As a StoryTerrace writer, Akua interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better by reading her autobiographical anecdote below
Every single night, before I finally closed my eyes to fall asleep, so I could dream of him, I would gaze lovingly at my Wham! poster and, zeroing in on George Michael, my boyfriend, I would lean in to give him a lingering kiss. At age 13, all I cared about was George Michael. He was the love of my life and I could not wait for the day we would finally meet. Never mind that he was a famous pop star and I, only a school girl. He would definitely love me back, not because I was the prettiest of girls, but because I was fun and bubbly. I was the life and soul of the party and everyone loved having me around. I made people laugh with my non-stop chatter. Why wouldn’t George Michael love me back? There was no doubt in my mind that the day George Michael and I finally met, it would be true love at first sight. We were destined to be together. We would get married and live happily ever after, for ever and ever.
I didn’t just end my day by kissing George Michael, I started my day that way too. So two years later, there was nothing unusual or strange about my behaviour that morning in the summer of 1985 when I planted a kiss on George Michael’s poster on my bedroom wall before rushing out of the house to meet my best friend Joyce. As we did during the school holidays, we would meet outside McDonald’s at Marble Arch and walk all the way to Convent Garden via Oxford Street, Tottenham Court Road, Regent’s Street, Carnaby Street, Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square. Sometimes, we would branch into South Molten Street, one of our favourite streets in London. South Molton Street with its exclusive and expensive stores, upmarket street cafes and beautiful people was a place where Joyce and I frequented.
That Saturday afternoon, walking down South Molton Street, Joyce nudged me urgently on my arms, “There’s George Michael!” she said with excitement.
“Yeah right” I replied flatly.
“Seriously Syl, look. That is George Michael,” she insisted.
Looking towards the direction of her pointing fingers, I gasped as I saw the love of my life, my boyfriend standing less than 50 metres from me. This was it. The moment had come. I had to go and charm George Michael with my witty and bubbly personality.
“Let’s go and talk to him” suggested Joyce eagerly. But I did not respond. “Syl, come on, it’s your boyfriend, George Michael, what are you waiting for?” asked Joyce in confusion.
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