I was in the middle of a lazy Saturday morning, trying to tidy up my room when my eyes caught an old cardboard box, submerged in the upper shelf of my wardrobe. I carefully brought it down and spilled its contents. There were so many yellowed photographs glued together, ribbons, and certificates. Then a small blue book.
When I picked it up, I discovered it was an old composition book, the kind given to primary school pupils. It had a faded and worn cover and the name on the front was written in a child’s almost ineligible hand:
Jossy Siari– Primary 5.
I chuckled quietly. “Wow, this is almost two decades old.”
I sat down comfortably on my bed and began flipping through the pages. It contained multiplication tables, spelling lists, and even some doodles of feminine figures. Then, halfway through, I stopped.
There was a heading, which was typed in bold letters using red ink, and underlined twice:
“My Dream Husband.” Jesus, I must have been ten years old when I wrote this! Too young to have thought of a husband, but my younger self had written the list with the innocence of a child who thought the future depended, on written words.
He must be tall like my French teacher.
He must smile a lot like my English teacher.
He must like books like I do.
He must be kind to children like my Social Studies teacher.
He must never scream at me the way my Mathematics teacher did.
His eyes should be very beautiful like that of my Home Economics teacher.
He must never forget my birthday, just like my Mom.
I laughed until my eyes were wet with tears. "Oh what a silly little girl I was."
But as I read through the second time, my laughter eased. These words though written by a child, carried so much weight, made so much sense, and shouldn't be considered as something trivial.
This was a genuine request from my younger self who wanted the very best for my older self.
With a sigh, I stretched out on my bed. I was now twenty-eight, a university graduate with just a pile of books on my bedside, a boring 9–5 job, and no man to call my own. I thought of all the men I had met over the years. They had all come in different shapes and sizes, some arrogant, some others too cold for comfort. No one had met any of these simple criteria.
But then, a name began to emerge in my mind: Tony.
I blinked. Tony. My old university friend. We had met in the library on a rainy day, when both of us reached for the same book; Achebe’s No Longer at Ease. He had laughed and jokingly said “You can take it, but you must promise to tell me what you think after.”
Soon after that, we bumped into each other every now and then, and he later became my study group partner. We never dated, but somehow, our friendship had endured.
I thought of him now. The good old dependable Tony. He wasn't tall in the way I described, but he was very broad with an ease of strength. His smile—ah, his smile could make even the most difficult of days feel so much better. And he never forgot my birthdays!
I closed the notebook with trembling fingers. Could it be that all along, the man I had dreamed of was the man I had already known?
That evening, I picked up my phone. I hesitated, staring at his name in my contacts. Then, before I could lose my courage, I dialed.
“Jossy!” His voice was bright, warm, familiar. “You remembered me today. How are you?”
I laughed nervously. “I was cleaning my room and guess what I found today? … My old school notebook. And in it, I wrote a list about my ‘dream husband.’
“Oh really?” Tony teased. “Let me guess. He must be a prince with a shiny horse?”
I smiled, shaking my head. “Not quite. It was simple, really. Someone who smiles, loves books, is kind to children… never shouts and never forgets birthdays.”
“And?” His tone softened, playful yet serious. “Do I make the list?”
There was a pause. My heart thudded in my chest. Finally, I whispered, “You don’t just make the list, Tony. You are the list.”
Silence stretched on the other end, thick with unspoken things. Then he said, his voice low and steady.
“I’ve been waiting forever to hear you say that.”
I closed my eyes, pressing the notebook to my chest as though my younger self really deserved some hugging. That little girl had dreamed. The woman now was ready to live it.
And in that moment, I knew that if my younger self knew all of these, then it must have been written in the stars.
Only just waiting for time to be unfolded.
All images generated with AI.
Thank you for reading.