The Era of Ink on Paper: Village Romance and the Letter That Never Was 

In the days before smartphones and instant messaging, love was a sacred, handwritten act, each letter a private treasure adorned with care and sent with hope through a shaky postal system. This is the story of Wembo and Kimanjo, my almost-boyfriend, and the letter that never reached him, snatched by the iron grip of school bureaucracy, leaving us both tangled in a comedy of miscommunication.

A village romance in the era of paperwork 

The early 80s were a world apart. In our rural village, the height of technology was a cranky radio that only worked with a well-timed smack. Wembo and Kimanjo were teenagers, caught between childhood and something bolder. Kimanjo was at a boys’ boarding school, dreaming of poetry; Wembo was at a girls’ school, mostly dreaming of surviving math. Our village was our shared stage, shy smiles at the market, stolen glances during church. It was a small world, buzzing with possibility. Kimanjo’s letter arrived like a sacred artifact. Written on delicate, decorated paper with hand-drawn stars and hearts (think today’s emojis), it was a work of art, his handwriting blending confidence and nerves. Letters were intimate, crafted on special paper with intricate borders or pressed flowers, each one a labor of love. Kimanjo’s was no exception, boldly proposing a meet-up during the school holidays near the village shop; a lively yet safe spot for a first hangout. Wembo’s heart raced. Kimanjo, the poet-in-training, wanted to meet her.

The Letter That Never Left

Wembo wasn’t about to let Kimanjo steal the show. Her reply was a masterpiece, written on floral paper she had  borrowed from a city girl,  she had saved for something and someone special, adorned with doodled swirls and a tiny sun (imagine). It was flirty but not too forward, clever but not overdone. She agreed to the meet-up, suggested they bring snacks (because snacks will keep them a little longer together). Not sure how to avoid and the village goats that always crashed after church picnics. She sealed the envelope with a wax stamp, picturing Kimanjo’s grin when he saw her artistry. But her school was a fortress of rules, where outgoing mails were screened like contraband. Wembo handed her letter to the dorm matron, whose suspicious glare practically scorched the envelope. She thought she’d dodged scrutiny. She was wrong. Days later, she was summoned to the headmistress’s office. Her letter, with its delicate flowers and images (imagine ), sat on the desk, unopened but doomed. “This kind of correspondence isn’t allowed,” the headmistress declared, her tone pure judgment. Inappropriate? It was about goats! But pleas were futile. The letter was confiscated, likely shredded or stashed in a secret file for gossip. 

Kimanjo would never see it.

A Shopfront Mix-Up

The holidays arrived!  After a week home,  Wembo planned for the meetup. The day arrived and she was nervous as she headed to the shops. She showed up at the agreed time, snacks in hand, ready for whatever this meetup might spark. She waited. The sun climbed, the goats wandered through as usual, and Kimanjo was nowhere to be seen. Her heart sank. Had he bailed? Moved on? Decided she wasn’t worth a shopfront rendezvous?Unbeknownst to her, Kimanjo was likely near another shop, equally crushed, wondering why Wembo hadn’t shown up. Without her reply, he had no clue she’d agreed or even received his letter, its stars and hearts (Imagine) unseen. He probably thought she’d ignored him, or worse, rejected him. Ghosting wasn’t a term yet, but the sting was real. Two teens, two shopfronts, one epic misunderstanding; all because of a school’s overzealous mailroom and no carrier pigeons in sight.

Laughter in the Aftermath

The truth unraveled the next school term, thanks to a chatty mutual friend. Kimanjo had shown up, snacks in tow, on a different day, assuming Wembo would suggest a new plan in her reply. He’d waited, probably muttering poetry to the goats, his decorated letter (think) tucked in his pocket. When they reconnected, they laughed until their sides ached. The image of them sulking near different shops, snacks uneaten, goats photobombed in the background, was pure cinema material. Their almost-romance fizzled, a casualty of teenage pride and lost mail, but the story became a village legend.

Lessons from a Lost Letter

Looking back, it’s a hilarious glimpse of a slower era. Letters were sacred, crafted with care on special paper, adorned with symbols like today’s emojis. Today, a quick “U at the shops?” text would’ve saved the heartache. But there’s charm in those days, when love relied on ink, paper, and faith in the postal system, even if it meant getting stood up by a poet with a bag of snacks. Here’s to Kimanjo, the no-show boyfriend who wasn’t really a no-show, and to Wembo’s letter that never made it. If you’re out there, Kimanjo, Wembo’s sorry for the mix-up and hopes you’re still writing poetry. To anyone navigating love today, cherish your instant messages and read receipts. Because nothing tests your heart or your snack budget like waiting near the village shops, with only goats for company.

Long live technology!