Going through episodes quickly. He came here. He left. I went there a few years later. I came back here. I went back there. I came back here (almost didn't). Changed my whole life around, became Muslim, tried to learn a new language.
One day I got a letter in the mail. Or rather, a parcel. A beautiful delicate statue of an african woman, pouring water over her head. And with it the letter. Professing his undying love, that had never been mentionned before. Wanting to spend the rest of his life with me. My mariage proposal came from across the sea, via Canada Post. I like to say I was a mail-order bride.
He was working oout in the jungle, no internet for email, no telephone number for me to call back, and I think he didn't even have an address at the time. Not locally anyway. So I had to phone his family in Dakar to ask them to tell him, next time they were able to contact him, to give me a call. He called on a Sunday morning in June, to wish me happy birthday. I wished him happy birthday too, since we are only a couple of days apart. Then I said: tell your dad to slaughter a lamb, I accept. Took him a few minutes to comprehend what I was saying: telephone lines from Guinnea Bissau are not the greatest. Then I think the surprise and happiness got the better of him, and he was speechless for a few moments. And before our time ran out on his calling card, he promised to call again next Sunday so that we could start planning the wedding.
Thank God for the Post Office, who sent me the best husband ever.
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