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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.


 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.  

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