The Man I Met

20131028-155827.jpgI met a man, the perfect man. Gentle, yet a tower of strength when I lost my mother. I sat and watched as he calmly but firmly took charge of the funeral arrangements when I didn’t have the energy to deal with it all. Patient, he sat with me in silence for days on end, when the words wreaking havoc in my mind wouldn’t escape through my lips. Caring, he held me when I sobbed uncontrollably as her body was lowered into the ground, his arms, the only things stopping me from plunging six feet under the ground. Funny, his unlimited selection of rib crackers teased the first smile from my lips, proving his emphatic declaration that he’d make me smile again.

When we are together, he makes me feel like the single most important thing in his world, the world. Some nights he stays over and I dream of what marriage to him would be like;

I dream of the moment our eyes would meet as I walk down the aisle, towards him. I imagine his, bright with tears, staring deep into my soul, making promises that transcended words. I imagine stirring every morning with the certainty that he’d be right there, lying next to me, when I open my eyes. I’d be home waiting when he got in from work; table set, dinner ready with a glass of wine waiting to take the edge off his day. I’d be showered and wrapped in satin and lace, a parcel for him to unravel. I imagine myself gently stroking my stomach, swollen with his child. I imagine my feet swollen, waist thickened, neck blackened and nose doubled in size; none of which would matter as he gazes adoringly into my eyes.

Would our daughter inherit the lone dimple in his left check? Would she be collectedly confident like her father or a boisterous scatterbrain like me? Would our son be his father’s copy or a spitting image of me?

The nights he goes home, I try not to think about it, try not to picture his boys running into his arms as he walks through the door, screaming, “Daddy!” I try not to wonder if she wonders where he is when he isn’t with her. I try not to picture her lying in bed with him, touching him, kissing him. I know how much he loves a good cuddle and I try not to picture his arms wrapped tightly around her, as he snores gently through the night.

Does he love her, really love her? Do his eyes light up when she walks in the room? When they are together, does he make her feel like the single most important thing in his world, the world?

We share a home; his clothes hang next to mine in the wardrobe, his toiletries sit next to mine in the bathroom. The smell of his cigar permeates the entire flat and the fridge is full of his favourite things. I could have his babies, permanent reminders of him left behind when he’s not around and I know he’d be there for us, look after us, come what may. But I hate that the thing I want the most, his name; a public declaration that I belong to him and he, to me, he’s already given to someone else.

Fighting For Forever: Part I

I sat and watched as she got ready for work. My eyes liked what they saw and judging by the increased rate of my heart beat, my body did too. For the first time in months, I felt alive. Her dress nipped and tucked in all the right places, I could never get over how tiny her waist was. It was one of the first things I noticed about her the night we first met. That and the way her smile lights up her eyes. I miss that, so much! There was a time when all I had to do was walk into a room for that smile to appear. These days, my presence has the opposite effect.
I screwed up, I know I did, but show me a person that’s never made a mistake and I’ll show you God. How was I supposed to know that the client I brokered that deal for was a con man? I followed procedure, did everything by the book. That I lost my job over it doesn’t mean I did wrong. Someone had to take the fall to pacify the board and understandably, that someone was me.
“You look beautiful baby,” I said, moving to stand behind her, eyes glued to her reflection in the mirror. Lowering my head, I planted a kiss in the cleft of her neck. She tried to hide her reaction but there was no mistaking the flinch.
“Do you have a problem with me kissing you?”
“I don’t have time for this,” she growled, “Someone needs to go to work to provide for this family and seeing as you’ve refused to get off your backside, I am that someone.”
The force of her resentment left me temporarily speechless. I knew she was mad I’d lost my job but for the first time, I realised it went a lot deeper than that.
“Move out of my way Alex, I need to get to work.”
“Tell me Karen, what are you so mad about? I’ve told you what happened at work, it wasn’t my fault! Even my boss acknowledged that but his hands were tied. Why won’t my wife show some support?”
“It’s been six months, surely that’s enough time to find another job? Or do you expect me to support you forever?!”
“Is that what this is about, the fact that I haven’t got much money to add to the pot?”
“Much? Don’t you mean any? Look Alex, I’m sick of paying all the bills in this house. Like that’s not bad enough, you expect me to line your pocket too. What kind of man doesn’t know to save for a rainy day? You don’t work, you don’t spend. That’s how it will be from now on. Let’s see if a job won’t miraculously appear.”
“Tell me, who paid all the bills in this house before I lost my job? Who bought you your car? Who took you on holidays and lined your pockets when you didn’t have two pennies to rub together?”
“And is it not your duty to provide for your wife? If you want me to wear the trousers in this relationship tell me so I know where I stand. What kind of man doesn’t feel uncomfortable having his woman feed and clothe him?”
“You talk like I haven’t been frantically looking for a job. You think I like relying on you for money? You think it doesn’t break my heart when the bills come in and there’s not a damn thing I can do about paying them? Tell me, before I lost my job did I ask you for a penny? Didn’t I handle everything that needed handling in this house?”
“Then be a man and continue handling things! I really can’t do this now, I have a job to get to. For the love of god, get out of my way!”
I stepped aside and watched her pick up her handbag and walk out of my bedroom. My mother’s warnings came flooding back and I sank against the wall as the truth of her predictions hit me. I did not marry a good woman.


If you know me well you will know that I am desperately seeking a blonde haired, blue eyes, Irish gentleman to walk me down the aisle. I got the fantasy into my head when I was about 13 and now that I’m older, wiser and living in London, the probability of the fantasy becoming a reality has quadrupled! I don’t what but there’s something about the Irish accent that makes my knees give way. I can listen to Ronan Keating and Pierce Brosnan speak for days.  *sigh*

I was round about 18 when my mother and I had an interesting exchange. She went fish shopping and didn’t get the fish monger to clean and cut up her haul.

“Mummy why didn’t you get them to clean the fish?”

“It’s just fish. Stop moaning and come and help me.”

“I’m not touching that stuff. It’s disgusting!”

“If your mother-in-law asks you to clean fish is that what you will tell her?”

“Why would an Irish woman ask me to clean fish?!”

I was only acting the fool but you should have seen the way her pupils dilated. I think it was the first time it dawned on her that the man I bring home may not be Nigerian. She said something I don’t dare repeat and told me to get out…which I did rather promptly. Fast forward to 2011 and all I hear from her is “God will give you the right person.” “It doesn’t matter where he’s from.”  It’s funny how desperation for a grandchild has made her relax her standards.  It’s fine by me because I now know that even if I bring home a goat, as long as it has the ability to impregnate me, there will be no arguments.

One of my Nigerian girlfriends is currently engaged to a Swedish guy. When they got engaged, a mutual friend of ours made a comment that got me thinking. She said “I’d been thinking of who I’d hook her up with when the relationship ended.” Her comment implied a number of things but one of them was that she didn’t think the relationship was serious because of their different ethnicities.

I watched the movie ‘Something New’ over the weekend. Sanaa Lathan’s character went on a blind date and when she found out her date was was white, she looked like she’d just been diagnosed HIV positive.

What is it about interracial relationships that make people so uncomfortable and sceptical?

I’ve heard all sorts of arguments from cultural differences, to slave trade, to black people who date white people are ashamed of their race, to white women only date black men for the sex (that famous myth) and money (think sports stars). I could go on and on but whatever the reason, there are people who are vehemently opposed to interracial relationship and for the life of me, I cannot understand why. It’s one thing to have a personal preference but when you decide others have to abide by your own principles, I reckon you’re having a Hitler moment. Back up and come again.

So tell me, have you ever and would you ever date someone of a different race?