‘Hi dear. Can you guest post on my blog. Love story?’

All those butterflies asleep in my stomach are definitely up now. I am in class, someone is saying something at the front but all I can hear are screams in my head. The little Shikus in there are ecstatic! Someone finally invited them over to their blog! Yayy!

Ok, calm down little Shikus. Did you read what he requested? He specifically wants a love story? Please don’t laugh; we can do something about it, right?

You do not have to be in love to write about love. Heck, how sure are you that I am not in love? In fact, how sure am I that I am not in love? I have been in love for the longest time. Relax, I am not going to lead you down a mushy path then finally declare that I am in love with Jesus Christ (although that is true). No, I am in love with a human being; a male human being.

I have known him for a while now. I have hung out with him enough times. I hate all his jokes. I hate that he does not shave his beard. I hate that he has never told me he loves me, although I know he does. I love him so much that I cannot tell him I do, because that will spoil everything for us.

I love him because we never agree on anything. He will say that the earth rotates on its own axis and I will point out that his sentence is grammatically wrong. I will tell him something sweet and he will trash it, because he knows that is what I want. There’s a certain thrill in a man that challenges my wit. It means he is bright enough to do it. The day we agree on anything, there will be something off, either with him or with me. Or it will simply be a matter of urgency that we agree (for the earth to continue rotating around that axis it is used to).

I love him because he is modest. The problem is that there is a very thin line between modesty and shyness. He will never tell me he loves me because of that. And I will never tell him I love him because I know he knows.

I know I love him because I cannot look him straight in the eye for more than two seconds. I will feel this weird urge to smile (I’d say blush, but I have never understood why an African girl would come out in the open and claim she blushed. Seriously, our skin is designed to specifically never turn red.) Then a thousand other thoughts will come rushing in. Why am I not his girlfriend? Why can’t I just let him be my knight in shining armour?

And a couple of seconds later, in that moment of turning away, the little Shikus tell me why I am not his girlfriend; why I will not let him be the one. I love him. I love him too much to burden him with the Shiku that I become once I am declared his. Here’s the thing. If you choose me, you’d better be ready to be mine and mine alone. Be ready to be there when I need a shoulder to cry on. If you are not, then we are done. I will probably hate you after that.

I am contented with our secret love. He is my secret love and I am his.

Before I knew it, I had written an entire piece which is not your average love story. Maybe it is true, after all; you have to be normal to think up a love story. Now you know why I quit soap operas a long time ago. There has got to be more than that boy-meets-girl scenario. If love is so special, my love story has to be special too. I will let you know if my secret love metamorphoses into a secret marriage with little, chubby, secret kids.

(OK, you are probably wondering why this was posted here. Let’s just say I felt it going to waste wherever it was posted. Also, I don’t think I will guest blog any time soon again. Thank you Mr. Experience.)