I refuse to compromise on my happiness because I think it is delusional to think that you can make someone else happy when you are not.


Children are also important to whom they are important. Having ovaries does not a good mother make. I was tickled pink by the many comments on Solomonsydelle's post about a woman (I am assuming she is an adult) who wrote in asking for advice on whether or not she should have an abortion. Me, if I don't want a pregnancy, I am getting rid of it but also I should be smart enough to use birth control if I am going to be sexually active. As a woman, you have to be in control of every decision that involves your life and your body. That is what makes you a woman: self responsibility. As much as people would like to spout religious text as the basis for why they would advise for one to keep a pregnancy, none of them would be there to experience with you the joys and PAINS of motherhood. And please don't imagine that because there is a father involved that he is obligated to share the experience. It would be ideal and props have to be given to committed and involved fathers--and I am not saying that men are so dispensable--but when you remember that should anything wrong happen with that child, society would ask for the mother's identity, you start to evaluate your role as a mother rather differently (or I would hope)
Anyone can be a mother and at any time they wish. It just depends on how you define motherhood. I have said this before and will say it again: Carrying a child inside of you for nine months does not mean that the child is obligated to love you. And I will add, that I think that should not be the maximum of your accomplishments. Unless that is how you choose to identify yourself: birther of another human being.

I feel that those who share my views don't get heard in the sea of stereotypical "traditional" opinions. It seems like the majority feel like views like mine are not deserving of being expressed. I think most of us are not corageous enough to say what we really feel in the face of opposing majority view. If I have offended anyone...I am not sure I care.

I am just someone who refuses to define myself along the lines of whether or not I am a virgin, whether or not I am married and how many full grown ovaries I am pushing out of my vagina. I am other things. And those things are much more important to my definition of womanhood.

Feel free to disagree. Or not.

Yesterday, my teacher wept as he recounted the tale of how the remains of enslaved Africans were laid to rest in lower Manhattan after having been exhumed in the early 90s by chance during thr construction of a major landmark in New York. He did not bawl. Tears simply ran down his face as he discussed ancestors for the Africans all over the world. He spoke with pride about how Howard University was selected to conduct the research and forensic study simply because it was the only school the supporters of the cause could think of with black scientists they felt they could trust to conduct the research without influence and tampering.

For many years, the bodies resided on the campus while undergraduate, graduate, faculty and visiting scholars painstakingly tried to piece together whatever history they could on the remains they had found. He described the interment ceremony with emotion and how the bodies journeyed through all the predominantly black states on the east coast in coffins handcarved from Ghana and lined with handwoven kente cloth. It was a wonderful tale. He ended by saying that one day, we--the students--will be called upon to stand for something and in that moment of decision we will realise what our training/education/degree had been for.

It got me thinking about my country whose birthday had just past. For the past four three years of my being here, I celebrated Nigeria's independence day with much more vigor and enthusiasm than I had done my whole life. I would put on my nicest African fabric, braving the fall weather to brand myself as someone in celebration of my countries efforts. I never really thought of those who might have died so I could have a country but I would think of those who continue the struggle because they have decided to stand for something. They stand for their country, their nation and their people. They know what their training is for and that is their lives calling.

This year, I did not carry my portable shrine of fabric on my skin. I did not show up at any of the many parties being thrown around the city (not that I ever went: there is just something not so appropriate about dry humping in the name of independence) and I did not sit painstakingly texting everyone in my phone book and wishing them a happy independence day. Funny enough, neither did they. I did not rush to my blog to put a post displaying my e-patriotism. It was just an ordinary day. Me, and all my issues trudging through the cycle of it, hoping to get to the next one not as bruised as one feared. And the situation at home unchanging.

We are 48. And so? What have we done to show that we remember those who fought so we wouldn't have to? What have we done to take the name forced on us and brand it a superior identity? Not much.

But still....it is home. A forty eight year old home whose foundations are still there but whose structure is bending in the wind.

Happy birthday old girl. Everything is going to be okay....

You have 14 messages

"Hi, this is Tayo...and Lara...and Queen(hey girl!!!!) and we are just calling to say hi (Hiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!....where have you been?). Anyways, call us, no call me (what about me? Are you the only one with number?) okay. Toodles...."

Hi, this is Tayo...call me when you get this message.

Hi, this is Tayo. Haba! Ki lo n sele?

Omo, Queen here o. Where are you?

IB. This is your friend Lara. You know, the fine one. Not the other two. I am calling to make sure that you are still alive and speaking English. I will stop by your place tonight. Abeg open the door o...unless there is com-pah-nie...wink wink...anyways, laters.

Look here, IB, what is it? where are you. Call me. Just in case you will say you don't know...It's Tayo.

Girl, please call me. I am worried.
It's me, Lara.

Girl, I just heard. I am so sorry. Where are you?

IB please where are you. I know you are getting this message. Please call me. I have been to the house and you are not there. Please let me know. It is not the end of the world. It is Queen o. Me. Queen. Please talk to one of us. I know you don't like me but that is not....

I was just saying that that is not what is important. Call me, it is Queen.

IB it is me Tayo. This is not fair o. Are you trying to make my hair fall out with worry? Eleyi o da o.

You know what, just call me. I am tired of begging you. Ah-ah, what is it?Where are you? be hiding and shit. Oya, I am sorry. Call me. Tayo

Omo you are gangsta o. Chei...and see me worrying. Call me, it is Queen

Oloriburuku ni iwo omo yiii. Odaran...call me. It is Lara.

*************************************************************************************
Delete messages?
Yes
Messages deleted.

Splenda-dly Useless

I felt I was coming down with something and so I raked together my last $2.05 and went to get myself a cup hot herbal tea from Starbucks. And when I say my last $2.05, I mean my last $2.05!!!! Anyways back to my story. By now you should know I am fitting to curse someone out.

Anyways, I get there, get my tea and proceed to what I like to call the "garnishing station" where you can make up your beverage any which way. I was about to reach for my old faithful, Domino Sugar pack, when I looked down and saw my encroaching gut and thought to myself "Cat, you need to get on this diet for real. I mean, in two years, you have gained a good twenty pounds and on 5'4", 170 pounds does not look good (I am not 170 pounds yet o...but if I am not careful)...so I turned to my right and looked for the alternative (I am sorry my diet isnot exclusive of sugar) and picked up SPLENDA! That oloriibu zero calorie sweetener piece of sege! That baba n la nonsense owo waster! That iranu, rada rada olorogbeske amunisowonu type mssssstssssthw!

Now, I am sitting here. My throat is still hurting funny. And I am watching my green tea vanilla thingy cool down to a BITTER!!!!!!!!! mix. The yeye thing made my tea bitter and now I cannot drink it. Nitori olorun, hen?!!!!!

I am so pissed. Mostly at myself becaue I should have known better. After all there was that incident in freshman year when....

*sigh* my throat is paining me. If I catch anyone that works at Splenda...walahi!!!

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A Cat nap

The fact is that I must take a much needed step back to reorganise my life. For two weeks, I have churned on many story plots trying to find the right words with which to carve out a most intriguing and spell binding tale. Alas, the words fail me and I am bereft of tales to tell.

I am two weeks into the first semester of my final year and staggering under the sheer weight of responsibilities, commitments and plans that I am in a constant battle to see realised. Everything dances just within reach, enough to remind me that they aren't.

*Sigh* the trials of a woman with an imagination on steroids. I am fatigued and yet emboldened. And definitely in need of a vacation.

Mikhaila's proposal

"You have to help me get to where I need to be. I kind of gave him the impression that I knew what I was doing and now he thinks that once I get the position, I know what to do."
In her desperation, she was talking too fast and Souman was trying his best to not only follow her side of the conversation but also process the information she was passing on.

"Why would you lie about a thing like that?" he had to ask.

She bit back on her statement and had the good graces to look a bit ashamed. "I really wanted it so I..."

Souman sighed. It was not her fault. She was not the first person that he knew who was trying their darnedest to be where she was trying to go. And it seemed that she had somehow led Martineau to believe that she deserved to be there.

"Do you know what you are asking me to do?" he asked her again because he was quite sure that she didn't.

"Yes," she nodded profusely, her long braids swinging back and forth in their high ponytail, "you have to help me." then she arched an eyebrow, "or are you helping someone else?"

He returned the look, "Maybe"

"Souman," she sighed, moving closer, her breast brushing against the sides of his arm, "Please Souman..."

Even though he sighed and feigned irritation, he knew that he would give in and give her what she wanted. He also knew that with all his help, she would not look back even for a second once she was within Martineau's grasp. And yet, what could he do. He was helpless against Mikhaila. He was even grateful she had only asked for what she had asked for because he knew that had she asked for more and the impossible, he would have given it to her.

Thus began their sessions for two months. She would come over after classes and he would coach her for four hours. Initially, it was for twice a week but towards the end, it was almost everyday. Everything he knew, he taught her and she was a quick and effective learner. Sometimes, when he watched her replay something he has shown her, he was no longer sure if indeed she was the novice she had claimed to be.

The last time they met, she was quiet. And so was he. Things had changed. He was now angry at himself for having invested so much time and effort because for her, it had been only been about the sessions but for him, it had been so much more.

"Thanks so much Souman." she whispered, her small voice floating from behind the veil of her hair to caress his ear. It hit him like a slap. Tensing he moved away so his thigh was not touching hers.

"When do you meet with Martineau?" He knew he should not ask but the words left his lips before he could stop himself.

"Tomorrow at nine..." she rubbed her eyes, "Funny, I was so looking forward to it."

"And?" he asked, his ears perking up, hope causing his heart to jump in his chest.

"I....I...." she shrugged and never finished her sentence. And that was how they left it as she got up, got dressed and left.

He did not know why he had suddenly been paralysed with misery. It had suddenly enveloped him and crippled him to his bed. Work, he did not get to not; fortunately it was a weekend. He just lay in bed, clothed in his boxers and the memories of Mikhaila.

He remembered how the first time, when he had taken her as carefully as he could she had taken a sharp breath and then quickly covered her mouth as if in apology. He had had to kiss her fingers away, coaxing her to relax and focus on his lips until he could begin to move and take her with him where passion was leading. Or the smile on her face the first time she made him scream his incoherent release against the contracting muscles of her throat. He remembered everything. Every gasp, every moan, every touch, every chuckle, whisper and soft scream. He even remembered the time she had been laughing so hard that she had farted and how he had laughed himself silly at the mortified expression on her face.

He remembered it all. As well as the fact that the only reason she had come to him was because she had lied to Martineau that she so much more sexually aware than she was. From the corner of his eye, the green lights on the digital clock said that she was probably continuing that lie with a very convincing performance. He curled up on his side and tried to go to sleep.

Her cold hands on his back propelled him awake. Her eyes blinked back from him from behind a screen of braids.

"What are you doing here?" he looked at the clock. He had only been asleep for thirty minutes.

She shrugged and moved to take peel her jacket off her small shoulders. The lace of her corset peeked out at him.
"You know you did not lock the front door. Has it been like that since I left?" She asked.
He nodded.
She took off all her clothes except for her panties and crawled beneath the sheets with her back to him.
"I did not go to him." she whispered, "just in case you are wondering."
He nodded and pulled her form against him, burying his face in her hair with gratitude.
"I propose you never do." he said to her.
"I agree" she replied.

Where the critters lay

When I saw them scurrying down the steep slope, I remembered the conversation myself and my friend Yetunde had had only thirty minutes earlier when she had exclaimed "Can you imagine the audacity?!"

Sensing the humour behind the question, I had laughed and asked "What is it again?" because she had only just outlined the most ridiculous plan ever to find herself a husband.

"It is these two rats here," she replied hissing, "they are fighting in front of me..."

I had imagined her facial expression, the two tiny things oblivious to their audience and started to chuckle.

"Chase them away naa." I had suggested.

"Ehn, me?" she must have shaken her head because there had been the sound of movement against the phone, "Noooo, before the vex and bite me. You remember what happened to Sylvia when she said the rat in her house threw something at her from on top of the cupboard when she was chasing it?"

So, that was why when I saw the two squirrels hurtling down the steep incline of landscaping near the road, I did not move to stop them; ask them to slow down or point out that it was rush hour and that cars were speeding down the street.

I looked away only for a moment and that was all it took for one of them to launch itself on the street in a bid to get to the other side where the trees were plentiful and filled with nuts and unripe fruit for their possibly famished bellies. It happened so fast. It probably never saw the grey Toyota Corolla coming and I am sure neither did its driver see Brown Squirrel Number II.

It was an excruciating two minutes watching helplessly as the tiny form struggled to hold on to this incarnation, its tiny limbs thrusting out rapidly and furiously in the air as if to grab at the tiny thread that was life itself. What could I do? Nothing. Though not a fan of the pesky critters and always the first to complain how the laws in this country prevented me from indulging myself in some fresh bush meat stew, I still was not hardened in the face of pain.

So, I said to it, "Let Go. Move on. You are done here. May The Blessings Be." And meant it. I hoped it had learned all the lessons it needed to afford it a return into a higher state of consciousness and that it realised that the use of speed while moving should be in combination with caution and good vision.

It must have either heard me, realised what I had said was true or both because its limbs slowed to a still certainty. It had crossed over. Painfully, but over nonetheless.

I looked to see if Brown Squirrel Number I was somehow standing at the roadside, his/her hat in hand mourning the vicious and abrupt passing of their comrade. There was nothing there. God knew what He was doing when He made souls at all different levels. For them, it was all about survival of the fittest.

My bus arrived and I too moved on.

Barbara

"Thank you for coming." he says to her. They are looking into each other's eyes and she is trying not to blink. The words sound to her like she imagines they would if he were talking to one of his clients at the office. She does not respond. She neither wants to be there under the circumstances nor is she about to make the whole process easy for him. She is pissed and a whole lot at him.

He sighs. Then he rubs his eyes. They look tired. She mentally chides herself for filling sorry for him. She wants him to feel as bad and as hurt as she is. He senses her coldness and the weight of it make his shoulders sag. He is upset with himself that he is the result of her pain.

"How have you been?" he asks, then wonders what he expects her to say. She does not disappoint.

"How do you think I feel?" her retort is sharp and swift.

He tenses. She is spoiling for a fight and he refuses to give her one. First, there is no reason to fight and second, they are in a public place.

"This is not where I expected to be. You must understand that." he tells her.

"I should know," she replies sarcasm drenching her words and bringing her upper lip up in an unpleasant snarl, "I am supposed to be on my honeymoon." She pauses and touches her finger to the lip as though in thought, "but no, no, my fiancee has broken it off to go be with his..."

"Be careful" he warns, the tone of his voice sending a chill down her spine and bringing tears to her eyes. He never would have spoken to her like this in the past. Now...

He sees he has shaken her and is immediately contrite. He reaches for her right hand that she has placed on the table beside her untouched glass of water.

"Barbara, I am sorry..."

She shakes her head and pulls her hand away to reach in her purse for her handkerchief. She needs to stop the tears and buy herself time for composure. He realises that some of the other patrons in the restaurant are beginning to stare at their table. Most of them are staring at him in accusation; especially the women. They seem to all know that he is responsible for her distress. He sits back in his chair and looks at the table setting before him.

"I only came because it seemed like no one was going to leave me alone until I did." she says finally. Her voice is no longer as strong or as bitter. Now, she too is showing her fatigue. It has been a long day and a long year for both of them.

"I never got a chance to say how sorry I was. I promise you that I never betrayed the relationship the way you always imagined...."

"I know that you never slept with her." she tells him.

This is news to him and it shows on his face. "Then why...?"

"It is not only through sex that one betrays a relationship. No, you never cheated on me physically but yes, you betrayed me. Because every moment that I thought I was sharing my life with you, you were sharing yours with someone else. What I don't understand is why you played along until the very end. You would have married me, wouldn't you, had I not called it off?"

He does not answer and instead looks at his hands.

"How is she?" she asks. He thinks about how she is and a small smile comes to his lips. Barbara sees it and a little part of her dies an abrupt and painful death. It takes all of her not to gasp out in pain. Instead, she channels all her energy into maintaining a fixed mask of tired indifference.

"She is doing great. She sends her regards. She would have come..."

Barbara knows that too as well as why she didn't. She knows that Khaltoume does not need to come to speak with her because she already has. It was that conversation that has propelled her to meet with Martin in this restaurant overlooking the lagoon.

"I am not sorry I love him or that he loves me. I am only sorry that our doing so is causing you pain. We never planned it or even worked to make it happen. It just did. It is okay if you never forgive me but you must forgive him because he fought to stay with you for as long as he could." Khaltoume had said.

To Barbara, that statement makes no sense at all. All she knows is that her boyfriend of three years and fiancee of one is now married to her daughter.

Razzness is an art...

I am razz. And proudly so.

I speak my mother tongue, read and write it well.

I can transition between the crudest of accents and hold a convo in pidgin.

I love that I can balance a tray on my head and roll up a scarf to support it.

I always gather the folds of my bubu under my pits and tilt my head tie to the side.

I can dance the yahoozee, galala and s-wooo very well

I have thighs strengthened from gripping to the sides of okada for long periods of time as well as....

I have a nose piercing

I snap my gum when i chew

I would rather eat at mama-put any day

I talk loudly all the time and I don't care...

I speak my mind as long as I know I can 1) handle the consequences, 2) I can beat up any one who objects and 3) my house is not too far if 1&2 don't apply

I sometimes go for lunch at Mama Beatrice, the woman who roasts corn, yam and plantains on my estate

I lace and gele is a necessity for every woman.

I wear huge costume gold jewelry

I have about three Alhajas in my family and they all sell fabric, have gold teeth, wear fake lashes and drink stout.

I am razz jare. No long thing.

If my aunty asks you where her iphone is, tell her that I don't know.

I am serious, I don't.

Wait, let me stop this music so I can see who is calling me sef...

Like I said, I don't know

She that foundeth a husband....

I saw him.

I wanted him.

I facebooked him.

I added him.

He added me.

I messaged him.

On something that had nothing to do with him.

He replied me.

Then we chatted.

Then we emailed properly.

With our gmail accounts.

There we chatted as well.

Then he asked for my number.

Then he called me.

Then I called him.

Then he was coming to town.

So he asked if he could see me.

I said ok, that I would like to see him.

So we met and we saw each other.

We had fun.

He came back.

We had more fun.

Then I went over.

And had more fun.

Then I came back home.

And invited him over.

He came.

It had been all planned.

I was ready.

And I let him know.

It was magical as expected.

The next morning we talked.

And talked.

We were going to make it work.

We did.

It took us four years.

We made it work.

Then he tied me to him with a good old fashioned rock.

Over cake and wine, he said to the guests

"He that findeth a woman...."

I smiled to myself.

Because if anyone had been foundeth

It had been me finding him