We met in a serene setting on a Thursday night. We were both in our early twenties. He was with his girlfriend, I was with my homeboy. When our eyes met, so did a long-term search that came to an end. He kept staring into my eyes, I knew he was the one.
We kissed on our first date. He said his girlfriend had nothing on me. I told him nothing at all, I was smitten. We went on a couple of dates, family gatherings and trips. One thing led to another, it felt good to have a companion, we joked a lot, laughed together, fought sometimes and even talked about the future.
One morning I woke up feeling like I wanted more, it just wasn’t enough. I went to church and prayed to God. The next day after breakfast I fell sick. That night over dinner he proposed to me. The next day I realized I hadn’t had my periods for too long. I was pregnant.
We had a beautiful ceremony. I still look at pictures of my cute belly in the pretty wedding dress. I still remember seeing his hopeful face when I walked down the aisle. Clean shaven in a tuxedo never looked so damn good. The entire village came out. We couldn’t wait to be alone. The honeymoon was adventurous, a holiday destination in Samburu.
We have been married for 22 years now. Our only kid, Bijoux moved out last week. Among other things, we miss her pathetic pies, little pranks, constant ramblings and sneaking into the house late at night. Her childhood years remain sentimental. Parenting was hard but it’s harder to deal with her absence.
We are back to square one, stuck together. We are constantly reminiscing on the previous years, not forgetting to appreciate the far that we have come. Fate has somehow forced us to start all over again. We still breakup but we always makeup. In general I am starting to learn new things about him. He says that I have recently acquired new tastes, he knows me too well. I have realized that despite our daughter, given another chance, I would still marry him.