My Groom

I am an open-eyed girl. Able to perceive more than I can see and hear more than is said. I have learned to think about more than there is room to say.
And I have decided to pick my groom for myself.
I do not want to be wined and dined in witness of shy candle-lights. The thought alone stinks of dirty politics. I want my man to stumble before me and lay down his hunt before the sun goes for a quickie. I want him to roast it while my friends watch and salivate. I want him to feed me from his hands.
Chiseled men with muscles shaped in a gym do not seduce me. Nor does the nauseating colognes you insist on importing from worlds you cannot point out on a map. I like the scent they leave on your skin, but I am not aroused. I do not fantasize of making love to you after you butter your skin with lotions and spa treatments. What do you call that thing which makes you skin soft like a baby’s buttocks? I won’t be overcome by passion making love to a man under whose skin I cannot bury my nails. Because he wants his skin to appear flawless when he takes selfies for instagram.
I do not yearn for fine polished jewelry displayed under thick expensive glass. I will wear beads that tell a story, beads whose vibrant colours reflect my love for life. And make me proud. I want the texture of my hands to say that I am the proud daughter of a hardworking clan. When I walk I want the earth to thud and hum to the sway of my hips.
He who will wife me must acknowledge that I have substance between my ears. My cup of tea is a man whose laughter vibrates like the echo of celebration drums, not the scary echo of a cave. One who yearns to preserve my beauty; whether the shade of my skin be as glorious as a berry or as lustrous as a thousand shillings note.
I want to be with a man I will admire. A man whose value is measured not as superior or inferior to another human being, but by his humanity in a cruel world.

I originally published this post on the Storymoja Festival blog on 7th August, 2015: