What a blessing she is.
I stood up as soon as the bell rang.
Or what is a gong? I can’t remember how we could tell the end of each class session back in high school. Whatever it’s called, that’s not the point. So, let’s keep going.
I stood up, got out of the classroom, and ran across the school compound, knowing that I only had half an hour or so, to get to her office and come back just in time to grab my share of the classroom’s snacks.
Luckily, I got to her office just in time and placed my assignment on her desk. With sweat dripping down my nose, I muttered some reckless form of apology. She looked up at me, smiled, probably remembered a previous conversation we’ve had, and said, “If you stop trying to be perfect, you’ll always be on time.”—so I stopped trying to be perfect.
Oh, and there was this other time, I was failing, miserably, at stringing words together. What do you call a writer who doesn’t actually write? A writer, perhaps? Whatever, I don’t know. I was struggling and needed inspiration.
She’s always been one of my favourite writers, so I walked to the bookstore down the street from my parents’ house and grabbed one of her books. It’s called Ransom. I read it all in a couple of days, and that was the inspiration I needed to get started on my first draft ever—which, of course, was never published. But, at least, I knew I could write an actual draft for a book.
Since we are talking about inspiration, I should tell you about the time she literally made me who I am by letting me live within and off her. She taught me how to do all the chores that I have come to love and dislike.
She also taught me how to write with my right hand and how to keep my left hand to myself during handshakes. She once bought me a notebook and told me to write all the stories I could imagine. Honestly, I’m probably a writer because she’s a writer.
I can’t end this letter without telling you about that time we sat in a car and I poured my heart out to her. She listened. She didn’t even like me back then, but she cared. I’ve never met anyone who cares about others the way she does. Plus, she has style and I definitely don’t.
I stayed around long enough for us to be really good friends. Eventually, I committed to loving and supporting her for as long as I live. It just made sense—no question about that.
The real question is, what will I be without the influence of these women?
I’ve only told you about four women: my economics teacher in high school, Mrs. Adeyemo, one of my all-time favourite authors, Danielle Steele, my mother and my wife, in that order.
But there are several others. Individually and collectively, their lives and works have had incredible impacts on my life. I’m grateful for them.
What a blessing the woman is. What a blessing she is.
Happy (belated?) International Women’s Day.
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