32 Days of Christmas: Day 15
Growing up, when shame was still a construct reserved for adults and big cities, I was a lover. Oh, I was. I still like to believe I am, though now I’m a bit bruised, a bit experienced. War does that. Oh, did I say war? I meant love. Love, after all, is a war between desire and reality. At least in my mind.
Back when I was still a lover’s lover, I sent two people letters, if memory serves me right. One was to a girl from a rival school; the other to a local girl—a taller one—who sat right in front of me in class. Always in my periphery. You can imagine how I let my heart out completely in her letter.
Both turned down the letters. Still, I feel no regret for either of them.
We, or rather I, sent letters on Sundays, through middlemen: people who couldn’t quite find love themselves, so they chose to hover close enough to the romance to feel its warmth. The middlemen didn’t ask for much back then, only plausible deniability in case the letters ever reached the police. Oh, sorry. Teachers.
They always read the letters before delivering them, obviously, but it didn’t matter. I chose trustworthy middlemen. I only made arrangements with men I trusted. A decent metaphor for life, even today.
The first letter I sent to the girl in front of me was a birthday invitation. My birthday. She said yes and brought me a cute little notebook, with a note inside wishing me all the best. It was adorable. Looking back I think she’s the reason I love notebooks so much, aside from using them to write down my strange epiphanies.
The letters that followed were more intentional. I wanted to know what she was up to: which teachers she liked or hated, who was making moves on her in class and needed to be dealt with. She replied to all of them face to face. One, because she lived with a strict uncle and letters piling up on her nightstand would only land her in trouble. Two, because her message was simple and didn’t require paper. She wanted to focus on her studies. God, haven’t I heard that a lot over the years!
Bummer.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it. It was a reasonable answer. Technically, it wasn’t a no. But it later revealed itself as one, and far too late to act on.
The second girl was tougher prey. She was sought after by every predator in the little jungle enclosed by the sugarcane plantations of Muron samba. I only wrote her one letter, and it was a bold move, especially since everyone else in our friend group was already shooting their shots. I had to be different. Besides, back then, with all the snitching from less prettier girls, writing a letter was almost taboo. Especially to a girl from a rival school.
But I didn’t care. I had my reasons. I also had the quiet backing of most teachers, so I sort of knew it wouldn’t become a big deal.
My middleman did his job well too. The letter was in her hands by Monday morning parade.
I don’t remember the contents clearly, but I know I’d cringe if I read it now. I had no real command of the Queen’s language and was painfully direct with my intentions. My handwriting was terrible too. The only thing I remember is writing percentages of my “undying love”. I realized the letter had reached her when another girl in my class started repeating those exact percentages back to me—and I knew the mbogi had read it.
Aaah. I wanted to bury my head in the sand.
I didn’t like that her friends read it, but I don’t regret their reading it, or my writing to her. It was bold. It was genuine. It was cringe, the way love should be to outsiders, the way it should be when you’re a kid. This was before phones, too, and I couldn’t bear waiting an entire week just to see or reach her again.
I don’t know. I miss writing letters. They’re immutable. They’re permanent proof that someone thinks of you even when they’re gone, even when you’re no longer speaking. When I write to Chep, girl 2 sometimes asks why I never wrote her that way.
I’ve received quite a number of letters over the years, and I’ve kept every single one. I move houses with them. I reread them often. I take pictures of them and photocopy some, just to reduce the risk of loss. I add my own replies to them, but I don’t send them back. They’re to be read only after I depart.
You know what? To hell with it. I’m going to write more letters. This coming year I want to commit to being a more involved friend. Someone who writes like Napoleon. Someone who reaches out first. Someone unafraid of intimacy.
That should extend to you.
So I will write you more.
✍🏽Reagan.