Weekend Witness - - Opinion -

press my friends, re­ally, and she looked fa­mil­iar as she told me what school she went to. That tomboy was so pretty as she of­fered to mem­o­rise my num­ber. She called less than a week later to give me her phone num­ber and there started my jour­ney with Dream­girl.

Pur­su­ing her was like pur­su­ing a white girl, be­cause she was a few so­cial classes above me. Peo­ple may think it’s a love story, but it’s about be­ing mo­ti­vated to be a bet­ter per­son so that a love in­ter­est can con­sider you one day. I had a chance de­spite com­pe­ti­tion, she said on a starry Jo­han­nes­burg night as I called her while at a braai that De­cem­ber. I said she was the bright­est star in my galaxy.

Her hon­esty was the most mem­o­rable, like when she told me it had be­come in­ap­pro­pri­ate for me to call due to a new re­la­tion­ship. It earned me an in­stru­men­tal my friend had been re­luc­tant to give me, and I wrote and recorded a song for her; my first love song. I sent it to her school with two roses and a re­quest to get back in touch as it was my 19th birth­day. She let me call her af­ter that. I played the field and dated some­times, so we would lose touch for months and even years. I would re­mem­ber her when­ever sin­gle.

On a cof­fee date, she ar­tic­u­lated a vi­sion of mine that I’d never put into words. She said she lives for her un­born chil­dren. My work ethic came from al­ways vi­su­al­is­ing my chil­dren proudly read­ing about me one day, es­pe­cially if I was no longer alive.

I was over her when we ap­peared in the same news­pa­per in 2009, but I re­mem­bered my 1999 vi­sion. Thank you, Dream­girl.

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