World’s Least Probable Romance Still Going Strong

I guess I should blog a little more about my impending purchase, and by that I mean my Zambian wife.

No, I have not proposed. But we are moving forward fast, and we are talking about things that have to be done if we keep it up.

It now appears nearly certain that I will have to buy her. If you think you’ve had weird days in your life, wait till you blog about buying a person. It’s hard to top.

She does not want to pay her relatives. She feels they have not been as gracious as they should in the past. She also wants to do the right thing, however, and she is concerned that refusing to pay may be an omission, rooted in bittnerness, which is not God’s will. She is concerned about the scandal.

After praying, we are both inclined to think we should just pay them off.

The good news is that the fee should be lower than her airfare to the US.

In order to avoid creating a scandal in Zambia, we may have to create one here. Like I care.

According to custom, her family is supposed to take part of the cow windfall and put it toward a month of sex and submission lessons for her. I don’t really know what to say about that. It wasn’t my idea. Before the relationship began, I would have been happy to be able to say, “My wife isn’t a giant pain in the butt every single day.” That would have been sufficient. I certainly didn’t expect a prospective bride to get professional wife lessons.

I do not plan to take husband lessons. I have been enduring raging, continuous, tone-deaf, sexist, feminist abuse and mind control for roughly half a century, so I think anything about me that needs to be corrected has already been addressed. It would be more appropriate to give me anti-feminist deprogramming lessons. The garbage they teach has ruined relations between the sexes. Nearly everything they tell us about women is a lie. No wonder we don’t know how to handle them.

I am told Americans like to butt into African culture and try to repair it. Our government uses aid dollars as pry bars to force change, and Africans resent it. It may well be that Obama and/or Clinton tried to turn Africa into a feminist utopia. I don’t know, because I don’t pay attention to stories about insane, intrusive liberal foreign policy. In any case, a Zambian marriage means paying for a wife and giving her sex lessons, irrespective of our government’s wishes.

I have written a letter inviting her to the US. This is needed so our State Department will grant her a visa. If her team approves it, I will have to send it to her place of work via DHS. The mail in Zambia doesn’t work. Big surprise there.

In these letters, you can’t say you are thinking about marriage, because the government will think your visitor will remain in the US. On the other hand, when you want a visa after you’re engaged, you get special treatment, even though it’s obvious the person will remain here. The special document is called a “fiancee visa.”

Tell me how that makes sense. Being in love is a problem, but being engaged is a big help.

We keep praying together every morning, as if it’s a routine thing we have been doing all our lives. We just fell into it, instantly. There is no pushing or prodding. I wake up and send her a text, and we’re off. It’s the most important thing we do.

When we video chat, we both say the same thing: it’s as if we’ve been doing it for years. I feel like I’m continuing something I started with her decades ago.

We’ve found some things we disagree on. She doesn’t like used furniture. I don’t want her to cut her hair. These are the major chasms that obstruct our romance. Other than that, our relationship is a continuous series of strong agreements.

Don’t get the idea she’s just agreeing after I tell her things. Women are famous for pretending to be what you want, only until the ring goes on. Then you’re caught, like an animal in a trap, and in order to get free, you have to chew off your house and retirement account. She talks a lot more than I do, and very often, I’m the one to interrupt to say how strongly I agree.

To sum things off, I feel like I stepped onto a bullet train that was already in motion. No red flags. No games. No walking on eggs. No effort. This is the kind of relationship I always dreamed of, but I didn’t think it could really happen in modern America. Modern American romance is sleazy, even when people think it’s classy. Thinking it’s classy is the saddest part.

I’m glad I’m not talking to a yoga-loving, Biden-voting, walking tattoo gallery who asks her slutty, unfulfilled, man-hating girlfriends how to play me. I said “slutty.” Slutty, slutty, slutty. It’s a good word. We don’t use it enough. America is full of women who are crying out for someone to have a spine and call them out on their errors.

I’m also glad I’m not interviewing with someone who wants to be my new mom so she can tell me what to eat, set my bedtime, “correct” my opinions, and wash my mouth out with gluten-free soap when I say things like “snowflake” or “semiauto.” My mom is dead. I loved her. I will not abide a new one.

It appears I have someone I can pour love into without being penalized. This is what I have always wanted. Maybe America is just not the place to look for wives. Maybe there are countries which produce good husbands, and countries which produce good wives, and they need to be connnected.

I have a lot to be grateful for. More than I ever imagined possible.

If things work out, it will be the most impressive proof of God’s greatness since the parting of the Red Sea. If not, it will simply confirm that I make mistakes.