You will probably meet her at some nice laid back coffee lounge in town; perhaps Mocca, Gibsons or even Valley. You will walk in and notice her seated at the corner, by herself, fully engrossed into the pages of some corny book. A book you will soon discover will have been written by me – her good old man – and you will apologize for even thinking to yourself that she was insane for reading such a funny looking book with an ugly ass cover, and authored by someone with a rash name like Wuod Omondi Were, instead of something by Chimamanda.

A glass of half-empty Vanilla milkshake will be placed neatly on the table before her, and it will be so still you’d think it will be savoring the moment as well, taking care not to lose its balance by the sight of unfazed beauty a few inches off it.

She will look as dashing as ever. Her [natural] hair will look flawless and shiny in the mid-day sun like some lone diamond in a heap of coal; her perfectly-cut nails and soft hands will be holding onto that book so warmly you will wish it was your face instead; her shapely hips will be revealed distinguishably from her cute yellow knee-high polka dotted dress and her legs. Boy, Oh, Those long spotless legs. They will remind you of the woman in your dreams; the one for whom your heart yawns; the one for whom your emotions crumble whenever you picture yourself with her; the one to whom you dedicate a moment of silence every time you pray before bed; the one you have christened The One.

She will yawn and take a slight sip of her milkshake, giving you just enough time to notice her white perfectly aligned teeth. She will sweep you off your marks. Her smile will take your heartbeat from 0 to 100, real quick. And your heart will call out to her; begging, pleading, imploring. You will fall for her charm. You will fall for her calm nature You will fall for her guts. And your feet will, albeit unwillingly, drag you to her very presence.

Her bold personality will intimidate you. Probably because you will have been used to picking up girls from the club on Saturday nights; Inebriated cheap damsels with bottles of Black Ice in tow who fuck on the first date and actually think “You look familiar” is still a pick-up line, not intelligent sober-minded lasses like these who read books in coffee lounges. Well, that, and also the fact that you will come at her with some dumb line like;

Hi. How does it feel? To have fallen from heaven, I mean. Coz you’re an angel.


She will be unmoved by your obvious lack of game. But she will still let you sit and engage her anyway. You will ask for her contacts, but she will tell you she doesn’t give them to strangers; at least not on the first day of meeting. You will insist. So she will tell that if you really want them, you’ll arrive a tad early the following day [at around 4p.m] and find her seated at that very booth in that very lounge, before she begins reading her book. Because once she does, all her focus shifts from the rest of the universe. And with that, she will shoosh you away, smile welcomingly and say:

So, tomorrow then.


Then go back to reading her book. And you will go back to your table; confused, amazed. And for some strange reason, you will find her interesting. You will like her even more.

You will be seated at her booth the following day, by 3:30 p.m. Half an hour earlier.

She will stroll in a little past 4, her purse in arm and book in hand, and show surprise at your timing; or that you even came at all. You will have rehearsed the way you want the conversation to go this time round to avoid another embarrassing shun.

Because she will have been impressed by your punctuality, she will give you her attention this time round. And you will not disappoint. So she will give you her contacts. Then because you will not want to distract her from reading her old man’s book, you will excuse yourself. Say that you’ll call her or something. Just be nice.

She will dodge you for some time but after insisting for a while, she’ll agree to your request for dinner. On the condition that she settles her own bill [Levels, Kenyan ladies. Levels] and she goes straight home afterwards. Of course you’ll agree, she will be a tough one to convince to change her mind, that one. [She will get that from her Mama, probably. It’s not a trait of mine, I’m easily swayed. Like I’m supposed to be studying after this but try calling me for a glass of Whiskey. Heheh.]

Fast forward to six or so months later and you will be a couple; professing your profound love for each other at every instant; calling and texting each other every second of the day. That is when she will deem it fit to introduce you to me. So she will call me that Saturday night and tell me not to go drinking with the men, that she’ll be bringing someone special home to dinner. And she will call her Mama and beg her to cook something nice, one of her specials.

Now, Kiddo, this is where my letter to you actually begins. Forget all that mindless imagination of mine.

I want you to know this about me;

I will be a mean old man. Mostly seeing as I’ll have been forced to cancel a date with Whiskey and the chaps just to meet your lousy ass, but also because I will want to oversee the best for my princess.

So I will be tough on you. I will question everything in your life; practically everything. You will walk through my door and I’ll be on your neck in an instant. Like;

 “Why are you stuffing yourself in a Sir Henry suit at 9 p.m. in the night, Son? Is it meant to brag or something? Perhaps show me that you’re perfectly capable of buying anything for my daughter? Or do you just think your shit smells of Blackberry and the rest of us here wearing t-shirts and Chino pants are losers?”

At the table I will bug you about your eating habits and ask you tales from your childhood.

Why are you eating Ugali using a spoon and fork? Is that how you grew up? Didn’t your Mama tell you to do as the Romans when you went to Rome? Where do you come from exactly? How are your parents? Does your old man love Hennessy too? And your Mama, does she love those lousy soaps too? Does she fight with your old man for the remote when he wants to watch football?  What was it you said you do again? How much do you earn? Do you have a Blue Subaru?


Then I will lead you outside the house for some slight Man-talk. And I will hassle you about you music preference [Do you listen to HipHop or Riddim? Do you like Rabbit?]; I will hassle you about where you took my daughter for the first date; I will hassle you about how far you’ll have gone with her as far as romance will be concerned [If you will have deflowered her by then, then it may be important for you to know at this point that I’ll have a gun neatly stashed somewhere in my person at all times]; I will hassle you about your feelings for my daughter and how deeply you really care about her; I will ask you to give me just one concrete reason why you think you’ll be the right one for my daughter. And I know you’ll probably say something stupid like;

Because I love you daughter, Sir. That’s why.


And I will laugh louder than the demons in Naija films. And I will grab you by the shoulder, dig my nails into them deep till I feel them emerging from the opposite side and whisper in your ears;

Kid, I don’t like you; probably never will. But if she says you’re the one for her then I won’t argue with that. Just one thing, if you ever do anything that will make her cry or even imply it, if you ever put her in harm’s way, if I ever see her tears flow because of you, and by Jove if you ever break her heart. Son, I’ll break your teeth. All of them.


You’ll probably smile, thinking I’ll just be pulling your legs. But the stern expression planted on my face will tell you otherwise. And you will get the point loud and clear. Then I’ll let go of my hold on your shoulder, put on my trademark cocky smirk, tap you softly on the back and say;

One more thing. For Fathers’ Day I want a bottle of Famous Grouse Whiskey inscribed ‘World’s Best Father-In-Law’. Aye?


  1. Haha, I don’t wanna be your son-in-law. May be son-in-anarchy, so I can give you a piece of my mind when you rough me up. Like, old man, hold me like that now, but after the wedding….
    Or just calling you ‘old man will be enough’

    • Hahah. I have a feeling after this no one will want to be my son in law. Lol.

      You can only call me Old Man after buying me Whiskey. Otherwise we gon’ have a problem.

  2. What a cool piece…though you can be the worst father in law for the current “hit and run” lads/huslers who believe that anything in a skirt should be made horizontal haha

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