i don’t like my smile.
and i’ve despised it for the longest time too. 

if i had to pinpoint the beginning, i’d say it started in my second year of secondary school. my classmate, Samuel, had looked at me and pointed out my overbite. he did so in front of Dillon Timothy.

for context, Dillon was my crush. 
they laughed together. i never go to the school’s lavatory but i did that day, i needed privacy for my silent tears.

i never forgave Samuel. i doubt i ever will. but that’s beside the point.
that evening, i went home and examined my teeth from all angles. from the front, they looked fine. the side view though?

well…

all i could see was what he had seen.

i knew it’d be futile to try not smiling so i settled for using my hand over my mouth and stopping my laugh midway, as though ending it early would somehow make my smile less visible.

after all, that wasn’t the first time my teeth had been noticed, but it left me wondering whether everyone else saw them before they saw me.

we all watched fairy God parents growing up, no? if you did, you’d know the main character who’s this obnoxious, little child called Timmy Turner. he had beaver-like front teeth.

i sleep with my lips slightly parted, leaving my four front teeth on display and according to my family, it made it more pronounced. 

it started with my little sister. she noticed the resemblance first. then she pointed it out to my mummy who laughed and joined in. before long, calling me Timmy Turner became a running joke in the house.

it is funny now. she was just a child making an innocent observation between her sister and a cartoon character. she wasn’t trying to make me hate my smile. but intentions and outcomes don’t always shake hands.

years later, i remember telling my mum that i’d like to get my teeth whitened.

my aunt happened to be in the room.

before my mum could respond, she looked at me and said, “do you want to look like angela nwosu? your teeth are okay like this. fair people don’t have bright teeth.”

“oh.”

that was all i said.

i wasn’t asking because i wanted unnaturally white teeth. i just wanted to smile without wondering what everybody else saw, and to think i hadn’t even added that i’d also wanted braces. she’d have my head if she heard that bit.

not too long ago too, someone pointed out that i smile the way chloe bailey does. she said she’d noticed i start smiling with my teeth and then almost immediately close my mouth.

i was stunned.

not because she compared me to chloe bailey, but because i hadn’t realized anyone else had noticed.

i thought covering my smile was subtle. i thought it was something only i was conscious of.

apparently, it had become a part of the way i existed to the world.

i used to think i had a nice smile, genuinely. there wasn’t a day i remember looking in the mirror and wishing i had someone else’s. well… except maybe Halle Berry’s. 

then enough people commented on it so i started borrowing their eyes instead of trusting mine.

i’m starting to think that again. these days, my hand doesn’t find my mouth as quickly when i laugh and i even catch myself smiling sometimes before i even remember i’m supposed to be embarrassed by it. 

it’s telling how easily other people volunteer to narrate bodies that aren’t theirs. stranger still that, they do it often enough, you begin quoting them to yourself. 

anyway, here are a few lovely pictures of me smiling unabashedly:

have you ever made out so intensely your brain forgets it’s supposed to think? like during— or even after the kiss, you’d be considered slow because you genuinely can’t talk?

you probably haven’t and that’s sad. i wish you one this summer.

very fortunately for me, it happened on one dry August day last summer. 

in fact, to preface this, last summer was WILD and i had a damn good time. i even wish i journaled then, i’d title it, “the summer i re-discovered the will to live.” i only have slowly fading memories to live on.

anyways, let’s talk about this kiss.
good lord.
i still smile like an idiot when i remember it man.

picture this, i walk in from an exhausting day at the firm i intern at. i collapse into my baby’s arms. he soothes me and reminds me i work this hard for him and our 4 lovely imaginary kids. i’m suddenly very motivated again. i want to go back tomorrow to work just as hard now, but wait. is that the only thing i want to do?

of course not. i turn and look into his eyes, unintentionally shrugging his hands which were at my tense shoulders. he looks back at me with such longing. the world narrows until there’s only breathing and mouths, until i could feel my body, mind and soul relax. we kiss and kiss and it feels like an eternity has passed, though if i had to guess, maybe four or five minutes until we are reminded how necessary oxygen is apparently. 

he pauses. i think to catch his breath but no, boy did he have other plans. he holds my face, lovingly might i add. he leans his forehead, and in his raspy, short of breath voice, says “i love you.”

i’m stunned. reasonably so, there was no label to what we were and that was fun. however, those are the same three words i’ve had lodged in the back of my throat since January of 2024.

i kiss him back. i don’t know what else to do and i don’t have the courage to say what i need to yet. eventually i pull away, far enough to breathe and close enough for him to feel what i think was the goofiest grin widen as i whisper back, “i love you too.”

it was the easiest thing i’d ever struggled to say and we did not say it to the other again for at least a month plus but we knew. 

we knew. 

i still spend hours at the very least, every week thinking of that kiss. i think about how if that kiss and the confession had happened a week later, i’d have been well on my way out of what we had going at the time. i also don’t think about it as frequently because it was the best one we’ve ever had. we’ve had better. 

i think about it because it was the first time love stopped being something i hoped was  there and became something i knew. 

it made pretending impossible. and after months of dancing around what we were, i finally admitted to him and myself— that i was hopelessly in love. i put on my big girl linen pants and wrote about how i was caught between certainty and fear which led to our eventual union. i like to praise myself for taking the bold step and shooting my shot but he deserves it to be fair.

we wouldn’t be kissing this summer if he hadn’t.

p.s mummy it’s not real and it never happened. in fact, this is plagiarised.

there is this strange confidence people have when they believe knowing an old version of you means they still know the current one.

and it’s not because they miss you or your absence has made their life dull in some way. no.
they miss the access they had to you.

am i speaking from first hand experience? i plead the fifth. but the audacity of some exes would leave you bewildered.

what even do you mean when you say “i can always run it back, she’s really easy”???
does sharing a past automatically become a gateway to them in the future?

funnily, this line of thought is not far-fetched nor as ridiculous as it sounds. it plays out a lot between exes in modern society.

we have normalized letting exes come back because familiarity feels safer than starting over and heavens forbid, we meet a new man who’d sex us better or a woman who’d let things slide as easily.

i, personally would run it back if my soulmate was wrongfully separated from me but that’s not the point here. 

and usually, there’s a reason they became your past, dear man, woman, or whatever you identify as.

they’re your past not because you loved each other so much and they were the best. heck that may even be true and they were in fact the best but come on, what are boundaries then for?

people confuse familiarity with entitlement. and the moment you let yourself re-explore each other’s bodies that one drunken night, instead of setting boundaries, the game’s gone. 

there is no permanent key because you were once invited in… not even family has that in some cases.

people change. sometimes for the worse and sometimes they heal. people become versions of themselves you never got to meet. 

and the most disrespectful thing you can do to such people is assume that because you knew the old version, you are entitled the new one.

people are not museums preserving old versions of themselves for you to revisit whenever nostalgia hits. 

you’re not irreplaceable because she once loved you to bits. nor are you special because he always gave good reviews of your bedroom performance.

and if you have to rely on, “ but we’ve done this before” to get in when they tell you they don’t want to run it back, then you aren’t just trying to reconnect, you are also overriding boundaries.

i miss the version of me who wrote every day.

i haven’t written in a while, and i wanted to pretend it’s because i had nothing to say. but i do. i go down so many thought spirals every day. 
it’s more honest that i admit i have too many things i’ve not figured out how to articulate yet.

i fear that when i start, i lose drive to continue. and if that doesn’t happen, i grow lazy mid build-up. it goes without mentioning that since i found that a person i looked up to read my posts, i have been obsessed with putting out only the best whilst failing at the one thing that matters— permission to be myself.

i absolutely love that my posts are something they deem worthy but that knowing places me on a pedestal.

maybe the moment my writing became something i wanted to put out there, it also became something i started performing. i started writing not to question what i thought anymore, but to prove i had something worth reading.

i’d love to say this “skill issue” is only apparent in this area of my life, truly. that this need to be perceived a certain way only shows up here but then it’s not. it follows me everywhere.

i do not post the things i want to because i’m scared of the judgement that’d follow. i don’t say all the things i mean because i want to be perceived a certain way. i don’t laugh as loudly as i want because somewhere along the way i learnt that being too loud, too emotional, too much, was something to be corrected.

i digress.

i come back.

i miss when i wrote just because combustion was the only other option. i miss when i wrote because i wanted my love to be heard. i miss when i wrote because the thoughts begged to be spilt. 

now?
i don’t know if that means i now write for approval.

have i forgotten that writing for myself can still include other people? do i now need to find my way back to the me who wrote without witnesses? or… how do i write knowing i am being witnessed without letting that control me?

hii and it’s been a while. let’s talk about “implicit bias” and my two loud cents on it. 
you, my dearest reader, deserve to know about it.

“implicit bias” is a set of unconscious attitudes and stereotypes we hold against people or certain groups.
“implicit” means it operates automatically, so your brain is basically making fast assumptions based on patterns observed in society over time.

our brains actively seek to categorize, so they look for patterns and learn to process information quickly over time. they absorb these messages from family, friends, media, culture and repeated social narratives.
this happens even when you consciously reject prejudice.

some things still stick.

and a well known example is that when the issue of "sexual abuse" comes up, our minds often think of women first. this is because society has conditioned us to think that only women experience “real" sexual abuse and invalidate the males. when in reality, sexual abuse affects people across genders.
point is, you don't sit down to decide these things, they simply arise automatically.

implicit bias influences our decisions every day, in subtle and big ways. the hard thing about it is that you can sincerely believe in equality and still carry biases.

implicit bias asks “what assumptions and theories has your brain absorbed without your permission?”
my honest answer? a lot!

i give people benefit of the doubt but this is after fitting them into a category already. i assume based on their voices, accents, tone, how they dress, how they carry themselves, the way they maintain eye contact or how their eyes dart around the room. wrong of me, yes, but i unconsciously picked up these views on how things should be.

and it took being exposed to counter stereotypical thoughts. it took me being exposed to start individuating people and being self-aware to begin unlearning. 

examining this through a psychological lens now, we all like to believe we meet people as blank slates.
the fun fact is we don’t.

what meets them first is what psychologists call implicit social cognition (ISC)… the automatic association your brain forms before you decide anything. 
it links traits to categories because it has seen those pairings repeated in culture, media, family, everywhere.

this is where heuristics, which are mental shortcuts, come in. most of the time, these shortcuts are useful. they help us make quick decisions when we don’t have enough information. 
problems however arise when these shortcuts outlive their usefulness and the speed becomes more important than the accuracy.

a buff build? intimidating.
soft voice? gentle, trustworthy, approachable.
an accent? educated… or not.

this often leads to confirmation bias since those shortcuts become outdated and distort how we see people.
here, once you place someone in a category, your brain scrambles to collect evidence supporting that. if they’re “marriage material”, red flags become quirks. if they’re not, every mistake becomes proof to buttress that.

now you may not have chosen this reasoning but once you see it, you should choose to challenge it. implicit bias forces us to confront the fact that we're not as self-authored as we thought, but it also offers freedom in the knowledge that we can consciously choose to re-author.
it also doesn’t mean you’re immoral, it just means you’re automated. are you then willing to update the software?

i always end up relating these ideas back to love.
we attribute mistakes differently depending on who makes them. if they’re your “spec”, their flaw is situational and if not, it’s dispositional. 

some examples of how implicit bias affects love are expecting emotional or financial labor unevenly, attributing mistakes differently depending on whether someone fits your ideal archetype or not, and assuming love should be shown in a higher/lower level because of gender stereotypes. 

we see certain traits in people and think it’s instinctive that we like it. traits like height preferences. accents too. “soft femininity” or “provider energy”. yea, these don’t exist in a vacuum. your type is curated.

i recently came across the term "wifeslop". crazy term but it refers to a woman who embodies ideals you’d want in a future partner. it shows that attraction is truly less about compatibility and more about how closely someone aligns with a culturally approved archetype. it is then glaring we’re not responding to the person but to narratives we've internalized.

who decides what that should look like? why do these traits seem safe? are we in love with the predictability of the role they can play or the person? who is allowed to cry when things go south?
who?

i remember a prior conversation where i sought more expressiveness from a partner and one of his friends said “she’s asking for it but she’d get tired so don’t become more expressive or she’d leave eventually” i’m glad said partner did not heed that advice.

meanwhile, we even hold these biases against ourselves. “i am the emotional one" or "i am the one who has to hold it together”, are you the only one in the relationship?

there’s also the “attraction bias”. sometimes we divide women into two moral columns, one’s worthy of devotion and the other’s worthy of desire and rarely allow them to exist as both. one is pure and should be flaunted to the world and the other is desirable but only in the back rooms.

the bit where attachment style meets implicit bias? good lord! you label someone as “too much” when what’s actually at play is a reaction from your system. she’s not a green flag if you’re simply defending a familiar abusive pattern.

for example, when a partner is asking for more communication, it doesn’t mean they’re “clingy.” and when one wants space one hot tuesday afternoon, it’s still unfair to assume “oh they don’t love me as much anymore.” 

that reaction is based on your attachment style recounting patterns heard about in such settings.

implicit bias doesn’t stop at relationships either. politically, implicit bias affects who we view as competent leaders since we’d be more likely to vote for those with a more appealing appearance and voice and may even be influenced by an accent. it also decides which groups are viewed as threats and victims— i do not want to expatiate on that.
and the media, of course. its amplification of certain narratives plays a huge role too. 

your brain absorbs patterns— these patterns, now that you see they make you judge people wrongly, has you responsible for actions you take which is, your overall response. these patterns also play out in real time with people you love and people you don't even know. these patterns reflect on those we let rule us, those we think should be done away with too.

awareness of your biases is not enough now, is it? no, no.
research has shown it only reduces defensiveness when called out. but exposure to counter-stereotypical experiences and deliberate behavioral changes should do the trick.
that can gradually rewire those perceptions.

again, are you willing to update the software? yes? this usually takes a series of steps. steps that often feature the question “why”.

perhaps that is the unsettling thing about implicit bias.
not that it exists, but that it is ordinary.

it lives in first impressions, preferences, attractions, fears, assumptions and certainties. it lives in the stories we tell about other people and the stories we tell about ourselves.

the question was never whether you have biases.

you do.

i do too.

the question is what happens after you notice them.

do you defend them because they feel familiar, or interrogate them because they feel true?

every belief has a lineage. every preference has a history. every certainty has a source.
follow it far enough and you will eventually arrive at the same question:
why?

and perhaps that is where re-authoring begins.

“i will not forgive you”
words 6 year old me always said after being wronged. the difference now is i don’t say it out loud anymore.

i am a vengeful person. people who know me should know that. some have been on the receiving end.

Akeel and i were on the phone this morning when conversation drifted there. he said he knew how unforgiving i was, how i never forget things, so he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.

i corrected him quickly that i forgive sometimes. he laughed and asked if i forget then.
i replied, still, sometimes.

he simplified it for me then: forgiving and not forgetting means i remember the resentment.  and forgetting without forgiving, which happens subconsciously holds just as much weight.

he said we’d work on it together. i was not very willing, but anything to be the best version of myself.

i hate that i’m like this— reluctant to let go of things. i hate that seeing people who wronged me causes such acute pain. i hate that i never fully get over it, even when i try.

i hate that i still resent that one boy in secondary school that told Dillon i liked him. i can never be cool with Ikram because of that fight with zainab, even if they talk now. and i don’t think i’ll ever fully recover from the things i heard a good friend once said.

i hate that.

i probably need therapy yea? i don’t think so.

i think my mother needs to tell me really gently to let go. that should do the trick.

but maybe it’s not about being told.

maybe it’s about learning how to let go without feeling like i’m losing something in the process. maybe my forgiveness is not dismissal of wrong done. maybe i just need to stand down.

maybe.

the night before we met,
i remember all too vividly 
just how giddy i was—
tossing and turning,
kicking my feet,
and smiling to every surface,
earnestly praying dawn came soon.

when the hour struck two,
sleep had finally held me.
the excitement petered down,
with sporadic jerks here and there.
i dreamt only about you.

the sun rose,
and so did i.
hastening my chores,
praying the day goes well,
wishing you’d text back soon,
confirming we’d meet at noon.

at around quarter past four,
you told me to meet you by seven—
no apology, no explanation,
no taking into account my curfew.
i couldn’t care less;
i was eager to meet you.

you wore the plaid shirt,
the one i told you i disliked.
the absence of remorse for keeping me waiting
was obvious in your bounce.
you smelt like always—
oud and a hint of weed.

you told me i could have worn something looser,
and asked why was my hair in an updo,
demeaning my efforts to look good
for you.
i let it pass.

i apologized,
adding that it wouldn’t repeat itself,
confessing how i had missed you,
pouting about your lack of affection.
you looked at me like i was obtuse,
a bored expression dawning your features—

as though,
my longing was excessive,
my softness,
an inconvenience.

and in that moment,
something quiet settled in me.

not heartbreak, no—
something far more sobering.

the understanding
that i had been thinking of you
in ways you had never
once
considered me

not the night before
when sleep evaded me

not the hours i folded myself into anticipation
like prayer

not even now
as i stood before you
still choosing you
despite it all

i searched your face
for a trace of it—
care,
remorse,
recognition

but found only absence

and still, i leaned in.

you know what distasteful thing has become a norm? 
aloofness to love. 
nonchalance framed as protection. 
emotional distance performed as wisdom.

i don’t like that.

not now when i’ve understood what it means to love and truly love. not now when all i live for is declaration of my love for you. not when i never want you to question how much you mean to me.

i write incessantly about the way your lips curve up when you say my name. 
about the fine lines that appear when you smile as though i’m the best thing you’ve known to exist.
i’ve vocalized to the world how loving you has left me, who never cared for the little things suspended in ambedo.
the world will know today, tomorrow and forever how deeply my love for you runs. i want to be reminded every hour of the day how beatific you are.
and it’ll be known that i’d choose you alone a million times over, even among others of your ilk— and it would not be hyperbole.

if this makes me a love bomber, then so be it.

i have never understood the pride people take in restraint.
as though love should be rationed like water in drought.
as though the heart must keep its hands behind its back so it doesn’t make the mistake of reaching out.

mine does not.

mine reaches for you instinctively.
for the warmth of your exhale when i lean into you.
for the quietness that settles between us after we’ve exhausted topics.
for the way your hand cups my face, eyes brimming with longing as we anticipate what comes next.

like majnun, i notice everything.

the way your brows crease slightly when you’re deep in thought.
the softness in your eyes when i catch you staring at me as i yap on.
the way your voice lowers when you say my name, as if you don’t breathe in that instance, as if it is a word meant only for your mouth.
the rich way you laugh and sigh after, like you really enjoyed the joke.

and i’d never not notice this.
never pretend to not see it.

because why would i love you and have you question that?
why should you be confused about how smitten i am?
why should i subject you, who i wouldn’t want to lose to that?

if loving you means being excessive, then i will be excessive.
if loving you means saying it too often, then let it be said until the words lose shape. let it be said until my tongue knows it too even in my slumber. let it be said.

i will say it when the morning light touches your face and you turn the other way.
i will say it when you rub your thumb absentmindedly over mine.
i will say it when you laugh and tilt your head back and for a moment the world rearranges itself around that sound.
i will say it after you’ve left me breathless.
i will say it when i reassure you.
i will say it every time i can.
best believe, i will.

because how strange would it be for me to witness love this passionately and answer it with silence.

so yes, i am your majnun, layla.

i think i get my passion from my mother. “think” feels like i’m unsure. 
i get my passion from my mother.

i don’t know how to do things in moderation. especially not feelings.

i’m not an in-between person. i don’t stay on the fence. i always have a clear view of my stance and it rarely ever changes. 
when i truly believe something, i do so fully. it takes a lot to move me from an opinion i’ve formed. my surname is not Bwala after all.

when i like something or someone, it very easily transforms to me forming a deep attachment. and yes, like.
now imagine me in love then. 
i start rearranging parts of my life to make space for them— my time, my thoughts and my plans for the future they weren’t originally involved in.

this holds true for anything i’m curious about. when something interests me intellectually, it stops being just curiosity. i go down this rabbit hole where i read as much on it, think about it constantly, and talk about it until everyone around me is exhausted.

i hate just the same. i’m not going to tone it down and call it “despise” or “dislike.”
i hate to my core. i hate unabashedly.
and i make it known— not to change your mind but so you know your changing mine would be a futile attempt.

i really don’t just love things. i adore them.
and sometimes in the same breath, i resent them. apparently there is a term for it: emotional ambivalence.
moderation would probably require me to choose one feeling at a time which i rarely do.
i love things and people who also drive me mad. a good example of this are my sisters.
i am not expatiating on that.

i also feel joy euphorically and sadness consuming. my interest in things is basically obsession; when i’m curious, i fixate on it. my disappointment borders heartbreak. my shame? i’m amazed how deeply it runs. my worry leads to anxiety and when i’m angry, i rage like a descendant of samson.

the very thing that lets me feel these feelings this deeply makes it just as catastrophic. i get to feel deep love, true loyalty, sincerity, passion but at what cost?
the emotional burnout after? the severity of the disappointment felt when things are unrequited? the vulnerability to hurt? don’t get me started on the difficulty detaching.

it is in fact a gift that comes with a price.

i’ve noticed this pattern at so many points in my life, and i don’t try to manage it. i don’t even want to change it to be fair. 
i’m not sure moderation would make me a better person… maybe calmer. maybe less hateful. maybe not as anxious. maybe a person with secure attachment style.

moderation probably makes life easier. calmer. better.
but i have never known how to feel a little. 
and if i’m honest, i’m not sure i’d recognise myself if i did and i don’t think those around me would like that either.

it’s been what? 3 days since i saw that line, and until now, i hadn’t really processed it.

haunting line. beautiful too.

it left me debating whether or not i was performative. but calling that performative is not fair to me.

performance implies deceit. what i’m describing is more like survival literacy— knowing which parts are allowed air in public and which would suffocate the room.

i dislike crying, and i don’t remember the last time something that warranted tears outside the confines of my room made me cave.

i don’t dislike crying because of what would hurt me enough to cause tears, but because it feels so performative. why would my body shake, my chest squeeze, my face redden, my eyes tear up? and especially in front of another?

crying is a surrender of control to me. it invites witnessing… an audience. it asks for response, even if i don’t want one. for someone who values being known for being in check with her emotions, crying feels like involuntary broadcasting.

this leads to repression. not privacy, like i’d love to term it, but repression.

i do not let myself process it at that point in time because processing it would mean letting myself feel all the feels— and i am as loud a crier as i am a lover.

“some wounds behave themselves in company” lands hard because it says composure is not the absence of pain, but the postponement of expression. the wound waits until it’s alone, where another’s gaze wouldn’t police it, where it wouldn’t have to explain itself.

the wound is definitely not gone; it’s just trained to feel its hurt at home. it is disciplined.

my pain only howls in solitude. it is well-mannered around witnesses. the only other time i’ve cried in company was for a headache we all knew was more than that.

i don’t have a conclusion yet.

the wound is still behaving.

i’ve seen good discourse on the issue of rape and its victims and anytime i’ve seen other such discourse, the one sided-ness has made me question the humanity of whoever formed such thoughts. what manner of person do you have to be to be an apologist? or do you want to say you don’t know what rape is and the gravity of it all?

rape is not an unfamiliar concept to anyone reading this. rape is a scarring event whose survivors never really heal from yet it remains a controversial topic.

“we do not punish the tiger for catching it’s prey” is a line from the song Transform by Daniel Caesar. i had same song on repeat and the last two plays, this line stood out to me so much— perhaps because of  the line that followed, “so how am i the one to blame?.”

these two lines read like something lifted from a press release featuring a rape victim. the society’s first line of thought up until very recently was to interrogate the victims which are mostly women. 
“what were you wearing?” “why were you in that setting?” “what did you do to make him put you in your current plight?” “are you sure you did not want it?” “did you not enjoy it?” “you must have seduced him.” “he’s just a man, you know how these things are.”

when this happens, the victim is left carrying two burdens: the trauma itself and the belief that they somehow invited it. the perpetrator is merely reduced to a creature of instincts who gave in and acted according to nature. and it has always been disturbing to me, how raping a person is excused as something that’d happen given any setting, an inevitable consequence.

and when it’s pointed out, a grumble or two is heard, faces are turned the other way, cheeks are reddened at being called out, a barely collective mumble saying “it’s not like that” is forced out.
this leads me to think then that the victim’s behavior holds more significance than the intent of the perpetrator.

i’m currently taking the course criminology and there’s an aspect of it— victimology which deals with victims, their perpetrators and their relationships with crime committed against them. there are six types of victims but the one we’re concerned with is the one which a rape victim would fall under: the completely innocent victim.

this victim falls under this since there’s lack of consent which means lack of culpability. another reason is that the crime of rape is entirely offender-driven. and those are characteristics under such victims.

this should go to tell that, the victim’s “role” is not to be assessed and any system that does that is fundamentally flawed.

the tiger metaphor collapses the moment we remember that rapists are not animals acting without choice— they are people making deliberate choices.
yet we continue to interrogate the prey instead of the predator. we ask what she wore, if she took off her slippers, how loudly she said no, where she was stood when it happened. we call that reason and caution. but what it really is, is a refusal to admit and place violence where it belongs.

so who benefits from pretending that violence is instinct and not choice? certainly not the victims. it never was and we know this. this narrative of “instinct” only seeks to dilute responsibility, make the perpetrator less culpable, turn intent into inevitability and crime/violence into circumstance.

victim blaming is something we must abandon as a society to grow. no situation warrants rape. no sequence of events normalises it. no prior behaviour excuses it either. rape is rape and blame lies only with the perpetrator.

so the next time rape is spoken about, blame the tiger and not the prey. examine the actions of the tiger. question the tiger. shame the tiger. and protect the prey.

**while this piece speaks largely to the ways women are interrogated and blamed after sexual violence, it is not an erasure of male survivors. men too, are raped— and often forced into silence for shame caused by mockery, denial in coming to terms with hurt felt, general disbelief, and the myth that vulnerability is incompatible with masculinity. the violence is the same. the language used to bury it only changes shape.**

i’ve put off writing about my lover for a while now and i’m only here now because i am quite literally bursting at the seams.

i love him— in a way that leaves a sweet taste on my tongue if you’d indulge. i love him in ways i don’t even know yet.

the above is not the reason for this post anyways, more like something i’d hope you now know if you didn’t already.

i read something recently, a piece whose title i don’t remember but i have written, discussed with friends and thought about too frequently.
the bulk of what i understood from it was how social conditioning affects the way we love.

stay with me now.

there was a thing i wanted my partner to do so badly but it was less because i actually wanted it and more a validation thing. to prove to myself that “oh i am being loved the way so and so are being loved, so this must be real love.”

i wanted that not because i doubted our love or it was prerequisite for me to commit fully but rather because i had conditioned ideas of how love should be. i did not consciously choose that norm i had internalized and that piece naming it was what finally made me realize.

i hate that society has conditioned us to love as a performance. we’d have to put it out in an aesthetic-like way for it to be believed. it is now something to be staged before it is believed, as though love only becomes real when it is legible to others.

the world prefers a love that can be seen. algorithms prefer one that can be consumed. culture prefers one they are used to… not caring for the love that is felt, the kind that has never been good at announcing itself, the one that doesn’t come with props. 
we can’t do love in all the ways people expect and that should(does) not make it lacking. 

what if it is just not performative? what if you don’t know enough to conclude?
i love my boyfriend in ways i couldn’t put to words or act on even. we are in love with each other in ways only comprehensible to us both. we are there for each other— not for proof, not for an audience but because loving each other causes us to be. we understand each other in the subtle ways. we see our flaws and our attempts in ways that could not survive translation.

wanting the things we do when in love is not the bad thing here, it’s using it to validate the love we share with respective people. it shouldn’t confer legitimacy or intimacy.

so i refuse to reduce it to the optics’ level. i refuse to conform my love to your ideals. i refuse to name my love by the language you curated. i refuse to tailor my love to your conditions.

i refuse. i refuse. i refuse.
and you should too.

Zainab flinches.

not because it hurts yet—
because she’s waiting for it to.

Nura notices.

he doesn’t say anything. he slows down.

Zainab’s breath stutters. she waits for familiar instruction.

relax.
nothing will happen.
you’re fine, it’s all in your head.

it doesn’t come.

instead, Nura says, “tell me when.”

she nods, unsure what that means.

he waits.

the room is quiet enough that she can hear her own breathing— sharp, uneven, then soft.

her shoulders drop an inch.

“now?” she asks, testing the word.

Nura stops immediately.
“okay.”

no sigh.
no disappointment.
no joke.

just okay.

Zainab blinks. “that’s it?”

“that’s it,” he says.

she laughs once— surprised, almost embarrassed.

they sit like that for a while. not touching. not fixing.

later, Zainab reaches for his hand herself.

Aaliyah types a post.

deletes it.

types again.

deletes again.

instead, she texts one person.

are you free to talk?

no thread.
no statistics.
no careful language.

just that.

Maman watches Zainab stand from the couch.

“are you alright?” she asks.

Zainab pauses. “I don’t know yet.”

Maman nods.

she doesn’t argue.
doesn’t advice.
doesn’t pray louder.

AJ finishes his shift.

a female patient hesitates at the door.

“doctor,” she says, “they usually tell me to just relax.”

AJ doesn’t correct her.

he says, “if it hurts, we stop”.

she looks at him, startled.

“that’s allowed?”

“yes.”

that night, Zainab lies in bed.

her body is still cautious.

still guarded.

but it is no longer bracing for instruction.

she presses her palm to her stomach.

waits.

nothing loosens yet.

but nothing tightens either.

and for the first time, Zainab delights in anticipation of the events unfolding at night.

Nura, explaining/ AJ, breaking down

“i read something” Nura says. “about placebo.”

AJ hums. “let me guess. belief heals?”

“it does.” Nura hammers. “if the mind expects relief—“

“—the body sometimes follows,” Aj finishes. “yes.”

“so maybe if she just believes it won’t hurt—“

“stop,” AJ says, not unkindly. “that’s not placebo.”

Nura frowns. “then what is it?”

“placebo in this case works when someone feels safe,” AJ replies. “what women usually get is the opposite.”

“telling Zainab to relax does the opposite now?”

“when she’s already in pain?” AJ asks. “yes.”

Nura scoffs. “pain is worse than stress.”

“exactly,” AJ says. “so telling her it’s all in her head becomes a threat.”

“a threat? how’s that?” Nura questions.

“language from authority shapes expectations” AJ explains. “expectations shape reality.”

Nura rubs his jaw. “so words can hurt.”

“or help.” AJ says. “which is only when they don’t carry blame.”

silence.

“so that’s nocebo,” Nura clocks slowly.

AJ nods. “negative expectation. worse outcome.”

“and women get it handed to them like advice.”

“every time they complain.”

Nura exhales. “omo.”

they stop at a junction.

“so what am i supposed to say then?” Nura asks. “if ‘just relax’ is wrong.”

AJ thinks for a moment.

“you don’t tell her what to feel… you tell her what you’ll do.”

Nura waits.

“you say,” AJ continues, “‘we’ll go at your pace.’”

Nura nods.

“you say, ‘if it hurts, i’ll stop.’”

Nura swallows.

“you say, ‘your body isn’t failing.’”

the light turns green.

“and?” Nura asks.

AJ looks at him. “and you mean it.”

Nura starts the car.

he doesn’t say anything. 
he thinks to Zainab.

and for the first time, he understands why he wasn’t supposed to joke.

“it’s INVOLUNTARY,” Zainab whisper-shouts.

“have you tried relaxing?” queries Maman.

“i am relaxed.”

“no, like really.”

“what other way of relaxation is there, i just can’t. i don’t control it.”

Zainab bows her head. Maman softens.

“you cannot keep your husband waiting for long, he’s been patient already. i know you can do it, ummi. please try” Maman pleads as she clasps Zainab’s hand.

“you don’t think of me?
your daughter, who something is apparently wrong with?
the pain i go through every time we’ve tried— is of no importance?
the time i took before finally speaking… did that not say volumes?
the shame i earnestly mentioned i felt— does that not move you?”

Maman’s mouth tightens. she looks away.

“marriage requires sacrifice,” she says.

Zainab laughs— short, sharp.

“of course.”

“this is not only about sacrifice”, Maman adds quickly. “this is about patience.”

“whose?” Zainab asks.

Maman hesitates. “his.”

Zainab nods. once.

“so my body is the delay.”

“don’t say it like that.”

“how should i say it?”

silence stretches.

Maman sighs. “men have needs.”

Zainab’s chest tightens. “and i have pain.”

“you will get used to it,” Maman says. “women before you did.”

Zainab’s voice drops. “did they?”

Maman doesn’t answer.

“or did they just stop talking?”

that lands.

Maman looks at her then. really looks. like she’s seen something unfamiliar.

“do you want to lose your marriage?” she asks quietly.

Zainab shakes her head.

“i want to stop losing myself.”

Maman’s hand slips from hers.

“the man is the prize,” Zainab says, softer now. “that’s what you’re telling me”

“that’s not what i said!”

“but it is what you implied.”

they sit there, the space between them heavy with things neither of them were taught how to hold.

finally, Maman speaks. “what do you want me to do?”

Zainab opens her mouth.

closes it.

she realizes this is the first time anyone has asked her that— not what can she endure, not what should be fixed, not what she can give— but what she wants.

her throat tightens. her eyes water.

“i don’t know maman”, she sobs out.

and for the first time, no body told her to try harder.

Aaliyah, trying

Aaliyah clears her throat.

“so there’s this thing” she says. “called 
vaginismus.”

someone hums. someone else laughs, unsure if they’re meant to.

“it’s when— “ she stops. “when the body reacts before permission.”

“reacts how?” a girl asks.

Aaliyah opens her mouth. closes it.

“involuntarily.”

a pause.

“so like fear?” someone else offers.

“not exactly.”

she winces. that wasn’t helpful.

she tries again. “it’s when years of… messaging settle in the body.”

“what messaging?” another asks.

Aaliyah thinks of the words she uses online. patriarchy. control. culture.

none of them feel safe in this room.

“that women should be careful” she says instead. “that desire has consequences.”

someone nods. “that’s just upbringing”

Aaliyah nods too, before she remembers she’s meant to push back.

“yes” she stutters out. “but also—“

also what?

her phone buzzes. a restack. a like.

she ignores it.

“so what’s the solution?” someone asks.

Aaliyah hesitates. “there isn’t a quick one.”

“that’s depressing” muttered someone.

few murmur in agreement.

she laughs lightly. too lightly.

“i know right?”

later, alone. she drafts a post.

we need to talk more about how women’s body holds memory.

she stares at it. she deletes memory. she types trauma. deletes that too.

some conditions aren’t just medical. they’re cultural. 

she adds an emoji. removes it.

she wonders who she’s writing for.

women like Zainab?

or people like her?

she thinks about how easily she says we.

how rarely she means me.

she posts anyway.

the likes come quickly.

the comments follow.

thank you for sharing.
so informative.
i feel so seen.
never knew about this.

no one asks what it costs to talk about it.

she scrolls one more, sees a restack of a post of hers and locks her phone.

she thinks about Zainab.

about how carefully she selected words earlier.

about how she trimmed the sharp edges.

she opens her notes app. 

types:

what am i actually willing to say out loud?

she waits.

nothing comes.

for the first time, she doesn’t rush to fill the silence.

“oh.”

Nura pauses. “like— closes closes?”

Aaliyah shoots him a look.

“i mean medically,” he adds quickly. “anatomically.”

“it’s involuntary,” Zainab says. “before i even think.”

“so it’s fear?” Nura asks.

“i didn’t say fear.”

Aaliyah leans forward. “what did you say?”

Zainab shrugs. “my doctor did.”

Nura laughs once, too loud. “doctors love fear.”

silence.

“does it hurt?” Aaliyah asks again, softer this time.

“sometimes.”

Zainab hesitates. “sometimes it’s just… nothing.”

“nothing like numb?” Nura asks.

“nothing like blocked.”

“OH.”

Nura nods, then nods again. “okay.”

no one speaks.

“you know,” he starts, “men joke about tightness all the time.”

Aaliyah exhales through her nose.

“i’m not— i’m just saying,” he continues. “it’s framed like a win.”

Zainab looks at him. “for who?”

he opens his mouth. closes it.

Aaliyah says, “women are taught to be modest even in marriage.”

Nura shifts. “but intimacy is halal.”

“so is trust,” Aaliyah replies.

Zainab’s fingers twist together. “i still feel like i’m about to be corrected.”

“corrected?” Nura asks.

“like someone will clear their throat,” she says. “or look away.”

Nura laughs awkwardly. “yeah. aunties do that.”

no one laughs with him.

“so what do you do?” he asks.

Zainab shrugs. “i don’t know.”

Aaliyah reaches for her cup. misses it. adjusts.

Nura checks his phone. locks it again.

“anyway,” he says. “that’s wild.”

Zainab nods.

Aaliyah doesn’t.

Zainab (later, alone)

“it’s involuntary”, she practices out loud.

“it’s not fear.”

she pauses.

“it’s not my fault.”

she deletes the voice notes.

Aaliyah (texting, unsent)

of course her body resists.

we trained girls to guard themselves.

she backspaces.

types instead: “how are you feeling?”

doesn’t send it.

Nura(with his boys)

“so yea, apparently that’s a thing.”

“doesn’t that mean she’s just tight?” the boy who always leered at Zainab laughs.

Nura laughs too. then stops.

“not really.”

they look at him.

he shrugs. “it’s complicated”

someone changes the topic.

Zainab (in bed)

she presses her palm to her stomach.

waits for the knot to loosen, for it to soften.

it doesn’t.

Aaliyah (scrolling)

a post about modesty.

a post about marriage.

a post about patience.

she locks her phone.

Nura (driving)

he thinks about the joke he made.

the pause after.

how quiet the table got.

he turns the radio up.

me: i read The Stranger today. the first thing that struck me was how Meursault seems to believe and even say that life isn’t meaningful. he acts like nothing is intentional, nothing has to be willed and not every act is premeditated. things just happen.

other me: that’s the absurd, isn’t it? life doesn’t owe explanation, order or justice. it sometimes, just is.

me: often, people don’t stop to think that maybe life just is and we assume that for every action, there must be a motive and we must intend what we do.

other me: sometimes, you don’t need to search for meaning or reason. 

me: that… this feels both unsettling and freeing.

other me: recognition, not judgement. acceptance, not resignation. that’s a rebellion, the quiet form.

me: another thing that struck me: after a while, one could actually get used to anything. Meursault adapts to prison, the heat, loss of cigarettes, Marie not sending letters. the whole idea initially struck me as a subjective one but in retrospect, it is so true.

other me: humans endure. it’s not heroism, nor morality. it’s simply the mind and body learning to survive repetition. comfort becomes dull, suffering becomes background.

me: and i kept thinking about Nigeria. we get used to the profligacy going on in the economy, insecurity in our states, barbaric practices we mask as culture, yahooism… so many things that should shock, but we’ve learned to live with them.

other me: that is habituation. but notice the difference. life’s indifference treats everyone equally. the injustices you’re naming are human-made. 
they are unequal. selective. oppressive. adaptation here is survival and not freedom like in Meursault’s case. but the psychological consequence is the same: repeated exposure dulls the shock.

me: maybe that’s why Meursault opines that “everybody knows life isn’t worth living”. i don’t agree with that anyways. i think he only felt that way because he trivialised the little joys. joys he only went through but didn’t live in. joys like swimming, Marie, the sun and even the taste of coffee.

other me: exactly! and i like that you challenge him here. that’s what a philosophical book should do. it shouldn’t just be read. it should be sat with, questioned and even argued with. here, you push against Meursault’s flattening of life and it’s little joys.

me: honestly, i didn’t agree with Meursault at several points. and that felt like pushing back on an ideal everybody believed in.

other me: well, resistance matters.

me: it felt almost disrespectful to argue with a ‘classic’. i also did not like how because of the way society’s built, when one doesn’t grieve or feel as people mostly do, it’s viewed as alien— monstrous in extreme circumstances.

other me: books are to evoke thoughts Hikmah. conversation over consumption. and yes, Meursault wasn’t condemned primarily for murder but rather his ‘not crying’ at his mother’s funeral. his smoking. his drinking and savouring of coffee. it portrayed how society punishes not just crimes, but also failure to perform the “correct” emotions.

me: Meursault seemed desensitised and it shows in the way he puts off the things that should excite him too. that’s why i would say— life is worth living, not because i’m doing all the things i want to do, but because i’m sated with the little joys i experience. 

other me: that’s your quiet rebellion. fulfilment without illusion. Meursault merely passes through life, but you… you dwell in it and notice enough to feel whole.

me: then there’s the last thing. Meursault, in the end  says something about gentle indifference being brother-like. i read and thought it true. he understood resignation. 

other me: this clarity/revelation came after his confrontation with the chaplain. no illusions, no God, no cosmic justice. just the impartiality of existence, shared equally by all. everyone faces the sun, the heat, the inevitable. everyone also dies. in that equality, there is a strange companionship since irrespective of any circumstance, we’d eventually face the same fate. 

me: this makes me think about Nigeria again. the way people get used to injustice, corruption, unnecessary deaths, living in fear— it almost mimics that brother-like indifference. only that it isn’t freeing and doesn’t make what we face feel any better but rather the cost of survival.

other me: true. observation is key. recognising the absurd or injustice doesn’t free you, but the hope is that it prevents full surrender. to keep you from utter resignation. you noticed now and so have others. you resisted the passivity in the mind, even if the body adapts.

me: so what do we do? do we act? do we accept? or do we just keep noticing?

other me: i don’t think it’s about action or acceptance. maybe awareness. witnessing the absurd play out in life, however unjust, beautiful or banal. that is enough, sometimes.

me: and maybe the way forward— our liberation is something we’ll never fully see.

other me: exactly.

me: we’d never know…

other me: maybe. but it’s the most plausible answer.

what if?
what if?
what if?

each one stacks the next.
not loud enough to be called fear,
not urgent enough to force a decision,
just heavy enough to slow you down and sit with you.

stop. breathe. act.
funny how easy that sounds.
funnier still how i don’t even take the advice i give.

i give advice like i have mastered courage myself,
like i do not hesitate when the time reaches,
like my own thoughts do not circle me for days, waiting for permission.

life responds to motion.
and it is more or less a continuous cycle of risks or opportunities. you either go ahead with a thought or not. 

so, what if i was a child rooted in her stance?
what if i did not do things i was told/meant to do?
what if i did not care how my decisions affected everyone else?
what if i never studied law?
what if i chose to be friends with Samuel and not Dillon?
what if i didn’t take after school lessons like my mother wanted?
what if i refused to talk to that one cousin who stole my turn to play mortal kombat and did not let me play with his nintendo all those years ago?
what if i confronted her sooner?
what if i never talked to him?
what if i liked semo and not amala?
what if i never agreed to study there?
what if i had a different friend group?
what if i didn’t care what anyone thought about me creating content or posting or whatever?
what if i really didn’t care for public opinion like i pretend to?
what if i never inherited my mother’s love for books?
what if i lacked what i now have?
what if i never took off my hijab?
what if we worked out? 

what if?
what if?
what if?

maybe the weight of a ‘what if’ is not meant to be resolved.

maybe it is simply proof
that i lived,
that i chose,
that i moved,
that i acted,
even when i was scared to.

this is the life that happened,
and for now,
it is enough.

who really are you? 
you who comforts me in my time of despair?
you who stood betwixt the heavens and earth for me?
you who has taught me a love no other could best?
you who breathed life and love in me?
art thou Mummy?

who really are you?
you who supports me every time without bothering to know the details of said situation?
you who stayed all night analysing my boy troubles with me?
you who acted out scenarios and validated my overthinking?
art thou Sommie?

who really are you?
majestic you?
you who loves and loves and loves me?
you who’d dance with me just because i want us to?
you who knows the backstory to all that involves me?
you who wants me as fiercely as Kousei did Kaori?
you who i’d cosplay Lois lane for, without hesitation?
art thou Akeel?

who really are you?
you whose love language is feeding?
you who has poured so much of your wise years into me?
you who would raze the heavens at the sight of my displeasure?
art thou Zainab?

who really are you?
you intelligent being?
you whose mind boggles me?
you who i am in sync with?
you who has been dubbed my twin?
art thou Mercy?

who really are you?
you who has now turned family?
you who has spoilt me silly?
you who always has my best interests at heart?
art thou Basheerah?

who really are you?
you who’d go the extra mile just so i’m sated?
you who i’ve never feared judgement from?
you who is my brother?
art thou Shariff?

who really are you?
you my fellow Otaku?
you who sends me the funniest reels?
you who calls me just to ask why your streak’s grey?
art thou Muzzamil?

who really are you?
funny controversial you?
you who out-sasses me?
you who listens to jazz and rnb?
you who has such lovely aesthetic?
you, my ife?
art thou Ilogho?

who really are you?
you, my soul sister?
you who i’ve grieved and trauma dumped with?
you who’d be my forever friend?
you who i’ve shared a bath bowl with?
art thou Mufidah?

who really are you?
you who writes like you’re auditioning to be cast in Big Mouth?
you who cross-examines situations so i don’t see the fault of others alone but also where i have erred?
you who reminds me my worth like i suffer amnesia by the second?
art thou Soje?

who really are you?
you who is ever ready to join me as we discuss and create awareness on what goes on in our surroundings?
you who protects me from the judgement of others, clearing my name even in my absence?
you who encourages me to be a better muslim?
art thou Sameerah?

who really are you?
soft-spoken young lady who?
you who is well read and good natured?
you who motivates me to be a better person?
art thou Amirah?

who really are you?
you who never turns down a spam?
you who always checks in with your favorite law student?
you who listens to my rants about school because you’re lovely and hiki couldn’t shut up if she tried?
art thou Amanda?

i know you and i love you. you know me, albeit differently, but still love me and have continually shown that.
i know you, i couldn’t forget you even. 
i know you. i’ve known you. i will always know you.

Guy how far, how was your summer holiday?

omo, wasn’t really nice, you?

What happened??

there’s this boy…

Not again hickman.

hear me out na.😃

Matter so serious, you’re not even complaining about me spoiling your name? Allah, tell me, I’m all ears.

better, so so so… sooo we’ve been talking for like a year yea? 

How’d you expect me to know?

shut up and listen nau? Argh.

If you like, don’t talk fast.

so me and this boy, we’ve been talking for like a year yea, but we only met this break and everything deepened mehn, it’s become so complicated mehn.

How so? 

we both like each other, we don’t keep our hands to ourselves ofc, he even said he loved me but then he’s not pushing for anything more. we share a lot but then it still feels like i know nothing about him too. idk… is that normal?

Know nothing? In what sense?

his life. i’m an open book you know that and more so when i like a person. it feels one sided.🙁

Real lover. A person truly in love will drag, they always want to pull their partner closer to them. They also want to give, they want to give all their love. What do you think?

i don’t understand…

It’s simple really, that thing you’re doing is not love. If it’s one sided then it’s never love. Love is never one sided. You can call it your first desire, you simply desire, I feel love is something shared between two people because it’s a two way reaction thing.

i don’t think so, i feel you’re wrong. he’s very into me and he does show it, frequently. he mentioned being scared of females too. he’s just traumatised.

Ode, please don’t act blind today. Remember me and Tara? How you advised me on how it’s impossible for fire and ice to practice love. How have you forgotten? This literally just happened months ago.

oh please, what you had with Tara wasn’t real and that’s why i gave such advice. she wasn’t right for you nor was she in the best state. he’s very invested, unlike her. 

How? How are you not seeing what I’m seeing? It’s literally the same? Please describe how this ‘guy’ of yours is in the best state.

his name is Akeel, don’t refer to him so flippantly🙂it all feels too real to not be true and like i said, he of his own volition, said he loved me. atp, we’re just label-less, it’s definitely deeper than whatever it once was.

Please stop defending rubbish hikmah. You’re usually very logical, don’t allow whatever this is—that isn’t love btw, turn you to something else. I don’t want to argue abeg.

neither do i, i just want to know if it’s normal. you’re a guy na, you should know how these things go.🙁

“A guy”, and you’re just trying to describe an emotionally unavailable person. What reason did he give? 

that’s the thingggg. he’s not even made mention of taking things to the next level. i’d have been able to deduce a thing or two if that came up and i don’t want it to seem like i’m asking for too much or being too direct. i hate ts.

Again, it’s like trying to pull a push door. Don’t you see it? It just won’t work. You’ve been at this for what? A year now? 

i don’t see it as that. how are you so sure it won’t work. one person just needs to pop the question and i’ve made it obvious that if he wants more, i’m sat.

Ask him then. I’ll wait.

okay fine. you definitely helped.🙂

?? Just ask him.



Hello, what’d he say? You’ve not texted since?

hi, uhm you were right… he said he’s not ready but that he wants me. and that why do i have to complicate things. i feel stupid cl.

Are you okay? What will you do now? I’m so sorry. (I’m not🥰🙏🏾)

no… i think he needs more convincing. 

Are you being deadass right now?

wdym, he couldn’t have been lying about wanting me ffs. he just needs to be shown that we can be exclusive too.

Somebody just said he wants you but doesn’t want you and you want to fight. Wow, Nigerian Arnold schwarznegger from Kogi, you know people don’t play about those they love, yeah? What the hell is a want without want?

atp i don’t know sef ilogho but i like him guy. why am i still saying like, i love him.

You know it’s a lost cause? This situationship you’re in.

don’t call it that. it’s not a situationship nor lost.

What should I call it then? A relationship of the future? An investment based on nothing? 

halfway love😭??

Mumu. What exactly do you like about him?
 
i said it’s love.

You’re not serious abeg, answer my question ma’am, I want to tell you something before I go offline—it’ll be my own two cents on this matter.

he remembers things i tell him, he said he told his friends about me, he said he really likes my face, he tells me things because he knows i actually listen, he texts first too sometimes.

Are you sure? Are you sure this is actually who he is or you’re defending your pitfall again?

*silence*
 
You’ve left me on read boss?

i don’t know how to defend this without sounding foolish.

So that’s why? Shebi I said I’m going off and you said you need my two cents? Nawa.

i hate that loving him feels like losing, guy wth.

Okay fine, I’ve heard, it’s not your fault, what do you want to do now?

isn’t that why I’m here? me i’m clueless o.

Fairs, you need me in your life jorrr😛😛.

joel please.

Okay, I hear you, you’ll sha agree now that this is a situationship?

i guess.

Which one is I guess? Someone is using you to play ball and you’re doing guess work? shey werey lo n se?😭

Okay fine, it’s a situationship, and he doesn’t love me and this is not real, i get it now, ah.

No not really, you’re missing my point. It is a situationship, but he does love you and it is real. It’s just that this is the typa ‘real love’ that will gets you killed.

how? then isn’t it just better to wait like I’ve said before? if love is actually there, shouldn’t i just wait? 

Waiting…is it fun? it’s something you should do when something lays at the end of your wait but waiting in vain? that is simply you choosing to imagine that something is indeed there laying as a reward in your path, waiting in love and waiting in a situationship is just that.  

what makes you think there is no reward of love?

Like I said hickey, it’s fire and ice. Almost like you’re chasing someone running from you—someone faster. It’s not even like you’re athletic.

oh we’re dissing now, huh?

What diss?😳

you’ve continuously mentioned fire and ice and how this situation is similar to you and Tara’s. how does this relate to me oga?

It’s a conclusion we both came to when I was going through that arc. We talked on Fire and ice and the possibilities of it existing in a volcano, what do you think happens?

ice dies.

Exactly, ice dies.

i am ice.

Smart. 

so there’s no possibility i maybe yunno, just maybe i turn into hot water? or i don’t knowww, maybe steam? so i end up staying with my fire?

Ice dies.

answer the question oga. i just need to change to be compatible with him ba, after all love is both ways. 

Ice dies. You say it that way just because you don’t want to believe this fire is indeed bad for you. It’s just like a human saying the hardship that killed him only changed his form from human to ghoul.

wordddddd, barrrrrr, clock ittttt, slayyyyyy, yurrrrrrrrr, periodddddd.

Are you actually being sarcastic right now? I want to continue with my pep talk then sleep o.

i’m listening, it’s not sarcasm.

So yes, fire is like a violent element, it doesn’t want you around, if you want to do fuck all to get close, you burn into what you’re not—you quite literally loose yourself in the flames, don’t do that. You shouldn’t try to be inhuman for the ‘i do not need human love’  fire.

what should i try to be?

In this situation? Nothing, don’t try to be, just try to be away from. Stay away from the fire so you don’t melt.

but i still love the fire.

Major character flaw, suicide tendencies.

joel, we’re starting again, what do you think i should do?

I’m not going to tell you what to do, I’m just going to drop my two cents abeg, what you do after is your business. It’s not like you’ll listen anyway.

try me, i don glasses not horns.😔

So yeah, this ‘guy’, you and your ‘whatever you guys have going on’ is one type of race like this. One where your goal isn’t to reach the finish line, but to catch another athlete—a faster stronger athlete. Let’s just say a game of tag, but with someone who outmatches you, in the long run you’re going to get hurt.

stop using parables joel my king.

It’s an attachment style thing, I think all humans have one. It’s how you form and maintain relationships with people. In this your sorry case, it’s like you: an individual with anxious attachment has fallen in love with Akeel: a guy with fearful avoidant attachment style. The thing is, this is how most situationships are, an unhealthy bonding between fire and ice.

oh… you say unhealthy, i say human. we’re both trying to unlearn and love. maybe it’s the timing.maybe we’re just two people figuring ourselves out and holding on where it feels familiar.

No Hickey, that’s not how it is, you’re like reaching out to somebody who wants nothing of you—most times anyways. And those times he does want you, because of his disorganized attachment style ofc, you unwillingly cling to those memories more.

why not and why would you say it that way?

Omo because, in a way, that’s what your heart wants to hear. That’s what it expects. The heart doesn’t deal in logic — it forgives the bad just to keep the imagined good alive. It’s that type of organ that loves shifting to denial mode… at least that’s how I see it. It’ll cling on, because it doesn’t fancy that idea of falling out of love, a self gaslighting pumper of blood.

omo, so what do you advice?

Low-key man, idk what you should do (i do, please try your best to detach, this is suicide). It’s your decision, the deed has been done and whatever path you take is not going to be easy. Whether you decide to stay or leave.

what would you do if you were in my situation?

Hikmah, I was with Tara months ago, who am I with now?

fine, fine ah, i’ve heard, no dey shout for me.

Man, was just thinking and it’s so scary how relationships turn into situationships as time goes by. Especially that three month rule, it scares me.

three month rule?

Yeah, it’s something I came across one day on TikTok, it’s a theory that after three months the ‘honeymoon’ phase of a relationship passes and blah blah blah the true colors show and blah blah blah this period either makes or breaks a relationship. Most times, it breaks.

crazy.

So yeah, yeah, most times I see beautiful relationships turning into situationships or worse or whatever after this period. Man, modern relationships man, I’m so tired, I legit just want to love someone deeply and fully man. Bro all these theories.

three month rule, avoidant attachment, text back rule, always another person, first date mannerisms, lovebombing, ghosting, open relationships. i just want someone to fall stupidly for me…i want to fall stupidly for someone without worry, make them leave am for us the real lovers. 

Guy, do you get? I’m tired. But you know…you know what sef? Omo, we’re proper doomed because when I think about it, I legit don’t even know.

Joel…

Hikmah?

i’m tired.

I’m tired too.

i hope we’ll be fine.
 
I’d hope so too, will you be? I’m kinda worried.

i don’t know…