Greetings.
The annual feast day of St. Valentine is upon us. There are about eleven saints in the Roman Catholic church named Valentine. However, the clergyman who was martyred on 14th February 269 is the eponym of the feast day commemorating courtly love. He is the patron saint of love, happy marriages, affianced couples, beekeepers, and epilepsy! In memory of his patronage of courtly love, I purport to provide some not so bad advice on how to woo the fairer sex, extracted from various texts - non-fictional and otherwise.
Girls from Gayaza High School had been invited to Namilyango College for a debate by the Junior Debating Society. As a leader I had the privilege of opening the dance, which followed the debate, with a girl of my choice. The problem, however, was that I had never danced, and I knew next to nothing about this kind of exercise. After I stepped on her toes more than three times, I decided to start a conversation. Maybe this would calm my nerves and eventually I would flow with her. Yet again, I did not know what a person is supposed to say to such a girl. Our conversation went as follows;
"Do you also eat posho (maize meal) at your school?"
"Sometimes."
"Does it rain at your school?"
"Yes."
"Are there many students in your school?"
"Can't you ask better questions?" Obviously she was irritated, and that marked the beginning and end of my dancing days.
From Emmanuel Katongole's Service Above Self. Chapter 1
Handle Cutlery Like A Gentleman
When I first arrived in Mqhekezweni I was regarded by some of my peers as a yokel who was hopelessly unequipped to exist in the rarefied atmosphere of the Great Place. As young men will, I did my best to appear suave and sophisticated. In church one day, I had noticed a lovely young woman who was one of the daughters of the Reverend Matyolo. Her name was Winnie, and I asked her out and she accepted. She was keen on me, but her eldest sister, nomaMpondo, regarded me as hopelessly backward. She told her sister that I was a barbarian who was not good enough for the daughter of Reverend Matyolo. To prove to her younger sister how uncivilized I was, she invited me to the rectory for lunch. I was still used to eating at home, where we did not use knife and fork. At the family table, this mischievous older sister handed me a plate that contained a single chicken wing. But the wing, instead of being soft and tender, was a bit tough, so the meat did not fall easily off the bone.
I watched the others using their knives and forks with ease and slowly picked up mine. I observed the others for a few moments, and then attempted to carve my little wing. At first I just moved it around the plate, hoping that the flesh would fall from the bone. Then I tried in vain to pin the thing down, and cut it, but it eluded me, and in my frustration I was clanking my knife on the plate. I tried this repeatedly and then noticed that the older sister was smiling at me and looking knowingly at the younger sister as if to say, “I told you so.” I struggled and struggled and became wet with perspiration, but I did not want to admit defeat and pick the infernal thing up with my hands. I did not eat much chicken that day at luncheon.
Afterward the older sister told the younger, “You will waste your whole life if you fall in love with such a backward boy,” but I am happy to say the young lady did not listen — she loved me, as backward as I was.
From Nelson Mandela's The Long Walk To Freedom. Part I, Chapter 3
... In the End, Location Matters
From Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart. Chapter 11
Ceteris. Paribus.
