Inspired by Jenniferle
Imagine a world where the rich flavors of mangu meet the hearty warmth of fufu – that’s my life. I’m a proud Dominican girl, navigating the waters of love with Kwesi, my boo, my life, mi amor from Ghana. You might think our biggest adventure would be merging our culinary worlds, but it turns out, the real journey is mastering the art of patience, with a side of Dominican resilience and Ghanaian storytelling.
Mama always said, “Mija, la paciencia es una virtud,” but let’s be real, I had the patience of a New York minute. I mean, trying to wait for red nail polish to dry without smudging it? Please, I’d rather try to teach my abuela how to use Snapchat.
Or remember spending all day at the salon, trying to get my hair layered just right? I could’ve watched an entire novella in that time. And don’t even get me started on the DMV in the Bronx. I swear, I saw kids come in as toddlers and leave driving.
Now Kwesi is this sweet, tall, Ghanaian hunk, and I’ve been waiting patiently for him to propose like it’s the next season of Power. With all that being said, I thought I mastered the art of patience. I thought I was cool, calm, and collected, especially when Kwesi was involved.
Now here is the juicy part. So, last week Friday, while I was sitting at the salon waiting for Elvira to recolor my roots, I got this loca idea to call AT&T. Who does that, right? But I’m looking at this bill online and it’s showing calls to Ghana that could last longer than my family dinner at Christmas. Something wasn’t adding up.
After a dance-off with the customer service rep, I got these details that made less sense than a telenovela plot twist. Kwesi pays the bill, but I still don’t want to feel that he is paying extra money when he doesn’t have to. Plus, this total can easily buy me another pair of Jenniferle boots. Now I’m playing a ping pong match in my head. Should I wait for Kwesi to resolve the situation? Or do I play detective and see who this number belongs to? Well, you don’t know me but I think you know which door I choose. Yes, you guessed it. I went full C.S.I. Santo Domingo on this.
I called this mystery number, and this voice, soft like a lullaby, answered: “Hello”: I’m all polite but on the inside, I’m like a chihuahua ready to bark. Dead silence. I’m thinking, Ay Dios, did she hang up? But no, she’s there. “Hello?” I say, hoping she speaks the language of peace or at least Spanglish.
Finally, she’s like, “Yes, what do you want?” in a tone that’s sharper than my tía’s tongue at a gossip session. I dive right in: “Do you know Kwesi?” And then she hits me with, “My husband, Kwesi. Ask him.” She then drops the call immediately.
I’m redialing faster than a Bachata beat. She picks up again, and oh, she’s got stories. Talking ‘bout Kwesi like he’s some prize at a carnival game. Saying he’s coming back for her like they got some sort of layaway plan on love.
I let out a string of Spanish that would make a toddler cover her ears, but she’s unbothered like she’s listening to her favorite song. She hangs up again, and I’m left spinning faster than a merengue dancer.
My head is buzzing like a bachata club at midnight, thinking, “Is this why Kwesi’s all about building that house in Ghana? Was it …..Was it for her?”