Studying with Love
Faith Jegede
Behind every successful man is a successful woman. Behind every successful woman, is an iron block replacing a heart – or so I was led to believe.
Love took me by surprise.
Innocently I strolled along the streets of life, carefree, yet under the strict instruction of my elders, who had so kindly mapped out the intricate details of my approaching years. Currently on First Degree Avenue, which led to Masters Lane, and onto the land of further firsts - first job, first car, first house. A path so clear cut and cemented in my thinking that no weapon, no arrow, no nuclear warhead could cause me to meander. Or so I had thought. Boldly I paced, headstrong and heart closed, subconsciously pitying the misguided mass, occasionally passing members of the unsure majority. Then it happened. As if one had sensed my inner loneliness, which I had buried so deep in my mind, along with my entire collection of romantic fantasies, stained with the stench of mistrust in the opposite sex.
Love raped me
It came in the form of a five foot nine male. As a five foot ten female, my disappointment was apparent. I had always envisioned falling for a six foot something, athletically built, dark mysterious type. Yet he was as jolly as a round man, yet slender, far from mysterious, and his Colgate smile instantly illuminated his surroundings. I found myself drawn to him and his remarkable handsome face. He possessed an uncanny resemblance to a 1970s figurine with his distinctive afro and happy-go-lucky manner. Upon the possibility of meeting him my gut dropped. As he walked towards me my internal organs back flipped and somersaulted in my body. Drawing out his hand to greet me, he drooled, “Hi, my name is...”, and I was gone.
‘Love at first sight’ was one of those subjects, along with the tooth fairy and Santa Claus, that I never took seriously. How someone could instantaneously commit their heart to another person through vision alone baffled me, until now. As this afro-clad caramel male embraced my hand, I experienced a peace like no other. A conjoining of spirits, as if this moment was predestined before time, his touch leaving me curious. At this moment, my agenda was still platonic, however as he continued to introduce himself, I knew he was exceptional, and on the verge of dramatically impacting my life.
As with all times in need, I referred to the bible, an infectious habit that I had caught from my mother. In 1 Corinthians 13, it beautifully defined love. Love is patient, kind, does not envy, does not boast, is not proud, is not rude, is not self-seeking nor easily angered, keeps no record of wrongs and does not delight in evil but is truthful, hopeful, protective and never fails. With the rate of divorce ever increasing, multiple marriages being normality in today’s society, this definition of love seemed ever so impossible to achieve, and so based my satirical take on it.
From an early age, I began pondering over the idea of love, and mentally drafting out wedding plans, and how “perfect” my husband would be, and the amazing, never seen before love that we would have for each other that would endure till death do us part. I’m not alone; most children under the age of ten have imagined their future spouse. After a certain age, this imaginary figurine of the prospective man/woman in your life is replaced with either a fictional character, or celebrity of some sort, and the fixation begins. I was somewhat convinced I was going to marry Shane from Westlife, at the age of eleven. Somehow, I was going to meet him and the age gap of eight years was not going to faze him or my parents, and he would instantly fall for me. For a while, I believed this. Then for a few years, Shane would be periodically replaced by numerous celebrity figures and older friends. Then during my early teens, the desperado years began, where I became certain that if I met anyone who vaguely resembled my model “true love” was made for me. I began to delve into the unknown, mimicking the art of romance, so skillfully acquired from the world of moviedom and literature. Nowadays the youth rely on internet articles and magazines, rather than extensive passionate novels, or even worse the lessons taught from the often exaggerated and inaccurate tales of a friend. After months of emotional entanglement, I found myself so caught up that I became sick of the repetitive “it must be love” syndrome, and at the age of seventeen decided that that chapter should be closed till way into my twenties, which my elders energetically encouraged.
Knowledge was my drug. I lived and breathed learning during my younger years, as I strived to surpass my peers and my elders’ achievements. The prospect of understanding and discovery alone excited me. On entering higher education, I had conditioned my mind to become focused and clear. I was the next best thing; my aspirations were set so high that world domination seemed like a by-product. With a troubleshoot system for every predicament, my pre-carved path of success seemed perfect and my slot on the Biography Channel was firm. However, I had not planned to fix love - in fact, I had not planned for love at all.
My friendship with the caramel beauty evolved swiftly. His perspective on life left me hungry, and I fed on every word he spooned me. Impressed with his good nature and hypnotized by his ambitions, I became addicted to his conversation. I did not immediately assume I was falling in love, although I was. At first, I classified the experience as passing infatuation. Months went by, and I continued to nurture our ‘platonic’ relationship, although our mutual interest was evident, yet unspoken. My focus quite suddenly became divided. Spare time became ‘him’ time and I began weaving in and out of consciousness during other activities.
He had uncovered this new found femininity. Secretly I knew, I'd always been a flower, candy and dinner type. The kind that likes to receive random sticky notes, letters and all that jazz - the electronic era we live in has limited the creativity of the expressive mind to just email or text. I marveled that I would be the one with the man standing outside my window with a boom box or a violin quartet expressing his undying love. He had exposed the classic romanticist in me. I began fantasizing about when he would sweep me off my feet and dreamed of my happily ever after. As I delved deep into my drawn out infatuation, I toyed with proclaiming my feelings, knowing that I was not ready for any form of relationship-like experience whatsoever. I was frantically anxious to embark on this romantic endeavor that I had expected God had interlaced into my destiny somehow. I watched my friends slowly trickle into twos, publicly and proudly crossing boundaries never ventured before, I silently wondered to myself how high the pedestal of how he viewed me would reach, how low is was prepared to go to protect my honour and how much his love could truly extend.
I needed to vomit.
My thoughts had become so consumed with the possibilities and the probabilities of occurrences that had not occurred yet, that I failed to recall that I was still living in the present. My concentration had diverted severely, and upon the realization that I had become completely submerged in my sentiments I convinced myself to make a stand, and separate this zombie-like lifestyle.
My life, my career, my well-being was pending. The heavily important studying period of my life, was far from over. I had no time for this nonsensical situation, in which I had immersed myself so far in my love fool’s paradise. Soon after the recognition of my seemingly delusional state, followed three words, that I had once snubbed.
‘I love you,’ he said.
I was silent for a while.
‘I think I love you too,’ I replied.
From that moment on, I found myself etching my path in a skewed manner, still heading in the same direction, yet at a different angle entirely. The driving force of the prospect of a happy life, with all my firsts, but with him, propelled me.
A successful woman in the making, immersed in love, yet willing to learn.
Comments (0)
You don't have permission to comment on this page.