LOVING THE UNATTRACTIVE

Mohammed stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through Nnamdi Azikiwe Airport. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose.
His interest in her had begun thirteen months before i̶̲̥̅̊n̶̲̥̅̊ a public library he visited. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Chinasa Ndukwe. With time and effort he located her address. She lived in Asokoro i̶̲̥̅̊n̶̲̥̅̊ Abuja City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond.
The next day he was shipped overseas for Peace Keeping assignment i̶̲̥̅̊n̶̲̥̅̊ a neighbouring country. During the next year and one month the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A romance was budding. Mohammed requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like.
When the day finally came for him to return from Liberia, they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Nnamdi Azikiwe Airport in Abuja. "You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen.

I'll let Mohammed tell you what happened:

A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips. "Going my way, soldier?" she murmured. Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Ngozi Obiora. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own. And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be, grateful. I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment.
"I'm Lieutenant Mohammed,and you must be Miss Chinasa. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my dress. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"
It's not difficult to understand Miss Chinasa's wisdom, The true nature of a heart is seen in its response to the unattractive. "Tell me whom you love," Houssaye wrote, "And I will tell you who you are. Mohammed,Chinasa, Mrs Obiora... W̶̲̥̅̊Н̣̣̣̝̇̇̇ɑ̤̥̈̊†̥̥ do YOU have t̶̲̥̅̊ợ̣̣̇̇̇ say?