For the past couple of years, I have written letters to my husband- whom I don’t know, haven’t met (or maybe we have met, I don’t know) and have no clue about. I would tell him what is happening to me, what I feel, and how I think I would feel when it’s over.
I think of names to call him that are not usual, maybe something Hispanic *abeg+eye roll* or French- what with French being synonymous to love. If a name could be worn out, I think Nigerians would be on the A-list of ‘wear-out’ers.
From Darling, sweetheart, honey, to mama Amaka, papa Amaka, that has been the norm, I tell my husband I would like to call him something different, and hope that he calls me something different too.
Not like: ‘hey, something different, come see this’ sic.
I want him to know me from when I’m growing up, I want him to feel the difference in my thoughts as I grow, evident in every letter I write.
I let him know about my devotion to him, because I love him. Because he’s my friend.
I number the letters too, so that he’ll know the sequence in which I write them.
In every one I write, I’m honest, no disguises, no pretence, just me: stripped of all the mind decoration, so that I can say what is on my mind as it comes, after all, we would be together for the rest of our lives.
I write letters to my future husband, and I always end them with ‘yours, always’.