One for Old Rascal
Sometimes the romantic half of me takes over my emotions. And I dare say that sometimes, I can really be overly passionate! On the contrary, Obodai, until recently, wasn’t that dreamy. Thanks to his temperament.
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Before and after we got married initially, the case was terrible. He thought giving a loved one flowers and cards were a waste of time and money. He saw no reason why we had to phone each other at least five times in a day to check on ourselves; birthdays were no big deals; outings were a chore. But after two years in this institution, he has learnt to learn, adopt and mimic a few of my romantic moves.
Once a while, he would hide a love note in my handbag or under my pillow, in my shoes or in places I wouldn’t think of finding such sweetness. He is changing for better and I am grateful.
Fancy my last birthday for instance – he phoned me every hour of my working time to tell me something nice and to check on me till I got home. What happened that evening is for your ears only, not your eyes. Who said Ga men cannot or aren’t romantic?
I guess Tuesday afternoon’s temperatures caused Obodai’s erotic clock to get ticking; arousing so much passion and emotion within him. At exactly 2:11 p.m. I received a text. It was his. It read, “I miss you so much, it hurts. Concentration this afternoon for me is difficult. Can’t wait to have a feel of you.” His message ended with a Smiley of endearment.
I was having a really stressful afternoon with a heated deadline to an output my Director was on my neck for. But as soon as I was done reading the text, my whole person settled in its frame. I suddenly became relaxed, joyful, and was filled with joy. I started to put my thoughts together in order to give him a better reply.
In a matter of five minutes, I was done typing. I clicked on a fresh page to type out the following: I really am tired this afternoon because you’ve been racing in my mind all morning till now. I just realised one of my alphabets was missing. And it was U. I miss U. Can’t wait to give off my best to you tonight, my conscience keeper. And I will be spending the rest of the afternoon rearranging my heart again, to make more room for you. I love you. Tonight, I will celebrate my love for you. Busy will be our next names throughout the hours.” Then I also ended with a Smiley too, clicked on his number from my contacts, and clicked SENT.
I knew my message would send him “melting” and thereby provoke a response the very minute it was received. But ten minutes passed, and then twenty. Thirty, forty, forty-five minutes passed and there was no reciprocating text. In the fiftieth minute however, I got a phone call. I was at the time charging my phone in one corner of the office.
Something in me told me, “this is it. This could be no other person than love-smitten Obodai”. In rushing to disconnect the phone and to answer it, my left leg hit one leg of my table. I couldn’t just be bothered to stop and think of my wounded toes. I was barefooted at the time. And I sometimes do that to let air into my toes.
Without checking the caller ID, I propped my backside on the abandoned swivel chair close by, and softened out a “her looooo”. Instead of my sweet baritone Obodai’s voice, an elderly masculine and partially feeble bass responded, “hello”. I went silent for a few second, after realising that familiar voice. “Hello …. Ablah, are you okay?” He asked. It was my father-in-law.
Quickly mopping away my disappointment, I, sounding innocent, said, “oh daddy. Hello daddy. Yes I am… I am okay”. Then he asked, “how is Obodai?” I was surprised because he prefers to phone the latter himself than to ask of him from me. “Erm… daddy he is fine… he is at work”. I replied.
“Ablah, I have been wondering … errrrr … about the message you sent. You don’t sound like you miss me as stated … looks like you weren’t expecting my call”. I almost froze in the seat. Geeeees, the message I thought I had sent to Obodai had made its way into my father-in-law’s inbox; into the inbox of Old Rascal had it gone.
He sometimes calls himself Old Rascal. So once a while, depending on the atmosphere, we all call him Old Rascal. At that moment I wished the earth would crack open for me to enter. Heh! “Erm … oh daddy, sorry oooo. The message wasn’t meant for you. Oh, sorry daddy. It was … it was … erm meant for Obodai”. Then he began to laugh, my heart palpitating.
I felt so terrible and self-betrayed. “Well, I knew it wasn’t mine anyway. I just thought of calling to let you know I had received it and to warn you to input your contact’s name properly next time. Greet Naa Atswei when you get home”.
When he hanged up, I went back to my sent messages to check on the thread of conversations. Lo and behold, I had sent the message to my father-in-law. You see, I had keyed in his name on my phone as OB original, and Obodai’s as OB darling. How my fingers managed to swerve the right recipient is still a mystery.
Can you imagine how I would have felt if I had vividly detailed my intended action for that night in the message? It’s been two days after the incident and I still haven’t gotten over the abashing experience. I have been feeling like a bad little girl since then. Shiee!!!
Hmm. Anyway, it’s one of those things. Please the Ablah@10 celebration is still on. Feel free to contact me with your donations for my Orphanage Project. Thank you in advance for being a cheerful giver.