By Chika Alexis
Remember Chika, the lady who wrote To The Kitchen Oh Goddess? Well, she is here with this seminal bombshell. Chika is my co-pilot but she is mostly underground in the cockpit. It took the barrel of my automatic pistol on her neck to get her spit this to honourable passengers. Ladies and gentle, I present Chika to you; enjoy.
To Whom It May Concern, since I am still undecided on the pet name to call you (your looks and generosity will play a big role here), you will have to bear FH (Future Husband) for now. At the appointed time, I will apportion you a really affectionate name. I am not famous for my romance, but I may surprise you.
There are a few things I’d like you to know before you go down on one knee (two knees will actually work better) and say, ‘Would you marry me?’ I paste this in the door-post of my heart. Devour and if you can cope with the arrows, knock. I would peep through the key-hole, if I like what I see, I would open the door. If I don’t open up, please stop knocking, I am not deaf (and blind); swallow your Adam’s apple and make way for others. I don’t want anyone standing on the driveway to my heart. It is either you are coming in or trying the next door.
1. Love Me Pieces. You see, I have learnt that wives must submit to their hubbies. In return, the hubby will love her pieces. I don’t think Apostle Paul used the phrase ‘pieces’ but it isn’t such a big crime. In fact, it will soften the blow of submission. I’m not used to submissions. We aren’t required to submit to boyfriends, see? My submission starts from the wedding night, anchored by your love.
Love the way I walk, the way I talk, nag, laugh; the way I cook, the things I cook; also, treat me like a queen, better than the English Queen… You would work hard but you would make out ample time to smear me with love, offend me with affections and hurt me with joy.
Coming with this, are a few sub-topics.
A. You Won’t Cheat (in any way or by any name you call it). Don’t even think abou’ it. Every other lady becomes a tree to you, the day you lead me down the aisle. Flirt not. I repeat, flirt not. Your sexy acts are copyrighted, and all rights reserved to our bedroom. You can’t love me pieces and look at her long legs for a second, and that cleavage for half a second. You won’t be blindfolded but your eyes are censored.
B. You Dare Not Beat Me. It isn’t part of submission, is it? What is that madness that some people say about beating in love? Bea-gini, in gini? I don’t row in such stupid boat. You daren’t poke me in the face, sef. I will offend you, so much; I will make you mad, why not? But I am your dream wife whom you love pieces. Never forget this.
C. No Late Nights. Except once in that sky-blue moon when you work late. We will have DSTV a’ home so you need not go to smelly corrugated iron shacks to watch Swansea. We watch them at home, my head on your laps (where else?). I am not crazy about football, but for your sake, I will try. If you must watch with a crowd, we would ask the gardener, cook and gateman join us. If the match coincides with Enjoying Everyday Life then we may have to toast a coin. But we may keep late nights when you want to spoil me a little, or when we attend night vigil in the church *winks*.
2. Two Kids. Preferably two girls. I know you want boys that might grow to men, marry, bear children and keep your name. Raising good children is my priority. But thankfully it is God who determines gender and we might end up with all boys (shudders), or boy and girl, or just girls (hallelujah). I will be the best mum ever, to them. But I assure you I won’t bear a team. With so much prayer, we could bear a third then slam the womb shut. The proof of manhood is not in the number of kids sired.
3. I Will Not Housewife. Read that again. I have a degree (for God’s sake) and I didn’t study Wifeology. My father didn’t have matrimony in mind when he sent me to study. I won’t waste my degree boiling potatoes and washing pampers. I will work, oh sugar, and earn a stipend. I promise, it won’t stop me from boiling potatoes and washing pampers. You see, the only thing better than boiling/washing is working to earn a percentage of the boiler and detergent.
Did I sound harsh here? Sorry, this is a topic I take too strongly. I won’t work in the bank, I promise; I won’t work inside a plane, I swear; God willing it won’t be 5 to 9 work. A decent 9 to 5 work will work sweet for us. It will be most romantic if I work in your company. What do you think, honey?
4. Joint Account. FH (enough of the sugar-honey stuff, diabetes is real), we keep a joint account. Calm down, calm down, I say; what’s the matter? You love me pieces, remember? So what are those lines doing on your forehead? Running a joint account will enable me keep tab of our income and enable us budget better, together. Ladies have a way of seeing what is not there, so, many liberal husbands (who love their wives pieces—like you do) now lay every card (or naira) on the table. Do you say money is a different ball game? I am not playing games here. We sleep joint bed, eat joint food, watch joint TV, and at the mention of finance you talk solo. There is God o, and there is trust o.
(Methinks it will work wonders if you imagine my 35,000 naira is 350 thousand and your 250 thousand naira is mere 25,000.)
FH, I wish to drop my pen here. I do that without revealing how tall, handsome and rich you should be. This information is classified. But I will not compromise on your faith. You must be a strong believer and follower of Christ. In truth o; not the kind of guys who pick up the Bible at the sight of Sister Angela. I will leave out small small details like in-laws boundary, visitations and donations because I trust you are matured enough. There are so many things I really need from my Future Man. But it isn’t bad to start from the above.
I will be watching.
#Chika studied Literature in the largest university in Black Africa. She writes non-fiction and enjoys reading good anything. She is an editor, critic, advisor, stakeholder, supporter and co-pilot of this blog. Chika is single.