The lady whom we had envisaged would be my messiah elicited no affirmative response to my proposal. Of course, I didn’t expect an instantaneous yes. That, in the myth of women, might mean selling herself cheap. Men are apparently used to that fake originality. Ladies dilly-dally a lot. What they would eat they would sniff as though therein were poisonous substances.
I wasn’t giving up. I was dogged. What had been said of her got my heart a great deal. It was just like there could be no other person to fit into my desire. But my hope was rather kept in Allah.
“Why would you not throw me your heart in matrimony? Can’t you see this cute guy is already sunk in the ocean of your love? Why procrastinate a phenomenon that could result in a regrettable hypertension? What exactly do you seek of a man that is absent in my specially branded make-up? Could you please surrender your heart to me and you would never bite your fingers you did?” Those were some of my expressions at my second encounter with her. But she insisted she was still thinking about it. So I was kept in the cloud.
As a legitimately born, bred son of his father, I kept hope alive pressuring affectionately and tenaciously. I didn’t bother to look elsewhere because I had a mission that could only be made manifest by her or her like. The friend told me assuredly that the possibility of her being mine was high. I got a bit relieved but not so soothing.
“I hope this last encounter be my first happy moment with you. I want to end this call with a yes or a no today, even though I know the former, not the later, would be your choice. All I ask is that you be my wife, and I will make a fabulous husband,” I said in another encounter, but this time, on phone.
“Could you please reply to the following questions:
1. why me – a scarf user – of all the hijab sisters on campus?
2. wouldn’t some sisters be mad at me that I wasn’t your match religiously?” she probed.