Been pondering for a while now, ‘What will be my relationship status by the time this world comes to an end?’ Maybe, just maybe, it might come to an end together with my relationship. Not because I doubt my man but because of the power of imagination that the Almighty gifted women, especially in desperate situations.
I remember one night, I couldn’t get my man on phone for two hours. By the third hour, I was at the police station reporting a missing male adult full of handsomeness or one that could be in danger; only for him to show up calmly bouncing like a kangaroo with the widest smile on his face. My heart broke trying to imagine where the hell the smile was originating from because it wasn’t definitely from my side. If I tell you the number of women that ran through my mind, you will brand me a psycho. So I will just sit here and pretend I never imagined anything.
With the World Cup, I can see my great power of imagination being put into practice as I ponder where the love of my life is watching the game at. When his team loses, I will be left with no option but to call all his close friends and ask them to watch over him, I will not sit back and let football finish my hard earned man. Yes, I earned him, so spare me the shock.
What I don’t understand is why they prefer to watch these matches elsewhere, away from us, yet we should be giving them company. In whose arms are they spending the 90 plus minutes? With whom are the celebrating the goals with? Who the hell is giving them a shoulder to lean on where things go south in the field? Just whose television are they using to watch the match?
I tell you the power of imagination will be the end of some of us. In preparation, I familiarised myself with some of the football terms just to show my man that I am in solidarity with him. When I wake up in the morning, instead of yawning as I stretch myself, I jump up and down shouting “Laduuuuuuumaaaa”. Isn’t that alone enough motivation on a cold chilly morning for a loved one to make him watch the match home? Since last week, I don’t start ranting in the house in case we disagree, all I do is lift a red card to symbolise anger.
A yellow card is flashed out when he gets home late as a warning. Two yellow cards automatically convert to a night on the couch for him. Only God knows the number of times I have swung my blouse in the air to show him that he is offside. Any kiss given after waving of the blouse is null and void and could earn him a heavy fine only payable to my parents back at home after several sittings.
I am trying to make my house as exciting as I can to make him watch all these matches at home with me. Football is the only language I use right now. This time round, nothing will take my man away from me, not even this world cup. I have been a victim of this cup twice, I mean twice! In fact, the thought of it alone sends shivers down my spine. I really wish there was a way it could run for five days maximum. A whole month? A whole month my people trying to pull the love of your life from a hyper crowd as he resists? This time, I promised myself that heads must roll. No amount of goals will take my man away from me! We score concurrently! I however swear never to use my imagination whenever he stays out late, ulcers is not my portion!
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