It was exactly twenty-five years ago, one week before Valentine’s Day, on the KNUST campus, that I — a Pope in cassock, haloed in solemnity — was ambushed by beauty itself. She appeared like a vision, a damsel so dazzling that even the stained-glass windows of the Basilica would have blushed in envy.
I confess: I was mesmerized. My cassock suddenly felt less like holy attire and more like a prison uniform. Even the “check check” (fried rice) I was buying to quench my hunger lost its appeal in that moment. She smiled, graciously gave me her name, and even her room number — top floor of Africa Hall. That was all the permission my restless heart needed. In that instant, I plotted the most scandalous rebellion of my papacy: to put down the cassock, abandon incense and chants, and join the lay faithfuls in the ordinary but intoxicating adventure called love.
And let me tell you, this was no casual fantasy. I planned my proposal with military precision. The strategy was tighter than the U.S. capturing a Venezuelan president. I rehearsed my lines, polished my gestures, even practiced my smile in the mirror until it looked less like a bishop’s blessing and more like a lover’s invitation.
Finally, the day arrived. My heart thundered like church bells on Easter morning. I approached her, cassock trembling, courage blazing. I delivered my epic proposal — a masterpiece of romance, theology, medical bravado, and sheer audacity.
Then came the verdict. She rejected me spectacularly, with the kind of elegance only a woman can muster when dismantling a man’s ego. Her words were simple, devastating: “I don’t do innocent boys. Remain married to the Church.”
The cassock I had tried to discard clung to me like destiny. My heart shattered into more pieces than communion wafers on a windy day. The pain was cathedral-sized, echoing through every corridor of my soul.
And yet, here I stand, twenty-five years later, still haunted by that moment when I met her again recently — still single, very sophisticated with a radiant bad girl looks. And I must admit, she was right: Indeed, I was not in her league and I couldn’t resist the urge to say “Oh yes, some rejections are divinely directed”.
So, if there is someone you are interested in, don’t give up. This is still the season of love. With pluck (planning plus luck), you may succeed where the Pope failed miserably. And even if you fail, the courage to try will reward you handsomely someday. But be divinely directed!
