An Open Letter to My Future Wife - Lady ML Sowe

Dear Ladybird,

 I write this letter in a state of La douleur exquise – a French word meaning

the heartbreaking pain of wanting someone you can’t have, to speak to in a way that only you can understand. Excuse the ambiguous words you'd be reading here because you're my queeny goddess of beauty and splendid splendor of gorgeousness, my svelte, my sleuth, my swain, my inamorata, my ladylove, my tootsie, and my heartthrob.

If love kills, I want to die in your hands. Learn to see true love when you see one as it comes to you. Why will you still search for what's already found? If you leave a man of VISION for a MAN of TELEVISION, you end up watching the man of vision on your television. Don't allow what's yours to come up to your legs and you still want to search for it. Are you willing to sacrifice your life to be my darling wife? Am living in the future, the present is my past. Free at last, am free at last: when the ice is freezing in the glass; if it's me you love, your heart will never be broken, your death feelings will all be awoken, I don't love with a token. 

I'll never lie, babe, you'll never cry, call me never die. Listen, if it's me you choose, you won't mistake a gander for a goose, in Wollof, 

''niit ku nyul nyo sokhor aa-nyan mun dul, fuck off, dul.''

I like it when you smile across the mile, arranging my files, palpitating my liver and bile, like Mungo Park, I want to discover your Nile. Smile let the sunburn, smoke the rays let the light jump. Is my duty to be your happiness and fill in your emptiness. My love for you is so corrupt like an African president - let me die in corruption - this love is no commotion. Let me get the riddims playing in my head out as the clouds gather, pouring the holy water in the holy hour, tower - I like it when I see you taking shower; like when money is coming in between the boobs like bus-lines, moreover, my trousers, you murdered them, if winning is a title, I will kill Michael. 

Showing off the size of your bra when I throw my chest in, smoke the sun let the rays jump, remove the comma take the full stop, let me lick your soup pot, kill the hour let the clock jump, open the tap let the bubbles pump. I miss your sauce, need your milk, and let me get the juice boy. 

In Wollof, ' Fi halleh buffi yaaruwut dinajla nyuss boy''

Lol! That sounds like poetry. I'm not only a poet, am poetry. What a poet does is poetry! I don't like too much noise to be heard that am harder than all these boys. If our love was a book, it will be as big as an oxford English dictionary because our problems alone will be too many to write down. There won’t be any table of contents to discontent our court of contempt. I made a solemn pledge that I will break your every hedge. To smash the fetters that have restrained our progress. To loosen the shackles that have made us grow less. To halt the deliberate actions that have hurt our image. To discontinue the dereliction that has kept millions in bondage. Me, my grandmother never fed on evil. Let's define the artistic fortunes of the minion and dominion of Satan.

Listen, I understand you are hurting and you want the pain to stop. Or maybe you aren’t hurting anymore because you’ve moved past the hurt and onto apathy or numbness where you just do not care anymore. Either way, you are somewhere in a grief-loss matrix of what was and, more importantly, what could have been the solution for our past. I blabber, I blush, I lose control of all my senses, I keep jumping over fences like I am on diverging lenses, driving the latest Benz (es), breaking down the trenches, and can't stop reading your old texts. The depths of the darkness looming over my falling crown could be addressed as you're my muse, my fuse, my world, my sickness, my pain, my joy, my mental frustration, my consort, and the reason I refused to refuse to be confused and misunderstood.

But, please, before you make this huge decision, can we chat about the realities of what happens when we marry? Like, the real and potential future. Not the idealized one that you have likely conjured up in your mind. Can you recall our love songs and raps on phone; goes like this:

Bae am me

Gambia's finest writer

Trouble is my friend ain't falling in danger

Dama ekci rek gaay di gaiema express some anger

Yeah, mannla

Need no introductions, ham-nyen kanla

Kumci nehhut demlen lekka super kanja

Back in Niger, I had a student call Banda

Walked the streets of Bobiel to Harrobanda

I don't like Sprite, only drink Fanta

I quit Binta now dating Fanta

Manla, ML, anh, kanla?

Aliif Laaa Miim

Is me Modou Lamin

These haters nyo nekh laamign

Dinalen jangal kaamil

Am a dictator, call me Idi Amin

ML is Modou Lamin

Tasted the lips of Jamila now flirting Jamil 

Jamie to Janet, and then Anne Johnson 

Had pockets full of girls

Brikama to Lamin

I am only praying for you, say amen.

Affectionately, Your Future Husband

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