A Love Letter Is A Letter Of Love Pt 1.

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Dear Josephine
How are you? Don’t say fine. I know you are fine. I have four eyes, two of them very large. I have seen you. Those legs. That ass. That kawaist and dem pretty titties. Generally you are so fine I know you must have been born just after a traffic violation.

I also find your face extremely appealing, as you are fully aware, having endured not only my ham-fisted flirting but also eventually having conceded to my recent marriage proposal.

It is in regard to that last item that I address you today. I had a talk with your dad last evening.
It was not fruitful.
Not only was he unwilling to confirm my hypothesis about the traffic violation mentioned beforehand, he also proved quite intransigent as per the marriage I had suggested. (ref previous paragraph).

His reasons were that I am, in his opinion, too old for you.

I told him I was willing to wait a bit until you are older and merely cohabit in sin during the interim, but he insisted on his objection, claiming that no matter how old you grow, I shall always be eleven years older and that that, in his estimation, will always be too old.

Your father lacks mathematics skills, Josephine. As in, his arithmetical perspectives lie askew of the tangent. Because once you hit 55, for example, it is open season. No one is too old for a 55-year-old woman. When a 55-year-old woman marries a former classmate of Labongo and Gipir, who cares? Refer him to the diagram below.

 

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Josephine, my frolicking heart, Josephine, the song of my soul, Josephine, the rhythm of my lymphocytes, please educate your pops. I am very anxious, vis a vis missing out on a conjugal relationship because, as I have explained already, you are so fine I gats to have you.

Yours in perpetual adoration
Baz.

 

 

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Dear Baz

My boo, my bae, my bububu and my various other onomatopoeic endearments. I am currently in Zzana teaching my younger cousin who just arrived from London how to peel potatoes. It is a dreary task and I miss you. The two facts are only related in the most tenuous way.

I received your email and was quite disconcerted. It is truly unfortunate that your discussions with daddy (i.e. my father) came to this apparent impasse. He has a regrettable stubborn streak.
I often ask him about it, wondering why, in this point of character, he is more goat or donkey-like than human. And true to form, he stubbornly refuses to answer.

In the earlier days of his paternal relationship with me he would issue a slap as a response to this query.
I have since learned some kung fu, so he no longer tries that shit with me, though.

I forwarded your concerns to my mother, one Maria Ntambi. I am sure her response will interest you, so I will relay it here verbatim:

“Mbu that Jurassic world nigga who is always chasing campusers said what is too old? Puh-fucking-leese.”

This suggests that you may have an ally in your suit.

In the meantime I remain with boundless affection,

your (potential) Josephine

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Dear Josephine,

Did you say Maria Ntambi?
My precious fountain of pheremones, my lickiboomboomgyal, I love you very much.
I have learned that, in loving someone, the lover must always be positive, and optimistic and hopeful. There are many people and events that will try to tear love down, but as long as the lover is hopeful, the lover will not lose.
That easily.
For example, this revelation you sprung upon my heart, mind, and gmail account via your most recent correspondence, in which you asserted that your mother’s name is Maria Ntambi. This could, at its worst spell the end of our relationship because it proves in a manner that will be clear to all, everyone, even Kardashians and the ilk, that I am in fact too old for you.

Because, you see, honey of my most sinuous heartbeat, my ooohbabychile, I have an exgirlfriend called Maria Ntambi. She was my lover when I was younger and had flimsier moral fibre. I am was her side dish as she committed adultery against her husband.

(ED’S NOTE: No, it does not turn out that Josephine is the daughter of her suitor. Because that would be way too easy a plot for a writer of my calibre. Stop trying to guess the outcome and keep reading. Sit.)

I, as your lover, remain hopeful, remain optimistic, and remain positive that it is a different Maria Ntambi. She is not by any chance, a short, lightskinned woman with hips so perfect her DNA must have a protractor and dividers embedded in it?
Querulously yours,
Baz
Oooh cliffhanger.
*******************
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