Day man turned down my marriage proposal

This is a story of a marriage proposal gone wrong. A walk down memory lane to the one time I fixed my mouth to propose to a man. 

But being female, and relatively uneducated in the art of making the first move, I decided to ask him if I should ask him. Big mistake, y’all. Huge.

I started off making general references to weddings, y’know, talking about the benefits of having a garden thing versus a beach celebration, or how easy it would be to go to the AG’s chambers, and then throw a big bash afterward.

Or maybe have an evening ceremony so that folks could go straight into the evening party because yes, I love a good party.

Then again, maybe a morning wedding would be better because then we’d wrap things up early and bugger off for the honeymoon.

As I’m sitting there feeding him huge chunks of my pie in the sky, he’s looking into the bottom of his glass, swirling the ice cubes so hard it sounds as if we’re being serenaded by the entire percussion section of a marching band.

At the same time, he’s trying to look calm and composed. The fact that he’s holding on to his composure, despite so much underlying tension, gives me courage to press on.

Shuffling feet

I move on from the anatomy of a wedding ceremony to the style and structure of wedding dresses. This appears to push him a little closer to the edge. He drains his glass, summons the server and asks for a refill.

Note: He hasn’t looked at me this entire time. Hasn’t said a word, either. He’s just been sitting there looking like he’s about to have a severe case of diarrhoea.

Shuffling his feet, and moving his hand in swift sideways motions across his brow.

At this point, I’m beginning to see the humour in the situation. For some reason – I really can’t imagine which – this man can’t stomach the thought of a woman asking for his hand in marriage.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to marry me. Either way, I’ve never seen him look so rattled. It’s as if a chopper full of police just descended on him.

There’s a vein in his neck that’s threatening to burst and spill innocent man blood all over the place, so I decide to stop with the wedding talk and get right to the point. Y’know, just in case he passes out before I get to ask my very important pre-question, question.

“So, babe … I was thinking. Should I just ask you to marry me?”

You know what guys, I’ve never seen anyone have an asthma attack, but I’d imagine that what happened next is similar. It seemed like the man was having a fit. I mean, he was breathing heavy, swallowing hard and looking generally unwell.

But the strangest thing in the entire fiasco happened when he calmed down.

After a few steadying breaths, he looks at me and says, “Mazee, I have an early morning tomorrow, si we call an Uber?”

Wedding treatise

I mean, had I been talking to a wall all this time? This Negro had compartmentalised my entire wedding treatise and placed it in a dusty ‘do not open’ folder. And that is how I came face to face with rejection.

I wasn’t armed at the time. I didn’t have a gun, a knife, or a machete, but the way I was feeling I could have strangled him with my bare hands, freshly manicured nails and all.

But rather than commit homicide, I sat there silently for about a minute, wishing him months of torture and the most gruesome of deaths. Then I paid my bill and asked him to call two cabs.

It was only when I was in the back of the taxi that I felt that familiar tingling on the insides of my eyes, that salty shimmering that happens when a woman’s soul is preparing to drown in a deluge of tears. Why lie, I cried. I sobbed.

I Sonko’d all the way home, as I told the cabbie to turn left, right, or keep going. It was such a hot mess. But I made through that first night. And the next day, and the day after that. What’s the moral of this story?

It’s this: Even though it felt like he’d shot an arrow through my heart, I didn’t retaliate by shooting, strangling, or stabbing him 26 times.

Rejection is a part of life and killing someone because they don’t want you should never be an option.

 

Ms Masiga is Peace and Security Editor, The Conversation Africa