Miss Susan Warlord Ibrahim

Photograph: @Maria Stadnicka

For many years, I had received no letters, no news. I had my tea at six, I went to bed at ten. I had good dreams, lined with bleached fabric, well-ironed. Stark. I had a dog, I had a cat and that was all. But it was Susan who called me ‘dearest’ in a long-winded email, sent from her West African google account. Susan whose father had recently died. On Thursday 28th April 2011. In a fight with the Republican Forces of Ivory Coast. She admitted she had found me through the internet and that I would see the whole thing as a pleasant surprise. She wore blue, she said, and came to me with a business proposition. As she was looking for a long-term relationship and for investment assistance, Susan promised me a hefty fifty percent. If only I said ‘yes’, if only I agreed to kiss her back with my account, to help her find a way around a hundred million. Miss Susan Warlord Ibrahim at gmail dot com. She loved me. She did. Every day for a month, at half past seven, her love arrived in my spam box. I thought to write her back and call it off; or just to ask if she had considered pet allergies. And send her a detailed review which looked at the recent increase in reported cases of British dermatitis. But Mondays and Tuesdays, between eight and nine, I work to correct the grammar errors in my final draft. One hundred and twenty pages so far. And still writing.

 

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