On Sunday, I was walking from the parking lot and going up the steps, ascending into my church compound. In front of me was a Nigerian couple. I don't know if they were Igbo or Yoruba. The woman had a Yoruba face. The man, on the other hand, had an Igbo head. The woman was carrying the baby, and she was walking ahead of her husband. The husband was slowly following his wife's lead as he clutched the bible in his left hand and her brown hand bag in his right hand. I thought it was so sweet that he was holding her hand bag.
So why was I positively smiling as I went up the steps?
The way he held the purse, he just seemed a little too comfortable with it. The way his tummy led the way for his little portable body, it was cute. The way a smile sat on his face in spite of the skin-coloring sun, it was inspiring and amusing all at once. The way his pants sat on his abdomen, it was kind of comforting - yet bewildering. The brown hand bag knew it was safe in those hands. I was not too comfortable with the safe hands belonging to a man. So what is that I was saying again about it being sweet that he was holding his wife's purse?
Maybe I don't know what the heck I'm talking about. Maybe I'd rather my husband hold the baby while I clutch my very feminine hang bag, lest I begin to see him as less of a man. Maybe I'd rather he be so loving, caring, and confident that the thought of carrying my bag does not faze him. Maybe if he must carry it, I'd rather that he does not look so happy-go-lucky while doing it.
Or maybe I just need to shut up and leave the couple alone! Yeap, that's probably it.
