My ‘husband from Nyadorera’ accused me of something. He wasn’t far from the truth but you know women…coat it up with some misgivings of your own before you dish her some reality.

He said, “You are my one and only who makes me feel lonely even when am close to you.”

I was shocked and a bit bruised by it and probably thought he was confused or meant something else so I had to elicit more out of him.

I said, “You know when you say lonely, that’s you trying to mean that I don’t care.” I got that nugget of wisdom from @Fact and added a sad looking emoji to drive the point home.

He laughed. Silly husband of mine, from Nyadorera, where there is some huge river he will show me, by its banks where we shall sit and devour sugarcane, yes that same husband in all his height and baldness sent back multiple smiling-with-their-eyes-closed emojis.

He then said, “I love it when you grasp such hidden concepts. My wife is smart.”

Of course I am smart. Aren’t I soon going to be an alumni, a scholar with full powers to read from The only university within the capital city, not named after a mortal being and starts with a definite article? Don’t I give you a run for your money? Wasn’t it I who asked you not to compliment me by my looks but by my brains if you wanted to impress me? So yes. The youngest wife among your bevy is the smartest. How else did I move from the 39th to first position within meeting you and knocking the air out of your lungs?!

So I chuckled and said, “Am still mad at you for saying that.”

“Don’t be…I just had to be honest.” He said. “You really do care for me.” He contradicted himself.

I smiled at this sweet attempt to try apply soothing balm on my bruised ego and decided to take the honest route too.

I said, “Its okay. I know am not really mother Teresa-ish…am not an empathetic badass unfortunately.”

The man was shocked and wide-eyed. I assumed so from the many baffled, wide-eyed emojis he sent back.

“I will have to do an apology letter.”

“To whom?” I asked. Totally confused at the sudden turn of events.

“To you.” Said my man from Nyadorera.

He wrote his apology letter as an interview. Sort of exclusive. Some serious scoop for the internet junkies and whoever cared to listen. To hear.


Reporter; Who is she?

Nyadorera; Omera! Do you know what you are saying? She is a borderland of two worlds, literal and real world, that is constantly the scene of pitched battles, forays and mental raids where men often get linguistically slaughtered, ideas looted and young boys carried off as slaves of her blog with lust of just reading her well-constructed words.


Then he sat still, so still eluding confidence more than fear of the wrath of a scorned woman and with baited breathe, he waited. Waited for me to be swoon over and forgive him.



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