Letter V
Dear Future Wife,
Hey. I hope your fine self is doing well.
I’ve been on a journey of self-discovery — jijue, that’s the Swahili term for “know yourself.” Over the past year or so, I’ve had the space to truly understand the kind of person I’ve become: to know my limits, my strengths, and the things I can give as a human being. I’ve found myself at crossroads — between doing what’s right and taking paths that wouldn’t make my grandmother proud.
Speaking of being raised, allow me to digress a little. I was raised by my grandparents. My grandfather was a railway manager, and my grandmother a nurse. Those two, for me, were the pinnacle of love. I don’t think I ever saw them fight — if they did, it was out of sight. They were rarely apart for long. I was raised in a good home: disciplined, loving, and grounded. By the time I moved away as a teenager, I already knew the basics — the rights and wrongs, the dos and don’ts.
My grandfather never laid a hand on me. My grandmother, though, was a firm believer in “spare the rod and spoil the child” (Proverbs 13:24). That home training shaped me more than I realized. So back to that earlier crossroads — she would not have approved of the path I almost took.
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But that’s the thing about life. It has a way of testing the very lessons we thought we had mastered. It throws us into moments that test our patience, purpose, and faith. And for a while, I lost sight of who I was. I was driven by pain, disappointment, and a desire to prove something — to the world, to myself, maybe even to people who were no longer watching.
But I thank God for grace. Even when I stumbled, He didn’t let me stray too far. He gave me time to heal, to grow, to reflect. In that stillness, I rediscovered peace. I remembered the man I was raised to be — and the kind of man I want to become. Not just for myself, but for my future family: for you.
So, my future wife, wherever you are, I hope you’re also growing. I hope you’re learning to love yourself fully, to forgive yourself deeply, and to walk in grace boldly. The Bible says you are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14). I don’t expect perfection — I just hope you’re becoming whole. The version of yourself God intended you to be: alive, full, and at peace.
When our paths finally cross, I don’t want us to complete each other — I want us to complement each other. To build something real. To laugh until our sides hurt. To pray together through storms and in quiet moments. To create a home where peace lives, where love is second nature, and where even silence feels like warmth. A refuge. A place of solace.
I’m not in a rush — but I’m preparing. Every lesson, every tear, every prayer is shaping me into the kind of man who won’t just find you, but will keep you.
Until that day, I’ll keep becoming the man my grandmother prayed I’d be — and the husband I hope you’ll be proud to call yours.
With love,
Arthur
