A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED – EPISODE 7

A Fresh Start


Now I know it’s ok to be a no-frills girl. I approached this project from the wrong angle. I tried to change myself to suit society’s framework and that wasn’t necessary to help me find a man. Nunya is proof of that. Nunya, even though he hurt me, showed me that the problem is not with me. I am capable of risking everything for love. I’m not detached like Mansa thought I was; like I thought I was. Even though it opened up a world of pain like I never knew, it also opened up a world of beautiful wonder like I never imagined existed. And in life, you can’t have one without the other.

One evening, as I rushed to finish two large cupcake orders that were due the next day, my mother walks in rather early from one of her outings looking chipper.

“You’re early,” I noted. “Why, your friends had to leave?”

“She put her handbag down on the couch and walked up to the counter of the kitchen which overlooked the living area.

“Oh, I didn’t go to see my friends. We had another family meeting.”

“Someone else died?”

“No, they just called and said the only time we meet is when there’s s funeral to be planned and they want to change that. So today we just met up to talk and reminisce.”

“Hmm, nice. The next time, you people should order cupcakes.”

My mother laughs. “Half of them have no teeth.”

My mother comes from a very huge family of 46 children, step children from both of my grandparents included. Some of them have passed on but those that remain are always at each other’s throats. It’s nice to see they are trying to work it out. It certainly seems to be doing my mother good.

“What are you making? Can I help?” My mother offers. She’s never offered before.

I nod and look at her, all dressed and made up and wondering why I didn’t turn out like her. Because I recall wanting to dress like her when I was much younger. I guess that when it was time for her to school me in the customs of a normal girl, she was too busy worrying about me not adding to her woes by getting pregnant so I didn’t get to wear the latest shoes and hair accessories growing up like my friends in school; I didn’t get to go out to the many kids’ variety shows and paid excursions; I wasn’t socialised.

This realisation doesn’t anger me; far from it. In fact, I have found a new appreciation for my mother. I imagine her feeling the way I do about Nunya’s leaving and not being able to give herself over to the grieving process because she had mouths to feed.

And to some extent, what she did, though misguided was partly for my benefit. What parents don’t want to accept is that their children’s lives are theirs to live. They are entitled to their own mistakes, their own choices.

We finish the cakes at 3 a.m.

The next day, when I arrive home after the long day of deliveries and setting up at the parties they were ordered for, I give my mother a long hug. I believe it is the first time I have voluntarily hugged her. It feels good.

I lie in bed that night trying to ignore the pain in my feet and my back.

In the dead of night, I wake up with a jolt and I don’t know what woke me; it wasn’t a bad dream. Then I start to panic. What was the point of Nunya crashing into my life like that? I fell in love and yet I’m no closer to having a companion than I was before.

Then it occurs to me that I had lost sight of my goal. I didn’t set out to fall in love; I set out to find a companion. I was happier when I didn’t have this. Happy in my own cynical way but at least I was content and clear headed. But this collision of souls blind-sided me and the explosion caused such a burst of debris that our pieces are all mixed up in each other and I can’t tell them apart. We gravitate towards the experiences we are meant to have. Even though what I had with him is tearing me apart because I don’t have it anymore, it was the most wonderful thing I have ever felt and in some ways, I am grateful for it, but really, what was the point?

Could it all have been for me to understand my mother better? Was that the purpose of this cruel joke the cosmos played on me?

There are days when I can almost feel him and I’m expecting him to call any moment but he never does. And there are days when I hit such a low that all I care to do is stay in bed. I don’t remember when it happens but I fall asleep again.

* * *
Ayitey and I are no longer in each other’s company every day. Part of the reason is that I don’t feel like company most of the time, and the other reason is that Ayitey finally chose a woman to be exclusive with. I’m happy for him.

Even though I don’t want to spend time with company, spending time alone doesn’t do for me what it used to do. It’s almost like solitude took offence in my romance with Nunya and became hostile to me.


I need change, a new experience; something to jolt me out of the doldrums. As I stand in the kitchen mixing batter a thought comes to me. I need to move out of the house. I need to get my own place. Rediscover myself get comfortable with myself again. Then maybe I can resume my quest for a lifetime companion. Ayitey’s finding someone has reiterated the need for me to expedite my actions.

A month later, I find a place. Not too far from my mother because I want to be able to check on her regularly. She complains about me leaving her alone but soon she accepts it and even agrees to take in one of her siblings’ children who just started a day not far from our place secondary school.

Ayitey helps me move in. It is a one bedroom apartment with a spacious kitchen that overlooks the living room. It reminds me of home and the transition is a little bit smoother.

My first night there, I lie on my bed in my new room and listen to the cars driving past outside and the leaves rustling on the trees outside my window. This is mine, at least for the next two years, and this is where I start afresh.

A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED – EPISODE 6

Withdrawal



One month, two weeks and three days since I refused to see or speak to anyone. My mother can’t figure out what is wrong and it drives her mad. She yells constantly about not eating and being silly but it all falls on deaf ears and a numb heart.

People talk of hearts shattering into a thousand pieces and I always thought that’s what heart break would actually feel like. It surprises me that I still put any trust in what people say; especially now that I discovered that “breaking” is not the right adjective. It is more like when you leave your hands on a block of ice for too long and your fingers start to get numb but somehow transport the feeling of painful freezing to your heart, and then soon your whole body starts to go cold. I have read that with hypothermia, after that feeling gets considerably worse, you lose you cognitive functions and soon you cease to feel anything because your heart stops beating.

And that’s what heartbreak is to me; hypothermia.

My mind takes every waking nano second (sleeping ones too) and dedicates it to him. I try to think if I said something or did something or didn’t say or do something that could have made him want to stay and I’ve come up with thousands of things.

I should have been kinder, been smarter, been more attentive, tried harder to understand his misery; a thousand things which, if I was within my senses, I’d have dismissed as being absurd.
I took to picking up every single trinket from his travels he had given me and looking so hard at it that I thought I had bent it with my mind in one instance. I don’t know what I expected from such behaviour. Perhaps I thought unconsciously that it was some link to him and since he had owned some of them for years that he was connected to them in a way that could allow me to communicate with him. Needless to say, I heard nothing from him. Useless, lifeless things!

Ayitey and Mansa came over to the house on several occasions, but I would only say to them without opening my door, that I wanted to be alone. One time Ayitey camped outside my door till morning to guilt me in to coming out. It didn’t work. I got many messages on facebook from Deladem asking why the prolonged silence saying he thought I was enjoying the relationship a tad too much if I was ignoring him. I just could not bring myself to tell him.

In the later days, I have tried to console myself with musings, thoughts that, even though are of a more general nature, cannot possibly be devoid of his influence. For instance I pondered: If great love is possible then great sorrow can only be a planet’s half rotation away. We live in a world of opposites; of contrasts; of duality in which one thing cannot exist without it’s opposite. Day and night, light and dark – If heartbreak was my constant state of being, would I know it as such an unpleasant feeling, or is it because I have felt the opposite that I am so irreparably injured? Isn’t it because some people have the most fun after hours that they crave the night when it is day?

When we speak and tell people things do they understand our words the way we do? When I said I love him did he understand the different emotions that coursed through me and thudded through my heart as I said it? Did he know that I meant that I think about him all the time and worry about him all the time, and feel him even when he’s not around? Did he get that I imagined my life without him several times and the sheer dread of it knocked the very wind out of me and left me gagging; shaking my head vehemently and telling myself that I should not think about it for fear of losing my mind. Did he understand that I meant out of all the men I have ever met and those I haven’t or am yet to, he is the one who I feel connects with my very essence? Did he get that he is the one who I am convinced is the missing part of my puzzle? And when he said it back or even when he said it voluntarily, what was the feeling behind this three word sentence?

I mean, how can such a complicated myriad of feelings be pushed into so few words and be expected to be understood. And when we think what we feel is love, is it really?

Two months after my hibernation, I meet Mansa and Ayitey at The Republic Bar for drinks. Mansa says the obligatory things which she assumes will help me feel better but it only infuriates me. Then I go off on her:

“You know nothing! This is not one of your cursory romances where by the 3rd month you’re already looking for the next Mr. Right. This is not me getting better and feeling better about the fact that he left me. What are you going to say next, it’s his loss, and he doesn’t know what he’s missing? Good riddance to bad rubbish, the next one will be better? It’s a blessing in disguise; the right man is still out there? What? What? You know when you said it’s supposed to take at least three months to get over love; show’s how much you know, because if it’s real love, you never get over it.” My heart beat, which I am hearing for the first time in months, is so loud in my ears it drowns out the live band playing outside. it suddenly dawns on me that I could be feeling this anguish for the rest of my life and just as quickly as I blew up, I deflate and sink back down into body racking sobs.

Ayitey puts his arms around me and Mansa, who I sense is very hurt by my outburst, puts her feelings aside and does the same. Thankfully, we are the only ones inside because everyone else is outside listening to the band.

* * *
Something must give. It just has to. I am only able to come back to baking after the third month. And I drown myself in it. There is a definite shift in the universe and somehow losing Nunya has brought me more business. But it happens just at this moment when I am at the stage where I crave distractions from my own thoughts. It’s uncanny but I embrace it tightly with both arms. In the moments when I allow myself to think I still think about him; worry about him, long for him.

It is at this time that I decide that life must go on. I call Mansa and apologise for my scene at the bar and even agree to go on a blind date with one of her friends just to make it up to her.
While I sit in this restaurant across this absolutely handsome and charming man who is well dressed and speaks impeccably about his life and work, a familiar quickening of my heart resulting in warmth spreading all over my body visits me.

“Say that again?” I say to my date, thinking it was what he just said.

“I said the difference between African writers and foreign writers these days is we tend to do more social commentary while they do more introspective pieces,” he answers.

Interesting observation but that wasn’t it. He keeps talking and the feeling stays and if I didn’t know better I’d say it was because of him, but something tells me it’s not. This is when I really look at him. He is gorgeous and he sounds smart and he reads! This is the type of man I am usually attracted to but tonight I feel nothing for him. Not even a thought that he might come to mean something to me in later times crosses my mind. I involuntarily think to myself, I will never meet him again after this night. He doesn’t kindle anything in me and I wonder if this is how it will feel for the rest of my life without Nunya; the inability to connect with anyone else.

When I get home, I finally send Deladem a message and say simply, “I’m alone again”. Deladem never disappoints me. He is the tonic I need; I realise this as he tells me that these things happen. He types that in times of despair, all I need to do is remember the really good times and know that in those moments when I felt we both connected strongly, is was real and it is mine to revisit over and over again if I want. Whatever else happened afterwards, in that moment we were perfect to each other.

Strange words; stranger still that they make absolute sense and settle me and the strangest of all, is that after our conversation, I pick up one of Nunya’s trinkets and stare hard at it again only this time I smile at it. And when I do, that familiar warm feeling washes over me again and I feel unusually happy. And then I remember; this is how I used to feel when our telepathic conversations started.

For fear of being disappointed I can’t let myself hope for what I think this possibly means.

A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED – EPISODE 5

Ensnared!


Some say it is only when you dwell on a curse that it affects you. You’d have to believe in it to give it life. I never gave one thought to that curse Mansa put on me; not until I met Nunya; Nunya with his intense, silent stare and his few but significant words. And yet here I am a living witness to what Mansa gleefully calls my one great love and what I call the most bewildering experience of my life.

I find myself sitting and watching him, unable to tear away my eyes for a second and when he catches me in a stare I just smile because he smiles at me first. He knows I watch him. He watches me too and it’s the most beautiful feeling in the world to know someone you are deeply attached to is just as attached to you.

It is in these moments of bliss that I also feel the most intense fear. Because discovering how happy I can be also reveals to me how devastated I can get if this feeling should somehow be lost. If this is what love is then Mansa and all those who have told me of how wonderful it is have grossly misled me. No one ever mentions the tumultuous sea of emotions you are bombarded with every single day; the anxiety, the uncertainty, the self-doubt (this amazing person wants me? why? Never mind that you’ve been telling yourself your whole life how ‘wantable’ you are), the powerful joy that threatens to cause your heart to explode because you think you can’t contain it. And let’s not forget the constant need to speak to the other, see the other; be in each other’s personal spaces; be so close that you want to enter them, be a part of them.

I feel most at ease when I am by myself. I enjoy solitude, always have. It’s the time when I get to think, uninterrupted; a time when I feel whole. But lately, even when I am alone, I do not feel alone. It’s this persistent knowledge somewhere in the recess of my mind that someone, somewhere is there with me. I can only explain it as having a telepathic relationship. That even when we are apart and not talking, we’re having long winding conversations and when we meet and do talk we’re just continuing where we left off in our minds.

Our relationship moves at lightning speed like its making up for lost time. Like somehow we had been marking time until we met each other and now that what we were waiting for has arrived there was no need to tarry. That makes me happy until he says to me once “It feels like I’ve known you forever; it took me months to feel for my other girlfriends, half of what I feel for you after two weeks.”

I smile but inside I am torn because even though he means it as a positive thing, all I hear is “our relationship will age in dog years, and soon, we will reach the end.

Nunya is amazing! I am not saying this because I’ve been “blinded by love” as Mansa and Ayitey would like to believe. Anyone who meets him knows he is something special. He's a gifted artists. "Artist with no barriers" he calls himself. He paints, sculpts, plays the guitar, writes, weaves, prints; everything artistic. he is well-read and has travelled the world on art scholarships since he was in university. He has a propensity to learn things and once he learns them he is hit over and over again by how unfair and unbalanced and hopeless the world is. He is burdened by the feeling of powerlessness to overcome the things that ail the world and this unsettles him.

He has moments when it all becomes too much and it over powers him and he transforms into a shadow clinging to darkness and solitude, indiscernible; wanting only to disappear into nothingness.

The first time it happened on my watch, I thought it was something I did or said. After three weeks of unspeakable happiness together he disappears on me without a word.

I am plagued with three lonely, sleepless nights until on the morning of the fourth day when he calls me. In the time he was away I still felt him there, in my mind. Our physical relationship might have been put on hold but telepathically, we still connected and still had our conversations.

The day after he physically comes back to me, we meet up and head out of town to the mountains for a picnic at his suggestion. Sitting on the blanket in the grass with two glasses of sweet Bordeaux in between us, he assures me that I had nothing to do with his withdrawal. He explains to me his inner despair with all life. He questions the purpose of life; of his existence. He shakes his fist at the big bang (he is an atheist) and wishes it had never happened. He understands how humans can create for themselves something to worship, a life after this one; something to give our existence meaning. However, he sees the futility of our efforts especially since these imaginary gods can't seem to quell our incessant desire to be hateful towards each other.

I ask him, “But if we have created this mechanism of religion and spirituality to help us get through why can’t you?”
He replies, “Because I know it’s pointless, this lie has been told over and over again for so long, that humans actually believe it to be true.”

I am at a loss as to what to say to him; how to help him. What a burden for one man to carry. This is such a new problem to me. Of course these questions have crossed my mind but I always will them out of my consciousness as my mother suggested I do. At barely 10 years old, I had asked her how we know there is God if we have never seen him. “Shh, don’t think about these things. We just know, we had to have come from somewhere,” she had replied.

Now as I sit with Nunya discussing his problems, the thoughts and questions come back.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you this earlier. It’s just that I’ve never felt this way and I thought I wouldn’t need to withdraw, not with you,” he placates and looks down at the wine glasses.

“It’s ok. You’re back now. Just let me know when it’s happening again so I know what to expect. This being in love thing is new to me.”

He looks back up at me and smiles his disarming smile. “You love me?”

Oh dear! Mansa said to make sure I don’t say it first. “There are rules governing this relationship thing, you know. You don’t want to come across as desperate,” She had said.

“And if I do what will happen? “ I had asked her.

“One of two things; he’ll either say it back just to be nice or just to get what he wants from you or he won’t say it back, probably pretend he didn’t hear you.”

Things aren’t going as expected.

Ah well, what to do? the truth is already out. “Yes, I do,” I reply, looking him straight in the eyes. I don’t feel desperate and somehow I feel he doesn’t see it that way. There’s something beautifully abnormal about the way he thinks. It’s quite unlike the way the men Mansa is used to think and I’m happy with that.

He leans in and kisses me softly on the lips, then on the nose. “It’s funny you should say that because in the time I was away, you kept popping up in my thoughts and all I wanted to do was tell you that I don’t understand the concept of love, I never have. But I think if it could be anything at all, it is what I feel for you.

That’s why I think we should end this. Because I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want you to ever feel dissatisfied with our relationship; with me. This will happen again and again. It’s who I am. You deserve a normal man who will do for you what normal men do.”

I cut in then, unwilling to fully grasp that he is breaking up with me.

“Normal men want me to dress like a harlot; they want me to act like I have only basic desires and intellect. Normal men do nothing for me that I care for. You grip my imagination and set my body on fire and you take my intelligence out for long walks along beautiful, unchartered paths - you don’t try to lock it up in some societal prison for women.”

I hold his face in my hands. “You do for me what no normal man has ever done and you’re the one I’m in love with.”
Love; a notion I never thought was real, and here I am throwing the word about like I’ve been familiar with it my whole life. That’s how he makes me feel, I realise. He makes me feel like what we have is real, like everything I’ve thought about myself is not just in my head. You can believe in yourself all you want but it takes someone else voicing it out on their own volition to give your beliefs life. He gives me life.

How strange that someone who sees no point in life exudes it without even trying.

“I’m not leaving you,” I tell him. “If this is a ploy to put me off you then it backfired. You succeeded in intriguing me all the more.”

He smiles and kisses me again. “I was hoping you’d say something like that.” Then he laughs and repositions himself so he can put his head on my lap, looking up at me.

I smile down at him and say, “It’s just human nature, isn’t it? We see danger looming and instead of running away from the problem, we first want to find out what it is so we end up getting so close that it’s easy for us to get hurt.”

“I will never willingly hurt you; I need you to know that.”

And I do; somewhere deep inside I know that. So when he disappeared again a month later, I knew he didn’t willingly want to hurt me. Instinctively, I also knew he wouldn’t be back this time and I couldn’t reach him telepathically anymore. So on the night of the seventh day after he left the second time, after the feelings of dread had welled up inside, I broke down. I opened the dam and let the anguish of facing a life without him, which had magically turned into millilitres of salty water, spill over.

A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED - EPISODE 4

The Hunt



Dating, derived from the act of two people setting dates to meet. A time when people can put their best foot forward – best dress, best behaviour – and leave the bad stuff, the real stuff in a box to be opened when the deal is sealed. It’s a human endeavour; therefore I do not trust it.

But this mission is not about my trust issues. Actually it is in spite of my trust issues. I’ve only ever been on dates with people I’ve known for months at least so I’m nervous as hell. Why should I be, though? It’s not like I have to stay with them if I don’t want to. That’s what dating is all about isn’t it, getting to know someone well enough to decide if they are the one you choose to mate with for life.

My first date is a friend of Ayitey’s. He described him as “someone you’ll like”. Apparently, he likes most of the same things I do and he’s “single and looking”.
He comes to my house to pick me up. The only good place he knows is about an hour away from where I live and quite close to his house. I choose to take him to a lounge close to my house instead. It’s safer…for me.

Walking is a great way to get to know someone, I think. Some of my best conversations have been had while taking a stroll with someone so I ask him if he minds that I want to walk to the Z Lounge. He says no. I have no way of knowing if doesn't mind because it’s our first date or if he’s agreeing because he really likes to take walks.

We talk in a start-and-stop manner for about 10 minutes then we fall silent. It’s uncomfortable. We’re getting to a dimly lit corner in my neighbourhood where something funny happened with my mother a while back so I decide to fill in the silence and tell him the story.

“My mother was coming back from her friend’s house down that road at about 9pm. When she got to that corner, she saw an older man throwing stones at the base of a wall. She asked him what he was doing and the old guy said, breathlessly, it’s a snake, it’s a snake! My mother, having a mortal fear of snakes, hurried past. The next morning she went down that same path and searched for remains of the snake, it turns out that it’s a shoe lace that the guy was stoning to death,” I laugh at that. He doesn’t.

When we get to the corner, I point it out and say, “And that’s where the old guy killed the shoelace.” I think it’s a pretty witty line which deserves at least a chuckle. But I get nothing.

Strike one, no sense of humour; this is going to be a long night.

At the lounge I find myself leading the conversation; asking all the questions.

So I ask, “Ayitey tells me you like movies, which kind?”

“Oh, anything with lots of action in it.”

“So the story doesn’t matter to you?”

“Not really. Give me special effects over a winding story any day. I mean movies are for entertainment you shouldn’t have to think about it, we do enough of that in our daily lives, the film is the escape.”

Strike two we can’t sit down and watch “A beautiful Mind” together and mutually enjoy it.

I’ve heard enough.

The second date I went on was with a guy who wouldn’t stop talking about himself and the many UN meetings he has been invited to speak at because he’s seen as some African tech whizz kid. (Yeah, look at this young man from poor, dirty old Africa actually able to decipher the complex language of technology and look at us giving him a chance to see a world he would otherwise never get the opportunity to see). I see it is a condescending, oppressive move of the west, like almost everything they do; he sees it as the greatest honour to be bestowed on someone his age from Ghana. He even so much as said it’ll be in my best interest to date him because he “could show me the world.”

NEXT!

I go on 6 dates in 2 weeks; all major disasters!

“I give up,” I tell Ayitey after the last catastrophe of a date. “Its slim pickings all round. The good ones must all be taken.”

“Don’t be dramatic, you’ve only dated six. Alright, let’s take a break from hunting. There’s an all-female band playing at The Republic tonight and I hear they’ll be a flamenco dancer too. I want to take some pictures. Let’s go, it’ll be fun."

I acquiesce. The show has already started by the time we get there, thanks to Ayitey’s tardiness – I was ready on time.

We find a spot to sit and order some drinks. A few minutes later, Ayitey excuses himself to start his photo session. I’m sitting alone swaying to the music when a tall, good looking man who looks to be in his mid-thirties walks up to my table, blocking my view of the stage. The seats are all filled now and he was drawn by Ayitey’s empty chair.

He motions and mouths if someone is sitting there. I nod and look towards Ayitey. He’s not going to come and sit down any time soon. When he gets in the zone he likes to be thorough. It doesn’t make sense to make the poor guy stand when there’s an empty chair and besides, his tall, broad frame is blocking my view of the stage so I motion for him to sit down and shout to him, “When he comes, you’ll have to get up.”

He nods and sits.

The wiry flamenco dancer is in full tapping and swirling mode. Her fingers tickle the air in choreographed grace while her feet stomp an energetic and rhythmic beat on the hard wood stage floor. In her moves I see a blend of several Ghanaian traditional dances melded with foreign influences. She speeds up as the Spanish guitar ascends onto a plane of exhilarating chords, holding the crowd spellbound until she abruptly halts in a beautiful pose, one arm high up in the air, bent at the elbow, the other hand on her hip and her legs firmly planted on the floor holding up her body slightly bent backwards; the amber street light illuminating her silhouette like a beautiful sculpture. The crowd roars with cat calls, whistles, applause and animal like sounds. Everyone is on their feet.

When the crowd settles and we sit down the usurper of Ayitey’s seat leans in to me and says.

“I could have sworn I saw adowa and keteke in there somewhere.”

I turn to him with the “I was thinking the same thing!” look and catch his smile and his expectant look and something I can only describe as a taught rope snaps somewhere in the vicinity of my chest. That rope must have been holding my heart steady because immediately it snaps my heart begins to race.

I don’t think I have ever been in love. Not the way Mansa describes it. I have had boyfriends and enjoyed their company and missed them when they weren’t around but according to Mansa, if I really was in love with them, it’d have taken me more than a few weeks to get over them. Remaining close friends with them apparently is also an indication of my lack of deep emotional attachment. Mansa considers herself a bit of an expert on my life. According to her, if I was in love with any of them, I’d still want them even now so being friends with them would be “dysfunctional”.

I have often considered this and I have come to the conclusion that I do not have a problem. It is those who allow themselves to get so attached to another human being who do. I think I understand that people come and go in one’s life so when it’s time for them to leave, I don’t fight it.

Mansa poo poos this and retorts, “You just haven’t been in love or you wouldn’t say that.”

But what causes one to fall in love? Is it ordained? Is it something that the person does and something about them one likes that causes a person to say, “I have fallen in love”?

Why haven’t I fallen in love? Ayitey says it’s because I know too much and I’m too cynical. Mansa says I know too little and I’m too cynical. I think it’s because love is a myth; a figment of lonely and bored imaginations. When Mansa breaks up with some guy she swore heaven and earth she was in love with and mourns for her customary 3 months (comparing him with everyone in sight and talking about him non-stop) she finds someone who she claims is multiple times better than her ex and falls in love all over again. Anything that fleeting can only be a chemical reaction like indigestion, nothing as dire as they describe.

“Ehee, I only wish to be there when you fall in love. You wait and see, yours will be so moving, so devastating that it’ll make a believer out of you. That’s what happens to people like you,” Mansa cursed me one evening.

Sitting there with the amber street light flooding one half of this stranger's face lighting his smooth caramel skin; contouring his strange hawk like nose and lining his thick, smooth lips; causing me to forget my words, I suddenly think about Mansa. I need her; surely she must know what to do in this unfamiliar situation.

A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED - EPISODE 3

The Safari

We’re on Safari, Ayitey and I, observing women in their natural habitats. First I scope them out while they groom, which is a necessary bonding ritual for mammals.

Earlier in the day I spent some time at the hair salon. I haven’t been in a long while, not since I started my dreadlocks. It was around the same time I started my baking business and to save money I decided to fix my hair myself. Even when I used to frequent the salon to braid my hair, it was an in and out operation, no chatting with the hairdressers, no waiting around to gossip with strangers; just fix my hair, pay and get out.

At this visit, the salon owner smiles and tells me how long it’s been since she last saw me. I force a smile back and give some vague excuse and tell her I’m here to wash, interlock and curl my dreadlocks.

While they wash and interlock my hair, I notice a woman walk in, her natural hair newly washed from home holding hair extension in a pack that was emblazoned with “100% Human Hair”. The minute she walks in, the busy salon staff take time out to hail her. She’s wearing a pair of tights busily designed with Aztec symbols in bright colours and a loose, white tank top, flip flops, huge sunglasses which she takes off when she gets in. I notice her nails, obviously acrylic, painted a garish neon orange. Most of the women in the saloon are wearing similar colours. She catwalks to the waiting couch.

While she sits there waiting her turn, she doesn’t shut up once; talking about this person who got divorced and that person who had a baby, the ever increasing price of exotic hair extensions, what she’ll wear to so-and-so’s wedding what her fiancée did for her birthday, blah, blah, blah.

Some of the clients who know something about some of the things she’s talking about chime in and very soon it’s a veritable forum of story swapping. As usual I feel like an island; but it’s ok, I’m on a mission. An hour and half later my stylist finishes with me.

I pay for it and everyone in the salon tells me how pretty I look. I’ve always found that unnerving; I feel like they are just being polite. A quick inspection of my reflection in the huge mirror as I pass it to leave, shows me that whether they mean it or not, I actually do look very pretty in my new curly locks all pinned to one side of my head and cascading down to my shoulder blade.

Safari discovery number one: be open and willing to chat to total strangers about matters of vanity. This means I have to be more concerned about matters of vanity.

Discovery number two: tune in to the fashion fad of the day. I look down at my jeans and t-shirt. Why change? This is timeless fashion.

Ayitey is coming to get me; we’re going to a lounge for the next phase of my Safari – the watering hole.

It’s one of the places where the normal unattached female goes on the prowl to seek out unattached males or attached males (depending on the female).

He’s late, as usual. I’m all dressed and ready to go. I needed to polish up so I borrowed my mother’s make up and she even offered to help me with it. She did a very good job. I hardly recognise myself in the mirror. She is very feminine, my mother; she’s my antithesis.

Sitting down waiting for Ayitey to show up, I ponder over that. How my mother being who she is, was able to raise me to be who I am the fact that I practically raised myself, notwithstanding (she was there for school fees and food on the table and so forth but no actual hands on parenting). I’ve spent all of my life in proximity to her; I should have picked something of normal female behaviour up, shouldn’t I? Even now at age 60 with the lines of years of worry showing on her brow, she still has many male admirers (why she hasn't just chosen one to settle with is beyond me). She is lively and has friends she spends time with. I notice, however, when she comes home after these meetings that she seems sadder than when she left the house.

I have a feeling that if I could talk to her about it she would tell me that being with them only reminds her that they are only hers for fleeting moments and that no matter how long she spends with them, she still comes home to an empty bed.
She walks into the living room. “Ayitey is not here yet?” She asks.

I shake my head no. She stands there and smiles at me. I kept the hairstyle from the salon earlier that day and I’m wearing a flirty baby blue number Mansa had bought for my birthday a few years ago and Mama Dearest let me borrow her fake crystal stud strapped heels.

“Now you look like an eligible young lady. All those jeans and t-shirts need to go.”

I roll my eyes. So I like to wear clothes I’m comfortable in, what’s wrong with that?

She sits next to me. “Are you and Ayitey serious now?” she asks.

Naturally she doesn’t know the real reason why I’m going out all dressed up like this. She has also always assumed that Ayitey is courting me and I am playing hard to get.

“I’ve told you, Ayitey and I are just friends.”

“But why won’t you accept his proposal?”

“He’s not proposing, Ma,” I’m raising my voice now – we’ve been down this road so many times it’s getting frustrating.

Ayitey knocks and walks in then. I leap up and go to him grab his hand and pull him out the door. He throws a quick greeting at my mother and stumbles out behind me as I yank on his arm.

We get to the lounge and suddenly I’m not in my element anymore. I thought I was all dressed up but seeing the extent of costuming going on at the popular hangout, I had to literally shrink unto Ayitey’s arm.

First of all, I would never go to a place like this; it’s too loud and full of posers. Secondly, when I am wearing my comfortable clothes I don’t give two shakes about the way my fellow women look, no matter where I am, but as it is now, I am uncomfortable in my dress which I now see is at least two seasons past.

It’s crowded, people have to stand about – most standing in groups not saying much to each other but cradling glasses of alcohol and looking around seeing and being seen. As we walk in, I notice people turn to stare at me. The females look me over and raise an eyebrow, the males look me over and raise eyebrows too albeit for different reasons.

Even though I don’t like to flaunt it, I know I have quite the attractive figure; a small waist, wide hips and beautiful legs. It is because I know this that I like to hide it. I think that if a man approaches you because of the way you look then whatever follows can’t be deep. I would rather a man is attracted to me because he spent time with me and found me interesting enough to stay with. I always assumed that made a deeper connection but my failed relationships have proved me wrong. I’m quickly beginning to learn that they need the whole package. I have work to do on one side of the package; I have the role of fascinating conversationalist down to an art.

Ayitey had called to reserve a table and it was waiting for us. It was in one corner of the lounge where we could see most of the dimly lit space. We can’t possibly have a conversation over the din so we order some drinks and sit quietly to observe mating rituals at the watering hole.

I notice two young ladies at the bar, dressed to kill in mini cut out dresses and 6 inch platform stilettos. They have system going where they take turns in scoping out the pickings and when one notices a particularly desirable one she alerts the other who flips her fake hair over her shoulder and tries to discreetly check him out. It must be part of ritual because the men they are looking at know they are watching and they seem to be watching them too. It’s not long before the guys make their way to them. Thereafter, there supervenes a comical dance where they try to have a conversation above the loud music. They give up after a little while and settle on buying drinks for the young women who are smiling sweetly, pretending like they can’t see the men lustfully eyeing their exposed cleavage and bare skin peeking through the cut outs.

There is no way on earth I would ever wear something like that but I drink in their mannerisms; the slight jutting out of the chest which in turn causes the behind to protrude. The high heels help a great deal in that regard but I would never put myself though that much work, I don’t care that the male snagging benefits outweigh the level of discomfort.

I look around, this is happening all over the place. There seems to be an unspoken code to this flirting. It comes so naturally to them, goods on display, buyers surveying the produce at the end of the night sales are made, numbers are exchanged and the braver ones leave together with total strangers. One of my few female friends met her husband at a bar just like this.

I’m startled when Ayitey places a cold hand on my shoulder. I am so wrapped up in my observations and thoughts that I forget he is with me. He shows me his phone; he’s typed a message for me on it. It reads “You should probably smile, there’s a guy standing there eyeing you. He’ll come over if you smile.”

I look over at the guy he’s talking about. He’s average height, attractive face but he has a pot belly. He sees the disapproval on my face and types another message, “Too picky.”

The quartet I was observing before leave the bar together. It’s only 10pm so I assume they are going somewhere to get to know each other better.

Ayitey points down to ask if I want another drink. I nod. Why not, I’m already here and I really do want one. I’m disheartened to say the least. If this is the way to get a man then I might as well quit now because I don’t see how I’m going to pull off this charade. This behaviour is something one is raised and groomed with, it’s not something I can pick up in a week or two.

After a little Dutch Courage I tell myself that I’m not one to back down from a project until it’s finished. We move on to our next phase of safari; the hardest phase – hunting - dating.

A CYNIC'S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED - EPISODE 2

Introspection


It’s another Saturday, I should be getting ready for a wedding but I’m decorating cupcakes which are due for pick up in an hour. They are cakes for a graduation party that one of my clients is throwing for her niece. Graduation parties; another unnecessary social gathering! I find it hard to understand the constant effort to make a money spending spree out of every little incident.

Unless that graduate is from a well to do family that has a job in the family business open for them, I see no reason why they should celebrate coming out of the relative protection of a university campus to the vast, uncertain world of job seeking graduates. You only have to read the newspapers to see that those hiring are looking for people with at least 2 years’ experience; how’s a fresh grad going to invoke that?

Let’s hope this enthusiastic graduate has a strong entrepreneurial spirit and know-how to skirt the job market in favour of starting their own business. Judging from the school curriculum, that’s highly unlikely. I’d advice the aunt to save the money for the cakes to help finance the difficult days ahead but then I need the money for my own uncertain world.

I’m almost done when Ayitey knocks on the front door and saunters in without waiting for a response. He’s tall, dark and has slightly bowed legs that lend him a care-free sort of gait. His hair is closely cropped and he has facial stubble which he likes to play with from time to time.

I’m rarely late for anything but on the occasions that I am, unlike most of my male friends, Ayitey would never be alarmed that I’m not ready. It’s mostly because he’s always late for everything himself and probably also because he was raised with 5 sisters and almost all his close friends are female.

“You’re early!” I’m surprised.

“Yes, I had to drop my mother and sister off at a funeral close by here so…” He puts his car keys on the kitchen counter and picks up the icing bowl which he proceeds to empty of its little left contents.

“I’m almost done,” I tell him.

“Where’s your mother?”

“Off to a funeral,” I answer and then chuckle as a realisation hits me. “I spend my weekends attending weddings and she spends hers attending funerals.”

“Yeah, when we’re sixty, we will be the ones attending funerals and our children will be the one’s attending weddings,” Ayitey predicts.

“That’s assuming we ever have kids. At the rate we’re going, I am becoming highly sceptical.”

“You’re sceptical about everything, it’s your thing,” he retorts with his mouth full of caramel icing.

I’m done decorating the cup cakes and I take off my apron after packing them into their delivery box. I already took a shower so I’m just going to change from my jeans and t-shirt into something more appropriate for a wedding. I don’t see why I can’t just wear the jeans. Just then, the owner of the cakes arrives, picks up and pays for her package.
“Ayitey, be a dear and wash the dishes for me while I go and change. Although I think that one is already clean,” I nod at the now almost spit shined icing bowl in his hands.

The wedding is a rather simple affair, no church and only about 40 people. It was on the lawns of a hotel and the magistrate who also happens to be the father of the bride oversaw their self-written vows after a short prayer. This took all of 15 minutes. The reception was set up very close to the floral arch where the vows were taken. It was a linear setting with all rectangular tables arranged short end to short end.

I don’t know the couple personally but Ayitey went to primary school together with the groom and they were roommates in University. Ayitey insisted I go because he wanted to show me that not all weddings were pointlessly big. He also wants to take some pictures and frame them as a gift to the couple.

We stand around with virgin cocktails in our hands trying to mingle with the other guests. We are waiting for the bride and groom to be done with their photo shoot (Ayitey snuck in a few shots before the hired photography started) somewhere on the premises before sitting down to eat. Ayitey nudges me in the ribs, and nods towards a woman who looks only a few years older than me. She’s being led by an older woman; I can only assume is her mother, towards a forty something year old man with a greying beard. She introduces them eagerly and leaves them to get acquainted.

“She’s the bride’s older sister and she’s unmarried,” Ayitey discloses. “Her mother probably does that to her at every social gathering. It’s almost like she’s saying, ‘daughter for sale at a discounted price’.”

Something about the scene disturbs me. It’s clear that poor Ms Discount is uncomfortable with the situation but there’s also a small glimmer of hope in her demeanour, like she hopes she can get married already so people will leave her alone.

My mother has never pushed me on to a man like that. I suspect it’s because she’s secretly happy that I’m unmarried yet because it means I get to keep her company, but who’s to say the weight of society on her shoulder won’t get her to start very soon. This thought disturbs me till we leave the party.

Ayitey drops me off at home and I invite him inside to have some Moringa tea. There was so much food at the wedding party, we both over ate. As I learned from a Chinese client of mine; there’s nothing like hot tea after a huge meal to hasten digestion.

The ceremony was short, sweet and minimal but a social gathering nonetheless and I wish I hadn’t gone. It also left me with an uneasy feeling. On the ride back I kept seeing Ms Discount in my mind’s eye and a little voice in my head kept saying, ‘that’s you in a few years’. I am bizarrely disturbed.

We’re sitting on the bar stools at the kitchen counter. There’s a spare cupcake on the potholder which Ayitey has been eyeing since we got back. I slowly push the cupcake towards him.

“Well, don’t mind if I do,” he sings happily and proceeds to eat it. How he manages to keep his figure with the appetite he has I’ll never know.

He takes one bite and looks at me while he chews. “Ok, so I know what’s eating the cake; yours truly,” He puts his hand on his chest, “but I don’t know what’s eating you? You’ve been out of it since we left the wedding.”

“Do you suppose that woman is unmarried because of something she does?” I don’t need much prompting to spill my guts to close friends.

“You mean like an undesirable character trait?” Ayitey clarifies.

I nod.

“I don’t think so. I know her, she’s very nice but I think maybe she was too focused on her career to worry about marriage. It could also be that she doesn’t really want to get married. There are people like that, they prefer the solitude,” Ayitey replies and attacks the cupcake again.

“But it is a possibility that a woman can remain unmarried because of her attitude,” I persist.

“Wait, you’re not talking about yourself, are you?” Ayitey throws the last bit of cake into his mouth, washes it down with the tea before he addresses me.

“You are the most fantastic woman I know…” he begins.

“But you wouldn’t date me,” I cut in.

“I would, in a heartbeat but we both agreed...”

“Yes, I know we agreed we didn’t feel romantic towards each other but if you really wanted to date me you’d have pushed for it…”

“Whoa, slow down, what’s going on with you? You have never been unsure of yourself.”

“Maybe that’s the problem maybe I should second guess myself sometimes. You know once I told Mansa when one of my exes broke up with me and you know what she said to me? She said “guys see you as their buddy not as their woman”. I mean everybody thinks the default attitude of women is dependent, helpless, needy and even though men complain about these traits all the time they must secretly like it otherwise why deal with it?”

“Because we usually get nothing else, you know the saying, ‘can’t live with them, and can’t live without them?’ That’s what it refers to. Ayitey consoles me.

“She could be right, the reason why I’m single is because I think I don’t need a man the way other women need them and I give off that vibe. Men are not completely clueless, they do feel certain things and maybe they feel this.”
We’re both quiet for a while. Ayitey looks at me, looks away, looks like he’s about to say something but sighs instead.


Finally he says softly, “I don’t know how to handle this breaking down version of you.”
I chuckle, “I’m not breaking down, I’m thinking aloud.”

That seemed to put him in a better frame of mind. “Ok, thinking. If there’s a problem, what do you do, you fix it, right? Are there things that you think you need to fix about yourself?”

“I don’t, but according to my friends I do and obviously, they know something I don’t because they’re the ones in long term relationships.”

“Yes, but you know longevity doesn’t necessarily mean success.”

“I know, but the idea is to get a long term relationship and madness is doing something over and over again and expecting the same results so I’m going to change strategies and see if that works.”

Ayitey laughs heartily, “To hear you say it sounds like you’re talking about a business move.”

I laugh too. He’s right.

“Ok, if we’re approaching this all business like then I suggest we do it all business like, get me a pen and paper,” Ayitey takes charge.

I have an ingredients list notepad and pen I keep on the counter so I give that to him.

“For lack of a better word we’ll use ‘fault’ so Fault Number one…”

“Not feminine enough,” I offer.

Ayitey’s hand hovers over the sheet for minute before he says, “That’s… ok,” and writes it down. “What else?”

“Er, Mansa also said once that she thought I was too picky,” I recall.

“Ok, too picky. What else?”

“And you once said that I was jaded,” I accused Ayitey.

“Yes, I did. It’s hard to take you by surprise. It’s like you always know what’s going to happen,” he admits and writes it down.

“Oh, and not enough drama.”

“Really?” Ayitey asks.

“Ok, before one of my exes broke up with me he mentioned how totally uneventful being with me was. He said, and I quote, ‘you’re unlike any girl I’ve ever dated. Everything is so relaxed and straightforward with you. I don’t have to guess what you’re thinking at any time. There’s no drama.’ I thought it was a compliment until two weeks after that he tells me he thinks he’s in love with someone else. He’s presently married to that someone else and as far as I know she gives him plenty of drama.”

“So you’ve concluded that men like the drama.”

“Think about it, they complain about how they don’t understand women and how everything with women is all touch and go but they keep dating these women. They must like the drama or at least the ability to complain.”

“But I explained before that it’s because they can’t get anything else,”

“But that can’t be true because my ex had me, Ms No Drama, but he left me for a drama queen. Maybe they’ve had it that way for so long; they are unused to anything else. The drama is a familiar, comfortable space.”

Ayitey chewed on that for a while, “I don’t know. So what, you want to become a drama queen?”

“Well, not take it all the way just a little booster for my inner diva,” I joke.

Ayitey guffaws. “I can’t even imagine you tripping over something inconsequential.

“But, I’ll have to. And I intend to learn from the best. As soon as Mansa comes back from her honeymoon, I’m going to start my lessons. But in the interim, there are three other things on that list.” I prompt Ayitey to read it out.
“Not feminine enough, too picky and jaded.”

“How do we make me more feminine?” After a few seconds of thought, Ayitey actually gives me an answer.

“Embellish!”

“Embellish?”

“Yeah, you’re simple, straightforward, no frills, what I remember most about living with my sisters is that they had frills; lots of frills. Metaphorical frills, fabric frills, everything frilly. You need lower necklines, shorter hems, skirts with slits, accessories, more conversations about subjects that no one really cares about like the cost of hair extensions, the colour of your nail polish, yeah nail polish; you need to wear that too.”
Ayitey is enjoying this way too much.

“Ok,” I say to reel him in. “So starting from now, we have begun the process of transformation.”

There’s a look of keenness in Ayitey’s eyes and I am just plain scared. This could very well be the end of life as I know it.

A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED, EPISODE 1

Everybody’s doing it


I’m getting dressed for a wedding, even though I hate the damn things, but it’s my girl, Mansa’s wedding so I have to be present.

My mother, who I live with, walks into my room unannounced.

“Where are you going?” she demands.

I roll my eyes as I sit on the bed to slip on my stilettos, “To a wedding. I told you last week that I’d be going,”

“Aah, your friend, er, that fair one, what’s her name?”

“Yes that one’s wedding,” I roll my eyes again. She’s getting old, forgetful and extremely talkative.

“Ah, but is that what you’re wearing?”

And also very annoying; she’s referring to my blue, no frills three quarter length sheath dress and my black, leather pumps. She second guesses my every decision. I suppose she has a right to. I’m 31, still living with her and no boyfriend in sight, let alone a husband.

With only my small business (which itself is still at the suckling stages) to call my own, I can officially say that my life sucks! And by all indications, it’s going to suck even more in the coming months if not years.

I finish dressing up; grab my purse and race out the door before Mama Dearest can ask me anything else.

At Mansa’s wedding I sit on her bed and watch her struggle to fit into her traditional dress for the traditional wedding ceremony. She’s usually a UK size 12 (today a size 10 because of the stress that comes with planning two weddings) but she’s squeezing into a size 8 dress because she was determined to fit into it when she first had it sewn three weeks ago. Her intense diet didn't help.

She looks beautiful, but not like herself, all that make-up and fake hair makes her look like an airbrushed magazine model. When she’s dressed she can’t sit down for fear of ripping her dress at the seams; it’s that tight. But she’s happy, very happy so I am too, for her.

Ayitey, my best friend who is also Mansa’s wedding photographer takes two more photos of her before heading downstairs to take pictures of the family members gathered downstairs.

“Adubea,” Mansa reaches out to me on the bed to come and stand beside her. There are four other young women in her bedroom: her two younger sisters and two other girlfriends of hers who I don’t know very well; they are colleagues from her workplace. The make-up lady just left.

“Go and see what’s going on, I’m sure Kwamena and his family have arrived. I squeeze her hand and smile. Her excitement is nothing if not contagious.

I walk down the stairs to the living room where the traditional wedding ceremony is taking place. The Okyeame who is usually a theatrical person is rattling on about the significance of two families joining together. I tip toe to the gathering in order not to disturb the attentive and amused families. Kwamena’s family has arrived and it’s almost time to call in the bride. I rush off to tell Mansa that she’ll be called upon any moment now.

Ten minutes later the Okyeame, a dark, buxom woman in her late fifties knocks on Mansa’s door and invites her out. We, her sisters and friends, walk with her in a straight line as is customary – the Ghanaian version of bride’s maids. After much cheering and clapping and laughing, the bride is soon seated beside her groom, who is wearing a caftan that matches her dress.

Did I mention that I hate weddings? Ah yes, I did; that’s how deeply I abhor them. Well not just weddings but social gatherings of every kind. I find them to be tiresome travesties completely undeserving of the extravagance and budget bestowed on them.

Cases in point: anyone looking at Mansa’s beaming father sitting so close to her mother would think that they were the model of married life. Those close to the family, however, know that they haven’t said a civil word to each other in years.

There is also a skinny young woman in the crowd on the husband’s side who as of 3 months ago was having an affair with the dapper groom. No one but I know this, of course. I ran into them once playing kissy face at my favourite hangout. On confrontation he swore to me that there was nothing going on. When I told Mansa, she said the tramp had been introduced to her months ago as Kwamena’s cousin who was in town from the UK for the year and that I was not to worry, “Kwamena will never do anything like that to me.” I let it go lest I come across as the jealous single friend who is trying to break up a healthy relationship.

It’s as if that one day (in Ghana, two days if you add the white or church weddings that have now become the standard) on which so much money and time is spent will make some grave difference in the lives of the couple. A bad relationship before a marriage will go on being a bad relationship after the ceremony and a good relationship before a wedding will go on being a good relationship after the ceremony. It just leaves you with more people to lie to and hide from when things get worse because now you have officially given them permission to dig into your relationship.

I’m thinking this exact same thing as I sit with the wedding party at the ‘head table’ the next day. The traditional marriage on Friday and the white church wedding on Saturday; farce upon farce. It’s time to throw the bouquet and all the single ladies are invited to the floor to catch the coveted flower arrangement.

When the pink, yellow and green bunch is airborne, two young women leap into the air and both grab it. On landing, they tussle for a minute before the stronger of the two manages to fully possess it. She brandishes the bouquet over her head like it is a trophy. I shake my head.

I catch a glimpse of my best friend, Ayitey, the wedding photographer and we exchange knowing smiles. Ayitey and I have been friends for 6 years now. We met on Facebook and have not gone a day without talking to each other since. Ayitey, unlike me, absolutely loves weddings or social gatherings of any kind. You would think it is because he makes a living off them but it’s the other way round. How strange for a man.

Most people think we are an item and those who know we are not think we should be. We’ve talked about it and decided we don’t have any romantic feelings towards each other. We agreed that if we are ever to hook up it will be because we are the last two unmarried people in our age group. That was four years ago and its beginning to look like we might be the last two standing soon; Ayitey is also single and we’re attending at least two weddings every weekend.

Have I always been this cynical about marriage and life in general? Yes. Why? I don’t know. My father was an absentee who had another family in the US where he lives now. As one of my exes said, “What’s a girl without her Daddy issues?” But he’s not the reason why and like I told my ex, a girl only has Daddy issues if her father’s absenteeism causes her to make life choices based on it. I don’t sleep around, I don’t choose men who are exactly like my father or nothing like him, and I don’t shy away from relationships for fear of being hurt. I never met the man, how could he affect me in anyway? I think I’m cynical because I’ve seen too much of real life to be fooled by the rosy side of things.

Far from having any absent-father self-esteem issues I am quite confident in myself. If you ask me what I think of myself, I’ll tell you, I’m awesome.


I am single because, even though I enjoy male companionship and most of my good friends are male, I have never really felt the need to dedicate my life to one let alone co-habitate willingly with them. To be honest, I find them more bearable to deal with than those of my own sex. I wish it were not so, then maybe I could understand what this constant need to be possessed by a man is all about.

The relationships I have been in always ended amicably even though, very surprisingly, four out of the five of them left me for other women. I’m so frigging awesome so you can understand why I’m so baffled at such results. How did I get into those relationships, well quite frankly, I discovered sex and like every misguided woman I thought it was ok to sleep with a man as long as there's a 'suitable' label on our relationship, so they asked and I said yes.

Mansa hasn't always had the best luck with relationships either but the difference between us is, she wants them and marriage has always been in her plans. Actually, marriage has been her master plan. It's almost as if she's the lonely part of broken whole searching for her other half. She found it with Kwamena. I, like I said, never understood that yearning.

But 2014 is my “Year of” long lasting relationships, as the religious stickers say. I’m in my thirties, that biological clock everybody, especially my doctor, seems to be talking about has got to be sounding an alarm. Sadly, I don’t hear it.

I’m home. It's past 8pm. Ayitey and I stayed long after the ceremony was over so I could be the dutiful bride’s maid and see Mansa off on her honeymoon. Then we went to have drinks at The Republic, our favourite hangout.

Mama Dearest is asleep, so I try not to wake her. I am grateful for the temporary reprieve for there will definitely be an inquest in the morning for details of the wedding. She probing and I reluctantly mumbling answers is our version of conversation. It is difficult for me to be chummy with her because growing up she was very distant to me and my brother. I suppose it was because she felt betrayed and used by my father who left her alone to raise two children on a meagre retailer’s income. In later years she changed her outlook and with my brother in far off UK for school and subsequently work, I’m the only companion she has. She’s been trying to make amends. I appreciate her efforts but being intimate with her still doesn’t come easy to me.

If I had any issues at all they would be Mummy issues. Her coldness in our formative years is most likely the reason why I don’t care much for having children of my own because I’m afraid I’ll treat them the same way she treated us.

I take a shower and switch on my laptop to check my messages. There’s a Facebook message from Deladem. Deladem was the first man to ask me to marry him. That was 10 years ago right out of university. I said no because I had all these dreams and ideas of how I wanted my life to be and marriage wasn’t in the cards.

He, unlike most men who are rejected, stayed in touch over the years even though he moved to Denmark. Every time either of us breaks up with someone, we joke that if I had accepted his proposal, we wouldn’t be going through any of that. Several times in retrospect I have wondered why I said no to him. We knew each other inside out, we liked the same things mostly, we have incredible rapport and we care very deeply about each other. But then I remember clearly that in the moment he asked me I felt an inexplicable panic; it felt like my life was ending before it had the chance to start. No use in worrying about that now, he’s in a relationship with some woman he met in Denmark and it looks like he’s very serious about her.

He is online and I tell him about the wedding. We chat for a while until my eyes start to get heavy and I tell him goodnight. I am sure of three things in my life; my mother’s love, my ability to bake a mean cake (which is what I do for a living) and Deladem’s friendship.

So you ask, for someone who hates weddings and thinks she’ll be a horrible mother, what’s so important about finding a man? Could it be because everyone is doing it? I’ve never been one to follow the crowd and for someone who thinks every human endeavour is overrated, I can guarantee that’s not the reason why.

At the rate people are getting hitched it’s only a matter of time before everyone becomes a twosome. Ayitey with his devil-may-care attitude actually has scores of women chasing after him and it won’t be long before he gives in to one of them, then I’d be left alone.

It’s purely logical; two heads are better than one, safety in numbers and so forth. It’s a cold, hard world; it just makes sense to have someone in your corner. So yes, I also seek a partner and if marriage is the accepted way of getting that person, then so be it. The thought of ending up like my mother, all alone with only my near estranged children for company also keeps me awake at night. I intend to put an end to those sleepless nights.