In the name of love:
Jul 30, 2010
<b>The string that knotted our hearts</b><br>Back then in the days when we risked our all to date girls who lived in their parents’ homes, we got so creative that we would have invented machines had we guided our thinking correctly.
The string that knotted our hearts
Back then in the days when we risked our all to date girls who lived in their parents’ homes, we got so creative that we would have invented machines had we guided our thinking correctly.
There was this kyana called Christine. Both of us were in high school. Her parents were the tight markers of the generation. We could only meet coincidentally at the well while fetching water. But because of her siblings and village people, the well was never a nice place to share sweet words.
As our love grew, we had to devise means of meeting more often. For such tough parents, we had to improvise ways in which to communicate that I was outside their family home without blowing our cover. I would arrive after the family was safely tucked in, get her to come out and we would talk until she returned home, all this unnoticed.
Christine would tie a long string on her hand, the end of which she would pass through the window crack to hang outside the window of her bedroom. Whenever I would come, instead of knocking on her window, which was suicidal, I would gently tug at the string, which would alert her that I was around. She would then wake up, open the window and jump out.
We would tiptoe to a safe distance and talk, talk and talk. Sometimes far into the night. I still wonder at what we would actually be talking about – sometimes far into the next day!
Back then in the days when we risked our all to date girls who lived in their parents’ homes, we got so creative that we would have invented machines had we guided our thinking correctly.
There was this kyana called Christine. Both of us were in high school. Her parents were the tight markers of the generation. We could only meet coincidentally at the well while fetching water. But because of her siblings and village people, the well was never a nice place to share sweet words.
As our love grew, we had to devise means of meeting more often. For such tough parents, we had to improvise ways in which to communicate that I was outside their family home without blowing our cover. I would arrive after the family was safely tucked in, get her to come out and we would talk until she returned home, all this unnoticed.
Christine would tie a long string on her hand, the end of which she would pass through the window crack to hang outside the window of her bedroom. Whenever I would come, instead of knocking on her window, which was suicidal, I would gently tug at the string, which would alert her that I was around. She would then wake up, open the window and jump out.
We would tiptoe to a safe distance and talk, talk and talk. Sometimes far into the night. I still wonder at what we would actually be talking about – sometimes far into the next day!