My Dearest stofu samalahle

Greetings from the dusty and wide streets of Bulawayo where the sun is too ambitious and the chickens cross the road with no fear of consequences. Komfazi utshay’ indoda indoda imkarabhe strong.

Time, space, and an unexpected surplus of free periods have colluded to move my pen across this sacred paper like a ZUPCO bus swerving through Mpopoma to town. I hope you’re marinating well in the gravy of good health, just as I’m basking in the mild breeze of wellness over here in the City of Kings.

My tarino, the truth is as clear as Sprite in a glass tumbler, I am deep in love. Yes, spontaneously. The kind that strikes harder than a cane from a strict headmaster. As I write this, I am standing both parallel and perpendicular, yes, simultaneously. Thinking only of you, the egregious combination of beauty and brain, the one who makes my lungs do backflips and overflows my bile.

Please, Renkini yenhliziyo yami, stop playing igwini with my heart. Each time I see you, my breath goes for a halftime break, then my heart suddenly goes into extra time and my brain goes into penalties. My internal organs hold a staff meeting. Even my intestines start moonwalking forward and backwards. My medulla oblongata shuts down as if ZESA has woken up.

People may call me mad, and maybe I am. But if loving you is lunacy, then admit me to Engutsheni once. If only you had a glimpse into the rumbles of my cerebrum, you’d know this isn’t ordinary affection, it’s a spiritual transaction.

That is why I am proposing a face-to-face conference, just you and me, under the jakarandas of Centenary Park, or Egodini, at least. So I can begin to unpack this thesis of my heart. No metaphors, no similes, just the raw bioskop of my love.

We are the only two main characters in this African romantic drama. No supporting actors, no extras. I pray to uMdali, the Architect of All Things, that this our love should not be a fake handshake, like the ZANU–ZAPU unity of 1987. It must emulsify like olivine cooking oil and water being bullied into togetherness.

By the way, your last letter struck me like lightning in an open veld. I was overwhelmed, overfed, and overjoyed. Your words put my biochemistry into a state of suspended celebration. I felt like I had eaten too much makhomane and masi, but still wanted more.

Let it be known, empirically, spiritually, biologically and even traditionally, I love you. My heart has been marked by your name like a Form Four desk scratched by generations. Any boy who dares approach you must be warned that you are a leased asset, under emotional embargo, and dangerously ring-fenced.

I must now close this heartfelt scroll because Chemistry notes on electrolysis and the practical of polymerisation are calling me louder than a mother with a cooking stick. But before I disappear like meat at a wedding, remember this: your sneeze is my melody, your hiccup is my hymn, and your footprints are my map.

Sleep tight, my angel, and don’t let the bedbugs bite you, they would die of diabetes from your sweetness.

Forever yours in unrepentant love,

Your permanent lodger in the mansion of affection.