WHY I MARRIED THE MAMA MBOGA GIRL

Guys, before you judge me, give me the privilege of at least defending my actions, even if I do not see a viable reason for your judgment. For does the holy scriptures not forbid us from judging others lest we be judged?

It is simple; I fell in love. Men will be quick to say that we should marry not by heart but by brains. They are probably also concluding that I am mad. An engineering graduate at twenty-nine and the prime of his dreams with nothing but doors of success awaiting at every corner, marrying a form three dropout selling sukuma wiki at some uncivilized kibanda: What else could explain it? Yes, I am mad. Even my parents alleged it during my wedding. The congregation commented on it tirelessly, and the pastor asked not twice but thrice if I was sure to marry Gracey, my bride.  

Okay, I was sane before, till I met her. It was raining that late evening. The old sacks that covered her kibanda did little to prevent rain from reaching her. She was wet. Her body trembled as she busied herself with her kale. She did not speak much as I entered but looked at me warmly and smiled passionately. And I wondered why she did not go to the comfort of her home. After giving my order, she returned to her kale, minding little of the rain. I did not speak to her, clutching myself at one corner of her tiny kibanda where there was a little light and less rain. She was beautiful, even with the blue leso covering her from the cold. The dim light from a candle did not disengage my exploits on her. She seemed humble. She seemed hardworking. And…you will laugh at this mundane statement, but she had no makeup. She was not in clubs like the civilized girls her age who went to University. She was contented. All while, I feared the sharp knife she was speeding would cut off her fingers, but I thought it wise not to warn her. Then, a girl I suspected to be her younger sister came running as she dodged potholes and muddy spots on the road and dashed into the kibanda, folding behind her little umbrella that did little to prevent the rain from reaching her. 

“Gracey, Mama said it’s enough for today.” She was almost shouting, without even catching her breath.

“It’s okay. Let me wind up with this gentleman, and then we can go.”  Gracey did not resist in her smooth, humble voice.

She had a kind, beautiful heart. Moreover, her warm smile remained with me for the entire night.

I visited her kibanda for the next few months, the courage to speak to her evading me every time. Not that I am a coward, but it is this thing that makes us scared of the people we are attracted to. So, I would quietly observe her beauty as her petite and seemingly frail hands did magic with the kales until, one day, I found myself speaking to her.

“I always fear that you will chop off your fingers.” I stammered. She did not answer immediately but slowed down and looked at me straight. I was trembling so badly by then that I thought she noticed it. Still, I blame this thing on some attractive people. She laughed softly.

“No, I won’t,” I straightened my head, and her beautiful eyes met mine.

“God, you are beautiful!” I yelped, then regretted it immediately. What would she think of me? She looked away shyly and then back at me.

“Thank you! You are also handsome.”

Just like that, her shyness and yet courage to give the compliment carried away all my fear.

I do not need to say everything, or, just to be a little kind, let’s say, as they say, one thing led to the other,’ and before I knew it, I was utterly madly and happily in love.