Letters

These cheesy love things…. Read on   

                          
                                    Simon Opio
                                  P.O Box 23407
                                      5th/11/2004

Dear Sister

I have met her.

My sister, I have met the girl I am going to marry. Despite my usual cynicism, I know she’s the one. I remember how you used to say that when I finally fell for someone, I’d stop snarking about love. Well, the day has finally come when you can gloat and say, “I told you so” (please don’t say it).

That twin intuition (these days they call it twintuition, apparently) that you have about me is spot on. I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t mean it. But here’s the simple truth: I have met her. And my God, is she beautiful. Like, seriously beautiful. But her eyes…

Forgive my rudeness. I think you can tell by the way I’m writing this that I’m beyond elated. So let me ask what I should have started with at the beginning: how are you? How is the cold weather treating you?

Your last letter—where you whined and whined as if you are not the strong Acholi woman your mother raised you to be—was dated two weeks ago. By the way, I received it just yesterday. I know these letters take a lifetime to get to you. I’m sorry I haven’t opened an email address yet, but really, don’t you find that writing on paper is a little more—what’s the word I’m looking for—authentic? Romantic, even?

Granted, it takes a longer time for letters to reach you, but I prefer putting pen to paper and essentially pouring out my feelings. Wait, what am I saying? I’m a man. I’m not supposed to show weakness of any kind. And you know, feelings are a weakness in men. I can picture you scoffing at that little quip. Those white people are going to spoil you, my sister—you know we don’t scoff, we roll our eyes. Well, you women roll your eyes and jeer. The men? Well, we just shake our heads. And I accept that we do jeer—sometimes. Just sometimes…

Anyway, I hope you are fine.

Back to my soliloquy: I just met her yesterday when I went to pick up these letters from the post office. She has the most amazing eyes I have ever seen on a woman. And her voice—like a thousand angels lent her their voices so she could speak to a lowly mortal like myself.

(Maybe I’m over-exaggerating. Blame it on all those Shakespeare and Lord Byron poems you forced down my throat.)

I don’t know her name yet. Like the bumbling idiot I am, I forgot to ask the most basic things. I just looked across a room full of old, stuffy post office boxes—there she was, and it was like I was sucked into her eyes. Did I mention she has beautiful eyes?

I remember thinking to myself, Oh my God, what the hell just happened to me?

It was almost like I was hit with Zeus’ lightning bolt… or is it Odin’s? I’m not quite sure. Blame it on the lightning bolt—it’s temporarily fried my senses.

Remember when Father used to lecture me about marriage? One time I asked him how I’d know who my wife would be. He looked at me and said, “Son, when you see her, you’ll know.”

At the time, I thought the hopeless romanticism that all you women in our family thrive on had somehow rubbed off on our otherwise mentally stable father. I remember looking at him like he was crazy. Like all those love songs your mother and sisters love to play had gotten into his head. He just laughed that hearty laugh of his and said, in response to my puzzled expression, “You’ll see, son. You’ll see.”

Well… it happened. I saw her yesterday. And I just knew. I just knew she would be my wife. I saw the proverbial light, so to speak. It’s like something just clicked into place. It’s unbelievable. Mental, even. I know—you’re probably thinking I need to go see Doctor Adupa at Butabika, or have a lobotomy or something of the sort.

But hey, aren’t we all just a little bit mental?

I know what I’m writing reads like those romantic novels you love and also seem to love torturing me with. (Seriously, in all the bookstores on every corner in Liverpool, the best book you could find me was a Danielle Steel novel? Not John Grisham or Sidney Sheldon?)

But my sister, this is my reality right now.

So anyway, I’ll keep you posted on what happens next in the Simon and ______ love story. This is just the first chapter.

As that dude who translates movies always says at the start: Katadinka butandisi, maaso kulutimbe.

The kids are fine. I’m sure they’ll tell you all about their school problems themselves.

P.S. I’m sure it’s not love at first sight. I still don’t believe that exists. It’s—what’s the best word here?—knowledge at first sight? Admiration at first sight? Perhaps it’s lightning at first sight. You’re the literature student, not I.

P.P.S. Please do not laugh at me.

P.P.P.S. More of that chocolate, please.

Your twin Brother
                                               Simon