Ebook Snippet – Adjoa May’s Last Love Letter
Thank you so much for taking an interest in my romance fiction, Her Last Love Letter
You may not believe it but this is a romance I started writing more than a decade ago, just after I came out of university.
Sadly, however, just like many others, it couldn’t be finished and produced in print as I had dreamt at the time.
Thankfully, my salvation has come. I can now make it an ebook and distribute it worldwide. That’s a good feeling, surely.
Start publishing your books with Draft2Digital.
So, I give you a quick glimpse into what you will find in the first chapter of this breathtaking romance.
Just to remind you that this is it in its raw, original form. I’ll need to do some editing here and there before the full story comes out.
Now here we go. Enjoy the reading.
“Who told you that nonsense? I married Bossman?”
“Do you want me to disclose the name of the person? Why won’t you just tell me the truth?”
The time was 5.30 on a cold July morning. The place was a newly-built and freshly furnished mansion at Urban B, a new and rapidly expanding residential area at Agona Swedru. Music zoomed from the system newly brought down by KB. Now the music playing was evergreen Ghanaian highlife superstar, Amakye Dede’s Iron Boy.
KB and Adjoa May had just finished making promises to each other to get married within the shortest possible time. Then KB remembered the rumour he had heard that Adjoa May had been engaged to Bossman.while he was in far away Canada.
“Please KB, just listen to me for once. I’m telling you that Bossman could never have married me and he didn’t. My body all be your own; for better for worse.” She proclaimed as if she was already reciting the marital vows.
Are you sure? Quizzed KB. He continued. “Adjoa, aren’t you exactly trying to …” KB couldn’t complete his question.
They heard a knock coming from the door to the living room. KB got up from the bed and headed straight for the door. This was only the third day since he returned from an eighteen-month stay in Toronto, Canada.
KB had discreetly locked himself inside since his return just to avoid the numerous friends and relatives who would be eager to come and welcome him and to see if they could pick up some abrokyir items in the process.
Who the hell could this intruder be? He asked nobody in particular as he went out toward the living room.
Unknown to KB, something fell down while he was hurriedly removing his shirt from the wardrobe to put on before going to answer the call. Had he noticed what had fallen down, he would have quickly picked it up. And had he picked up that tiny object, this romantic story of these two university graduates would have been lost to the world. I
f anything at all, it would have remained known only to a small circle of friends like Naomi, Way Alutta and Guy Wagzo whom Adjoa May could now hear shouting out KB’s name so loudly that it reminded her of their university days.
But Guy Wagzo’s shouts sounded very far away, as if he was calling from, Sokole, the area Assemblywoman’s house on the way to Tophill. Because the moment Adjoa May picked that fallen object and realized it was a letter written years before, by her own hand, bittersweet recollections came rolling down her memory lane. She wasted no time to begin reading that letter all over again.
AUGUST 20 1998
Nothing, I mean nothing, prevents me from calling this one my last letter to you. You know what you are? Okay, let me tell you what I believe you are. You’re an unfeeling, cold-hearted, handsome sonofabitch. Why all this ungentlemanly behavior? You know how I feel right now? I feel like spitting into your nose. But I won’t do it. I’m too decent for that. You aren’t!
Aaaba! I chase you till I taya sef. You hear African woman con him man before? Then why you dey treat me so?
You see, my dear stubborn KB, I couldn’t bring myself to saying it plainly enough but I did my best. Almost every lady on this CapeVars campus adore you and wish you were hers. But you’re love-dull. Too dull, KB. Or are you simply cold in spite of your good looks and sharp brain? Oh, what a pitiful waste!
As we secretly talked about you with each lady wishing you belonged to her, none was able to take those romantic wishes a step further except a girl called Adjoa May. Way kan tin I no do? Eh, KB? I tried everything womanly possible, handsome. Sadly, the more I tried to pry into your stony heart, the harder you brushed me aside.
You’ve been a great friend, no two ways about that. But I wish you were a less disastrous, unromantic fool. It is too late now. I’m disappointed. I’m fed up. I’m glad it’s now over as our stay on campus here draws to a close tonight. I’ll go my way and I’ll see if I should just accept one of the numerous offers out there. As I said earlier, this is the last of my letters to you.
KB, don’t tell me you didn’t know. Even a novice syto boy would have seen the writing in bold on the wall long ago. Do you remember those lovely letters I sent to you over the last three or so years? The expensive gifts? Those near naked postures I display for your bed inside at A52 Valco Hall? The kingly rides in my Toyota Corolla?
You think say them all be joke eh? Well if you were too daft to notice the scholarships etc, etc., then I’m sorry for you. Simply pack and go to hell and burn to ashes. Abi, no place for you in heaven oo. Not after treating me so unkindly.
Tomorrow, I’m writing my last paper and I’ll leave campus immediately after that. And please, KB, don’t you break my heart further by trying to come and see me off. I’ll be better off without you around me.
So, this is my way of saying goodbye.
I love but hate you, KB.
Adjoa May writing …
PS. Please, would you mind attending a birthday party at HAPPY CORNER REST SPOT in Agona Swedru? It will come off on new year’s eve, four clear months from now, from 8.30 pm till you drop. I’ll like you to meet a new friend of mine and I’ll be extremely grateful.
Adjoa May remembered vividly writing that letter some few hours before her last English paper. She could also remember the title of the paper – History, Theory and Practice of Literary Criticism.