Dear (and I use the term loosely) Yvonne,
I was going to title this “Open Letter to Yvonne Okoro”, but with the spate of celebrity open letters clogging the interwebs these days, I decided against it. Besides, nothing gets another African woman’s attention like a sharp “herh!!” thrown in her direction.
I am not writing for myself, but behalf of another who can hardly hold a pencil, let alone spell or articulate his feelings. Yes, Yvonne Okoro. I’m writing on behalf of my son. He’s FOUR.
You see, thanks to Ekuba (shouts out to Ekuba!), I have recently come to understand and relish in the reality that I have unfettered access to my third best crush, John Dumelo. As you may, or may not know, Adams Apples is available on Hulu.com, which means I can watch, re-watch and savor every scene with my absolute favorite Ghanaian actor. What does this have to do with you? Everything, my dear (again, using this term mordantly, just so you don’t mistake this for a congenial interaction), because as you know, you co-star in the show with Johnny D.
‘Johnny D’ is my nick name for John. He likes it when I call him pet names. Puts that shiver down his spine…
Anyway, I’m lying there last night in my bed with a mug of rooibos tea, and in flounces my precious and only son in the middle of a break-up scene with you and Soulknight Jazz. (And kudos to you for overlooking that bad perm job he’s sporting and pushing through those emotional scenes. The only emotion I could ever conjure if my man permed his hair and threatened to leave me would be soul satisfying relief! You were brilliant in your portrayal of devastation.) My sweet boy pauses and asks if he can lie down next to me. How can I resist? I love cuddling with my son. I move to shut down my laptop and he stops me.
“No, Mommy!” he commands. He sounds panicked. “I want to look at the screen!”
And yes, those were his exact words. At four years old, he can’t say “cylinder”, but he can say “screen”. I suppose that’s because he’s cracked enough iPads and Nabis to understand the immense significance of a functional screen. Sign o’ the times, I guess.
What’s a devoted mother to do in this case? I leave the screen up and let the scene play out. What has captured my boy’s attention? Why was he so desperate to keep the scene rolling? Why wasn’t he going to sleep? It was past 10 pm! Soon, I had my answer. He was looking at YOU, Yvonne. And not only that, but most likely those your breasts.
Yes. Those your big ol’ – what are you? Like a GG? – breasts that can water a thirsty camel. I can see it now: a team of traveling Tuareg, draped in blue, traversing through the Sahara, dying of thirst.
“Does anyone have water?” one of them cries.
“No! We drank it all!” replies another.
“I see an ancient well in the distance!”
“But what shall we draw the water with?”
“Quick! Someone pray to the Okoro goddess! Pray that she will lend us her cups! We’ll never thirst again!”
How dare you? How dare you enter my home and bewitch my son in this way?! I know he was looking at your chest because *I* was looking at your chest – and by extension contemplating that you could give my bronze globes a run for their money. And do you know what happened at the tail end of that thought? My precious child fell into a deep slumber with his uncombed ‘fro on his mommy’s chest. A small smile played about his lips and before long he began to snore the contented snore of a man who’s had a good day: a very good day indeed.
You Yvonne Okoro. I say you have been warned!
Now, I do understand that since I have taken on the role of cougar and chosen and chased down my tender prize (Johnny D) in recent weeks, this may be God or Karma’s way of paying me back. After all, if his mother were to read that open letter I penned recently, she would most likely be as appalled as I was to see my son’s very visceral reaction to an on screen beauty. Did I expect to have some sort of payback for my transgressions? Of course! Did I expect it so soon? Not on your life.
Look. I’m not threatening you or anything like that. That’s not what this communication is all about. I’m just asking you to cover up a bit for the sake of my Obour. He’s not looking at you lustfully. Quite the contrary. He thinks boobs are “comfortable”… as in they are something to cuddle into and relax with.
“Mommy, you are so pretty… and SO comfortable,” he’s told me on many a lazy afternoon.
Why do you want to take this from me, Yvonne? He will soon begin to make distinctions between myself and other women. I’m already having a hard time competing with his pre-k teacher…now you too??? Do you know how many days he’s slipped up and called me ‘Ms. Parker’? If he calls me ‘Baaba’ in the midst of bath time, I’ll be crushed.
In conclusion: You have been warned… again!
You know who it is.
Or maybe you don’t.