I had a dream...

I had a dream about you

— my wife trying to kill me (probably)

Do you believe in the supernatural?

I ask this knowing the bulk of my audience lives in East Africa, and the answer is likely—YES! But I ask anyway because of the seriousness of this issue.

Do you believe in the supernatural?

Most people fear the phrase “We need to talk”. The uncertainty it chucks in the thick air, the anxiety it induces that presses against your temples and flutters your tummy. Eh! Just thinking about it makes me feel sorry for the recipient. Please just lead with the issue at hand or complete the sentence with “We need to talk about [insert a closed-ended phrase].” Unless your goal is to in fact give the recipient a terminal illness. In which case, send it and then don’t reply to any of their subsequent messages seeking clarification.

But guess what phrase makes me cower under a thousand blankets like I’m sandwiched in a dirt trench under an overcast sky in a British war drama:

“I had a dream”

Only when it comes from my wife, though.

No, my wife isn’t the reincarnation of Martin Luther King and I don’t know how I’d feel about that if she was. My wife is a prophet and there’s plenty of evidence for this.

Before her friend told her she was pregnant, my wife had a dream about it. Before a pivotal purchase of a prime piece of land, my wife dreamt about it—location and all. Before her friend confided in her about their struggles—you guessed it—yep, my wife had several dreams about said friend before reaching out, and lo and behold—the proverbial shit was in fact, hitting the fan.

If this wasn’t scary, it’d be glorious. Lucrative even, I dare say.

But why does it concern me?

I thought my own resolve and self-discipline would fuel my fidelity in marriage. What if I lingered in a hug too long? What if I doom-scrolled through the silhouette challenge on TikTok that one time (If you know you know)? Can you imagine losing an argument because of a dream?

"I dreamt it was you who left the toilet seat up soooo..."

I didn’t know I’d have to worry about wars happening in the spiritual realm and my wife’s apparent apprenticeship with the mythical Sandman.

But why am I telling you this?

The other day my wife sent me a message first thing in the morning. It wasn’t the customary good morning text lovebirds exchange, because let’s face it, we’ve been married for four years now—long enough to take each other for granted.

No, her message was terse and terrifying:

“I had a bad dream”

Just like that, my morning was sent into disarray like a cat fumbling through saucepans full of hot water. But it gets worse—in two back-to-back dings:

Message 1: “You cheated on me with a man”

Message 2: “Then I gave you back your ring and packed”

In any other case, proceeding from any other mouth, I’d laugh-cry this off. But these words came from my wife, who’s one accurate dream away from abandoning her day job and setting up a palm reading shed in the City Square.

So this gave me pause.

And the context didn’t help either.

I was preparing to head out of the house. A process that takes longer in the sub-zero weather of North Bergen, New Jersey as I'm forced to lotion my entire body to fight against looking like the lead in Casper, the Friendly Ghost. If you don’t know what that is, I’m going to need to see some ID.

The text interrupted me as I wore lip balm to kiss the cold winds (against my will) and my wife. To kiss someone in the winter without lip balm on is to not wish them well. Plus, the flame isn’t entirely burnt out, okay!

As I used my index finger to paint the precise dimensions of my lips while checking my work in the mirror, my eyes darted to re-read the text message.

I froze like a teenager caught watching a blue movie, thinking:

“Is this how it begins?”

That simple irrational moment of self-consciousness summoned all the homophobia I buried after my first year of college. After I’d seen more of the world.

So, what would you do in my situation? Seriously, I’m stumped. What would you do?

While I wait for you, here’s a picture of my son. You can't tell, but it was freezing out there and his nose was probably running at this point, but cute moments must be captured.

Is this the equivalent of “I can’t be racist because I have a black friend?” Well, it’s all I’ve got for now.

May every day of your week be gay ✌🏾.

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PPS: If you have a story to tell and you don't mind sharing it with me, send me an email (oshemmy@gmail.com), and let's make some jam with your strawberries. Yes, that's intentionally suggestive.