The day after the unicorn revelation was my last day in Cameroon. I was looking forward to going to spend the Christmas holidays back in Canada with my family, but a newfound wish to be able to spend just a few more days with, um, the present company made me a little sad, too.
I sat down to breakfast with Steve's dad; Steve had already gone to work, his sisters off to school. We chatted amiably as he downed a glass of milk. Then he asked me if I have any sisters.
"Unfortunately, no," I told him. "I always wanted a little sister. I hope that when my brothers get married I'll be able to have close relationships with their wives. And, of course, I hope my future husband has sisters."
"Oh, he does," came his reply.
Did he just...?!
All of my molecules began colliding as every atom of my being thrilled with anticipation at the very thought. Steve's dad just smiled at me, knowingly. I felt myself blush deeply.
Ok, Ms. Delusional, slow it down a bit, eh?
Later that morning, I was sitting and doing some reading when Steve's mom came to sit beside me at the table. She asked again if anyone had caught my eye in Cameroon, and I admitted that someone had surprised me. I relayed the origin story of the unicorn concept and told her I had, for the first time, met someone who had all four qualities.
Obviously, she knew immediately who I meant. Next, she surprised me.
"So, we'll have to decide if you'll get married here or in Canada," she began and I watched, dumbfounded, as she unlocked her phone and began to show me dozens of photos of potential bridesmaid dresses and matching couples' wedding outfits in the local tradition for the civil ceremony.
A comprehensive hypothetical conversation about said wedding took place for five or so minutes, during which time I waffled back and forth between enthusiastic engagement and horrified recognition of how absolutely deranged it was to be talking about getting married.
To someone you had just met.
Who was, at best, a notch or two above indifferent about your existence.
With said person's mother.
Please, oh please, I thought, desperately. Do not let this ever get back to Steve. If he ever finds out this conversation happened, there will never, ever be a wedding to plan for.
And then Steve's mom had a stroke of genius. Since I had to go to a cyber cafe to check in for my flight, she would have her brother take me over to the office where Steve worked (his dad's optical clinic), so that Steve could take me to the cyber cafe (surely, it wouldn't occur to him to wonder why his uncle couldn't simply take me to the computer lounge himself, right?) Mortified at the transparency of the situation, but not about to turn down an opportunity to spend a little more time with Steve, I was on board.
Steve and I left the office on foot, a vociferous quiet between us. Gone was the ease of our marathon chat. Yeah, I totally made up in my head that connection I felt yesterday, I thought with dejection, as my tongue sat heavy and dry in my mouth, my mind incapable of landing on something interesting to say. Anything. Anything at all would be absolutely fine!
Luckily, Steve broke the silence. Something to the effect of "have you thought about extending your trip?"
Am I... am I like totally wishful thinking right now? Cause I kind of get the feeling he would like me to stay.
We went to cross the street, where cars and motorcycles zoomed by with disordered abandon. Steve held up one hand in my direction to get me to wait, and put out his other arm to quell the bustling flow of traffic. Then he dropped the hand he'd been holding up to me, reached around and placed it on my lower back, to guide me across the street.
Folks, I have no inner monologue for that moment because my brain ceased all function. Like, pull the plug, yo, she's gone.
All my grey matter was reduced to mush. Porridge. Gruel. Cream of wheat. Really, picture any soft, warm, viscous breakfast cereal drowning in a layer of milk, and you've more or less got an image of my brain at that moment.
Somehow, we managed to make it inside and get situated at a computer station. Steve pulled over an extra chair and sat down facing me, not the computer screen. Of course, having his eyes on me made it soooo much easier to wade through the oatmeal brain to retrieve any semblance of a coherent thought.
12 minutes, guys. That's how long it took me to log in to my darn email account, on account of my mushy brain couldn't recall the password that I have used every day of my life for a million years. 12 FULL MINUTES!
Now, I don't know if you've ever sat like a buffoon for 12 minutes with someone you'd really rather not make a fool of yourself in front of staring at you while you tried to accomplish a task that requires, say, the most basic level of human function. I can tell you, it feels like entire civilizations have risen and fallen while you've been sitting there, and it ranks somewhere around the "getting stuck in rush hour traffic on the hottest day of summer with no air conditioning" level on the scale of comfort and enjoyability.
On the other end of that scale, however? The much more pleasurable discomfort of squishing into the back seat of an overcrowded taxi with the object of your sudden, but very intense affection; the forced proximity causing you to notice how you fit into the crook of his arm —as if that's exactly where you were always supposed to be— and pushing time into hyperdrive. Silly relativity!
I was still pretty dazed by the time Steve dropped me back at the apartment, but he plunged me back over the edge by asking for my contact information to "stay in touch".
Dun dun dun-dun, the bridal march reverberated in my head. Mrs. Brooke Mbengue, I ventured, just to see how it sounded (cause guys, it's important to point out: I still didn't even know his actual name at this point) before I managed to gather my wits.
I'm obviously letting myself get carried away. I fly out tonight and I will never see him again.
That evening Steve's parents hosted a handful of people for dinner and a gospel discussion (Family Home Evening). Steve sat across the room on the loveseat as I found myself chatting once again with his father. Steve's dad and another gentleman guest (who, I later found out, predicted to my father in law that evening that I would become Steve's wife, and who later served as a witness at our wedding) were joking with me about helping me find an African husband when Steve's dad said something about having a good option in mind.
"Right," I replied, playfully, "I forgot, you know him very well, don't you?"
His face got very serious all at once, as he looked me square in the eyes and told me, "It is already written." Goosebumps crept up my arm, and my eyes got soupy.
Now, I couldn't tell you if my father in law remembers that moment or if he was being entirely serious when he said it or even if he really and truly was referring to Steve. But I can tell you that I heard it for the truth that it was, and that it's unlikely Steve and I would be married today had he not said it (one of these days, I'll write a post about how those words have pretty much become my mantra throughout our relationship).
I'm pretty sure I just met my eternal companion, I thought, full of both hope and trepidation, as a key promise from my patriarchal blessing did laps in my mind. "You will be blessed to meet one who has been chosen and prepared to join with you in the House of the Lord."
I hugged Steve before leaving for the airport that night. Along with my bags, I carried the immense weight of two gigantic fears:
What happens if he never figures it out?
But, then again, what happens if he does?
Magical! Both your story and your writing gift!
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