The woman from church
Jul 27, 2010
MOTHER sat me down. “Son…my son, settle down. You don’t have to frequent nightclubs to find the right woman. Go to church.’’ I believed her. That was before I met Ruth. She was saintly and innocent. Ruth had dimples and a gap in her upper teeth. I fell head-over-heels for her.
By John Agaba
MOTHER sat me down. “Son…my son, settle down. You don’t have to frequent nightclubs to find the right woman. Go to church.’’ I believed her. That was before I met Ruth. She was saintly and innocent. Ruth had dimples and a gap in her upper teeth. I fell head-over-heels for her.
I first saw Ruth at Saint Augustine Chapel, Makerere University. After that, I woke up at 6:00am daily to attend the 7:00am service so I could see her. She never missed. Whenever she rose and gently walked to the altar for Holy Communion, I knew she was the one, my perfect woman. She was flawless.
But how would I approach her without hurting her, and without risking rejection? I was puzzled. One Sunday, I resolved to face her.
“When service is over, I will make my move,’’ I told myself. But service was dragging. I needed to play cards right with this holy woman. It was good riddance when the padre finally blessed us.
Little did I know I was to wait longer. Ruth knelt in prayer to know her God more. I too had to kneel. But I was not really praying, just obsessing. Then she moved out. Close behind, like a faithful dog to its master, I followed.
Throughout service, my eyes had been glued to her. I had been anxious and breathing heavily. Mum’s words had been ringing. Now, I was with her, my broad smile on. I cannot recall the details of this encounter. But, I got her number.
Later that night, I called her. In a soothing voice, she talked back. It was mid night. We arranged to meet at Steak Out, Nakasero the next day. It did not take me long to entice her. Before long, we were smiling. Jokingly, I proposed that we go dancing that night.
To my surprise, she accepted enthusiastically. As we rode on my bike, I could not stop musing over what she had told me. She had leaned in and whispered: “I love you. You are not like others. You don’t bore…â€
I thought about Shakespeare’s line: ‘Not all that glitters is gold.’ But she was gold, so I erased these Shakespeare thoughts from my mind and blamed the change in her character to the one Tusker we had shared back at Steak Out.
On the dance floor, she tightly held me. When the club DJ played a Daddy Yankee song, she got wild. She gyrated, dancing to reggae like no other. Not even the women I watch in Sean Paul’s videos could match her.
Ruth scared the church-girl obsession out of me. I could not match her energy. I cannot even recall the beers she had downed by the end of our outing in the wee hours of the next morning.
My plan as a gentleman was to take her home then head for my shack. More shock was to grip me when Ruth said she would sober up at my one-room crib. At home, I opted for the carpet, leaving the bed for her.
But she followed me there and nestled close, attacking me like a tigress pouncing at her prey. Her acts beat my conscience. Of the many women I had met in nightclubs and bars; a number of whom I had taken home, none came an inch close to the craziness of this church girl on our first day out.
Two days later, I called but she did not pick. I sent her messages about the wonderful time we had shared. Moments later, my phone vibrated. It was her reply, in capital letters: LEAVE ME ALONE, IT WAS ONLY FOR THE MOMENT.
MOTHER sat me down. “Son…my son, settle down. You don’t have to frequent nightclubs to find the right woman. Go to church.’’ I believed her. That was before I met Ruth. She was saintly and innocent. Ruth had dimples and a gap in her upper teeth. I fell head-over-heels for her.
I first saw Ruth at Saint Augustine Chapel, Makerere University. After that, I woke up at 6:00am daily to attend the 7:00am service so I could see her. She never missed. Whenever she rose and gently walked to the altar for Holy Communion, I knew she was the one, my perfect woman. She was flawless.
But how would I approach her without hurting her, and without risking rejection? I was puzzled. One Sunday, I resolved to face her.
“When service is over, I will make my move,’’ I told myself. But service was dragging. I needed to play cards right with this holy woman. It was good riddance when the padre finally blessed us.
Little did I know I was to wait longer. Ruth knelt in prayer to know her God more. I too had to kneel. But I was not really praying, just obsessing. Then she moved out. Close behind, like a faithful dog to its master, I followed.
Throughout service, my eyes had been glued to her. I had been anxious and breathing heavily. Mum’s words had been ringing. Now, I was with her, my broad smile on. I cannot recall the details of this encounter. But, I got her number.
Later that night, I called her. In a soothing voice, she talked back. It was mid night. We arranged to meet at Steak Out, Nakasero the next day. It did not take me long to entice her. Before long, we were smiling. Jokingly, I proposed that we go dancing that night.
To my surprise, she accepted enthusiastically. As we rode on my bike, I could not stop musing over what she had told me. She had leaned in and whispered: “I love you. You are not like others. You don’t bore…â€
I thought about Shakespeare’s line: ‘Not all that glitters is gold.’ But she was gold, so I erased these Shakespeare thoughts from my mind and blamed the change in her character to the one Tusker we had shared back at Steak Out.
On the dance floor, she tightly held me. When the club DJ played a Daddy Yankee song, she got wild. She gyrated, dancing to reggae like no other. Not even the women I watch in Sean Paul’s videos could match her.
Ruth scared the church-girl obsession out of me. I could not match her energy. I cannot even recall the beers she had downed by the end of our outing in the wee hours of the next morning.
My plan as a gentleman was to take her home then head for my shack. More shock was to grip me when Ruth said she would sober up at my one-room crib. At home, I opted for the carpet, leaving the bed for her.
But she followed me there and nestled close, attacking me like a tigress pouncing at her prey. Her acts beat my conscience. Of the many women I had met in nightclubs and bars; a number of whom I had taken home, none came an inch close to the craziness of this church girl on our first day out.
Two days later, I called but she did not pick. I sent her messages about the wonderful time we had shared. Moments later, my phone vibrated. It was her reply, in capital letters: LEAVE ME ALONE, IT WAS ONLY FOR THE MOMENT.