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| Picture taken in the early days of love. Haha! |
I walked along a dusty brown road, glancing around for someone to ask. A petite, light-skinned girl approached, her smile constant and warm as if it never dimmed.
“Excuse me,” I said, making an effort to be polite.
“Do you know where I could find the pastor of this church?”
I asked, pointing toward a rectangular, yellow-painted bungalow to my left.
The girl, still smiling, told me the pastor lived in Ntamulung, a neighborhood in Bamenda, Cameroon. She gave vivid directions and a clear description of the pastor’s home. I thanked her, left the dusty road at a spot called Fish Pond, and headed for the pastor’s house in Ntamulung.
I was on an assignment to interview the pastor about the growing number of churches in Bamenda in August 2005. It was my wrap-up piece at The Post newspaper, where I interned as a student journalist.
When I arrived, the pastor’s house was mostly hidden behind a high stone wall and slightly rusted gates. I pushed open the smaller pedestrian gate and walked to the door. A middle-aged man greeted me. Unlike the ever-smiling girl, he carried a serious expression. He welcomed me in and answered my questions carefully. I used his words as the concluding quote for my article. He said something like,
“Christ is coming soon. We should focus on getting ready for His return instead of counting how many churches there are.”
I admired the pastor’s perspective. As a recently born-again Christian with a charismatic streak, I decided to visit his church—a long rectangular building on Fish Pond Hill. That is where I first noticed the brother. He was robust, wearing a suit that didn’t quite match his trousers, and he sat in the front row, clearly attentive. He seemed so engrossed in the service that one might have mistaken him for the pastor’s assistant.
I can’t recall if we spoke that first day, but I liked the church and started attending regularly. Months later, the pastor asked me to work on a documentary about a retired occultist from Nigeria, Joshua Balogun, who had been a native doctor, magician, cult leader, and member of the Rosicrucians before converting to Christianity. The pastor assigned the suit-wearing brother to collaborate with me.
That project was the first time I got to know him more closely. We set up shooting locations together: I presented on camera while he directed. There was an awkward phase when we both interviewed Mr. Balogun. The brother was likeable, but I didn’t see him as a potential life partner then.
On one day of filming I was training a group of girls to act out a scene in which Mr. Balogun raised a pregnant woman from the dead. I loved performing arts and had led drama groups before; directing and helping people find the humor and truth in a scene was my strength. As I coached the girls to portray mourners at a funeral, the brother stood nearby. His body language suggested he didn’t share my theatrical enthusiasm, and that made me write him off even more.
I was 18 at the time and conversations about marriage were common among the born-again sisters I knew. I began to evaluate any close male friend as a potential spouse. I believed I would recognize my match by shared interests. The brother’s heavy suits and santiago shoes I could accept, but I couldn’t imagine settling for someone who wouldn’t appreciate an ambitious, multi-talented woman. I saw a wedding ring as a kind of restraint, and I wanted to choose carefully.
Despite my doubts, the brother kept close. He bought me meat pie while I handled post-production in the studio, though I was too shy to eat it in front of him. He supported me when the video editor tested my patience and invited me to the photo studio where he worked part-time. He was a dependable friend, and I liked him in that way.
One day he invited me to lunch at a restaurant on Sonac Street in Bamenda. We sat in a corner; I sipped a bottle of Malta and noticed how much he seemed to care for me—his looks, his smiles at my awkward jokes, and the ease with which he sat beside me.
He told me he loved me and wanted to spend his life with me. I had heard it advised that one should not dismiss a man’s proposal with pride, so even though I didn’t see myself spending my life with him, I responded politely. I told him I didn’t feel I was the best fit, that someone else might suit him better.
I still remember how we left the restaurant that day. Looking back now, I wish I could run up and kiss him, to soften whatever he felt in that moment. Our conversations continued. He called often and eventually began sending romantic messages. One text read,
“I will break into your heart, even if it means breaking in like a thief—not to steal, but to love and furnish it.”
It was poetic, and yet I resisted. Between his persistent courtship and my return to Nigeria for further studies, I had another relationship that did not work out. The brother still kept in touch.
Three years after that lunch, he reminded me of our time at the restaurant and said that day would prove significant. I was on vacation with a friend in Port Harcourt while he was in Douala. He called daily, long conversations that made me feel cherished. He spent a lot on those calls, but the effort meant more than the cost. Slowly, I fell in love. The robust man in santiago shoes became my Mr. N.
There is much more to tell about how our love grew, but this is where I turn the story to you: how did you meet your spouse?