Missive to My Wife In Waiting.

Dear Mama Nyakio,

My darling, I christen you Mama Nyakio since you will be the mother of my kids. I want to have kids, lots of them. Perhaps ten (if you can manage) and preferably a girl for a first born. She will be called Nyakio named after her grandmother. You see, my beloved, I have taken to writing to you here with the hopes that you are reading this, since you have decided to become illusive to yours truly. Read it one sentence at a time.

My beloved, since I started writing here, I always look forward to finding myself seated behind my laptop, fingers on the home keys, ready to inscribe words that clobber my mind at the moment. I delight in writing. There is an orgasmic feeling I get when I put down words in a quintessential manner. When those words express my sentiments, when they come out, glistering with sheen. It took me time to begin this my beloved, (blame the fear of mediocrity) but do I say? Brevity has become my forte. Today, being my birthday, I want to write to you. I am growing old and it's time I started to think about us.

I long for the day my love we will be lost in our world together. The day I will take you home to meet Nyakio, my mother for her acceptance. She will welcome you with Sufurias and ‘Kanyumbani’ soap and will want see how well you can make those sufurias shine. (What is of a woman who can’t clean utensil?) I cannot wait my love, to see you walk down the aisle, dressed in that Black Vera Wang bridal dress( White is so mainstream, love) and those fine Jimmy Choo six-inch pieces of heaven. I long for the day we will take a sojourn to the Maldives for our honeymoon, or visit the Bora Bora Islands for a lifetime genital tangle in the renowned Islands. 

My Eve, your Adam here awaits in patience to be lost in your charm. How I will always lick my phone screen when viewing your sexy Whatsapp display photo. How my Phallus will pulsate when your name lights up on my phone screen as you call. How I will woolgather after I read that “I can’t wait for you to get home’” text message when at work. I long for the days I will come home, after a long day, only for you to receive me at the door, naked, in six inch heels holding that bottle of our favorite French cognac. I long for the time I will slide my fingers up your dress, naughtily, as we have diner at that fine restaurant, (Villa Rosa being my semblance of preference) and not give a bat’s nipple if people will see us or not. I am waiting my love, for the days, I will pull myself behind you and breath into your neck and nuzzle it with my tongue as you cook breakfast, in my kitchen dressed in my white shirt. (There is nothing that turns on a man like a woman in the kitchen dressed in his shirt and nothing else on.) How long will I wait to have you drinking wine from my mouth? Do you know how I long for time you will lick yoghurt from my back?

My shameless adoration, I am waiting for those sweaty nights, our endless nights that will be marked by mind blowing, sheet staining, bed cracking genital tangle. I will make you scream and writhe and explored.  I will pull you close to my chest and pin you against that wall as I lift your thighs with my hands. How I will kiss the woman out of you, as my palms delve throughout your body to explore your body geography.  Matters coitus are fundamental in this institution of marriage. Therefore, I will not hesitate to do you in the car before I drop you at your office for work, or at the maize plantation behind our house, my love (mafefeini- in kikuyu), or at the shower on those early morning, and leave you glowing for the rest of the day. I want your nipples to harden when I kiss you goodbye for work, I want them to harden when you spot my car driving to pick you up from work or when I send that basket of chocolate to your office to make the ‘cramping’ more bearable, when it is that time of the month.

Mutumia wakwa (My wife), my sunshine, my stomach butterflies, yours truly over her is a man of his own chivalric codes. I am gallant and can be over caring, especially when drunk. I want to be your provider and sustainer. I will clothe you, feed you and shelter you. You will drink from my pocket. You want that Coco Chanel shoe, I will pay for it. Hairdo? Come get money. Money for your mama? You can have it. You will never want. You see my love, I am not of that tomfoolery school of thought that a man should bear the burden of bills with the wife. That you should pay for the cab as I pay for diner. That is hogwash. Utter bullshit. If a man cannot provide to the last coin for the wife, then he should not marry. That is the mantra I have conformed to. I am a worthy custodian of testicles, two of them, balls big can’t even dance in my pants. I herein confess to make sure you are one gratified missus. 

Rib from my own, I only ask for your understanding. Just understand me more than anyone else ever will. Understand my insecurities and my fear of failure. 

I love to read. I am a voracious reader. I will occasionally spend a night on the couch engrossed in that Nora Roberts, Dean Koontz, Danielle Steel, John Green or Sidney Sheldon book. 

I love Pilsner. I adore Pilsner. I drink Pilsner. Pilsner loves me back. Pilsner will be the bitch I will cheat on you with. Her taste, horseblankety. She is spritzy. She is where I find solace, especially when am listening to Mugithi by Murimi Wa ka Half or Mike Rua. Bummer, right? 

I am a lover of rock whichever type, soft and heavy brutal metal rock. I listen to Lady Antebellum and rock on Behemoth's Ov Fire and the Void brutality.

I have one conspicuous celebrity crash on one Ciku Muriuki of Nation FM, I oogle at her cellulite, but that will not compromise my love for you.

Lastly my Love, I am a man of God, and I will be here praying that my Almighty Deity reveals you to me soon.

In absentia, I Love You, with a cunnilingus love that is gracefully given, with the air of ardent worship.

Body, mind, soul,

Mwaura Mburu Nyakio.