I see the passion in your eyes when you tell me how much you like me. I see the truth in the words you say. When you say I have been part of the drastic growth you have experienced and that I have helped greatly in shaping you to the man you currently are, I believe you. I know how desperately you wish I would remain a part of your life, not as a mere friend but as a lover, a partner and very likely a wife.
When you openly express your gratitude to me and do little things just to make me happy, I want to love you too. When I look at you, I see a man who listens. I see a man I can work with, dream with, live with.
Mama once said it is better for a lady to be with the one who loves her. She will grow to love him, mama said. I believe her, more from experience than from obedience.
I have loved men who do not deserve a microsecond of my attention and though I tell you when we have our beautiful talks, that I do not think about men as I should, I lie to myself and then to you!
I lie like I do about the young man that I like a lot. The one in whom I see greatness in. The one I know I like, to that point that I usually find myself dreaming of making love to him. He is the first young man I’ve ever liked this much. I am scared that I will let what feelings I have for him take over my senses and this is why I do not look into his eyes when I talk to him. I know that he knows that I like him a lot. I know that he knows that I am scared of what may be an inevitable end – hate. I also know that he knows that I know that he likes me too. I fear that our likeness for each other is merely a facade, like dry gum swab which can easily be peeled off from a finger. Every time I think of him, I think I am letting lust get in the way of my feelings.
It is probably just his confidence that attracts me, or the fact that he is a work-in-progress, or perhaps his soft curly hair or his endless optimism. I want to convince myself that these are not reasons enough to like a man this much.
I say he only likes my hips and loves my brain. These are not reasons enough, young lady! But do I care?
I think I like his body too, young and adventurous. I want to know, how strong is his game? Will he kiss my nipples and bite them just like I want? Will he let his small man stay in me even after he comes? Will he smell my hair and say that he loves me? Will he stare at my body and marvel at its beauty?
This young man likes me, I know. He said it to me the other day. He said,’ ‘I love you’ and I smiled because somewhere in my heart is a small voice that nudges me to take my time and somewhere else is a loud voice that pushes me to go on and live!
So I push away my fear and one day I say to him, ‘I think I love you too’ or did I? I don’t think so. These words I fear to say but caution to the wind is accepting that I want him in me and telling him same, seeing each other every other week to fulfil our sexual cravings and knowing that the love he declared for me is nothing compared to the one he shares with the other lady who covers her hair.
This adventure saddens and excites me and each dose of excitement pulls me away from the knowledge that genuine love would happen for me but I say to myself, this young man loves me and this is a lie.
So my darling, when you tell me that you are in love with me, I think of the men who have said same to me.
When you say you never want to see me suffer, I think you are reading to me a script.
When you say you admire my strength and affection, I think you are merely trying to buy into my weakness.
When you scoff and say you can never marry a woman from your tribe, I think of those who said same to me.
When you can’t control the urge to hold my hands, I think you need reassurance that life can be lived and dreams can come true. I do not let myself think that you hold my hands because you love me.
I brush away thoughts of us together, not because I do not find you worthy but because whether or not I accept it, I am a broken lady. Look beyond the strength I exude and see the fear I nurse. Loving a man is never enough. I’d love to love you beyond your expectations, to cheer you through your journey into success. Indeed you’ve seen the extent to which I go for those I love but love shared to all is to me better than love lavished on one.
Do not believe what I say about the mistakes I made with past love. Do believe that they do not stop me from loving but do not believe that I have not taken down lessons from them; mental lessons that play out when another comes to declare love to me.
I want to love you in a special way but I can’t. Knowing how I’d thence be called your partner and would not be able to declare the love I have for others without first wondering how it would make you feel, scares me. Knowing how that special love would eat into my soul that I’d be in a level of social bondage, irritates me. I’d rather love everyone, my darling, and love you same way. So no, I cannot give you that special love you crave.