My Future Husband Is Reading My Substack
Nice to meet you baby x
I’m not delusional, I’m manifesting.
As I type, I have 18 Substack followers, I appreciate you! Is he one of them? Probably not, he’d be much more conspicuous with it.
It’ll start with late-night peeks on Instagram, then gradually slip into Hmmm. Amahla hasn’t text me back in two days 🙄 let me check her Substack… Das my man.
A Lover Girl
Recently, I’ve accepted I’m an artsy lover girl at heart. A little quirky, but in a nerdy jazz hands kinda way. My future hubby knows this, and that he’ll have to ground my eccentric ideas of moving countries every six weeks. I’m a dreamer – what can I say!
Maybe my late twenties are rewiring my brain but that difference between being understood and being desired feels wider than ever. These past few years I’ve gotten to know myself deeply. It’s strange, like I can feel my womanhood forming in real time. Rom-coms - cringe, romance novels - soppy. But, the drama of falling in love in real time? It inspires me. It’s enthralling. I can’t help it. Love is life, and life is art.
I saw an instagram post today that touched me. It was posted by an Indian publication called the Sakhee Collective. It discussed the concept of curiosity as an inheritance passed down by women. It’s so true, I was raised to ask questions and if the answers weren’t provided, to go and find them myself. I was raised by phenomenal women who gave me the gift of curiosity, but also sass. I love me some sass. Future hubby is in for the time of his life. I’m sweet, but if he attempts to waste my time, I will be requesting compensation. That one made it into a song.
Doing Like Curtis and Moving On Up
Last month, I had a meeting with my music team. Brilliant people who have achieved amazing things. They were walking me through the landscape of the industry and where I could go next, when it suddenly dawned on me. Everyone in that room (except me), travels around the world for work all the time. Surely, one of them has a man for me. There are over a billion people between Europe and America. I only need one!
Naturally, I let the head of my publishing company know, he’d be best placed to help with my search for a husband. It made perfect sense in the moment. Like a semi-arranged marriage pulled from a pre-vetted candidate pool. And, okay…he didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no.
After a few ‘Amahla pls don’t come a kill me today’(s), he asked an important question. What kind of husband do I want? It took me a few seconds to lock in. But, beyond the foundations of any good person, kindness, empathy, humility etc… I landed on three things.
My Mystery Man
Must have a pension.
Your girl is getting old, my birth year begins with ‘19’. Those dinosaur memes taking over right now? Yes. That’s me. At our age, my man needs to come with a (pension) plan!Must have a 9 to 5.
May I be saved from the hustlers of London Town. No basement businesses. I envisage my life writing music and books. Ideally, in my custom garden studio, somewhere that reaches above 19°C in December. Good sir needs to arrive with this in mind. All that, plus popping out his children? I’m already overwhelmed, let’s be sensible now…
Must be chalant.
I need my man chalanting. If I’d become an Anthropologist like I promised my parents, I’d be excavating a cave somewhere. Take me to Porto so I can stop checking my Insta analytics pls baby.
I didn’t get all the way down my list but I’m not even sure if this landed. He quickly drifted into a tangent, something about young people needing to pull their pants up nowadays 🙄. A global issue, apparently. So, ladies, it looks like we’re facing a cross-continental crisis.
Alas, you have found me here, putting the word out to Skepta, John Boyega and Michael B.
For now, Substack is our best plan of action.
Kisses.
Waiting for you boo(s) x
P.S Pls do not stalk me, that is not cool.
Hi! My name is Amahla, I’m a British jazz singer-songwriter and poet from London. Welcome to my diary 💋
