Dear Future Wife (XIII)

Yam, Semo', and the Mystery of You

Photo by Mark Casey on Unsplash

I believe in logic. A lot.
Especially because, well, most codes run on it, and that’s something.

But there’s a point in life where logic just... doesn’t thrive.
Take this for example: I love to eat yam. A lot.
And if you asked me why, I could say a few things that sound right.
But if I really think back to the first time I ever ate yam?
I wouldn’t even remember it.
Not the first, second, or third time. Nothing that made me consciously decide,
“Yes, this. For life.”

But I know yam is great. It fills me. Tastes amazing.
You can make it in a hundred different ways.
(Shoutout to plantain too.)

Now, semovita? Nah.
It’s never actually done anything to me oh,
But it just feels like it’s trying too hard —
To be garri. Or custard. Or pap. Or whatever else.
Like… bro, pick a struggle. Boundaries, please. 😅

But unlike yam, the first time I met you — I remember. I remember your eyes.
The sound of your voice.
The shape of your smile. It looked and felt… divine.
Rays of light literally bounced off your thirty-two, lighting up my life every time you smiled.

And the way you carried yourself?
With painstaking grace, like you were saying,
“If I step too hard, the earth might quake.”
It was the most powerful thing I had ever seen.
(And I’m guessing the next will be when your father gives me your hand in marriage.)

I love so many things about you. Because like I said the other time, there’s nothing to not love about you.
But those things aren’t why I love you. No.
Because… why would I even need a reason?

I don’t need a reason to breathe.
I don’t wake up listing justifications for why the sun deserves to rise.
The moon doesn’t need an audition to be called beautiful — it just is beautiful.
And you, my love… you are like that.

You exist, and my heart is drawn.
Not by calculation, but by conviction.
Like a song I don’t remember learning,
Yet somehow, I know every word.

Like muscle memory,
My soul remembers you even when my mind is still.

I don’t love you because you’re perfect.
I love you because you’re yourself.

Your essence. Your spirit. Your rhythm.
The quiet way you take up space—
Not asking for permission.
Not needing to be more than you are.

You just are.
And that is enough.

You don’t have to prove yourself to me.
You don’t have to always be strong. Or always be soft.
You don’t have to perform love for me to believe it.

You are not my checklist.
You are my choice.

So no, I won’t give a list of reasons.
Because love built only on reasons?
It collapses under change.

But love anchored in truth,
In spirit, in grace, in quiet knowing,
That kind of love lasts.
That kind of love grows.
That kind of love stays.

And mine, dear future wife,
Is that kind of love.

Yours,
Me