The last man I loved used ChatGPT to compose the breakup text—the most coherent yet ice-cold message I’d ever seen. As a seasoned book reviewer, I almost graded the message a 100 because I was stunned by how much work he put into perfecting the grammar structure and punctuation.
That morning, the air held an odd mixture—a blend of candy-scented mist woven with an underlying tinge of despair. Looking back, I should have sensed the looming storm. The prior night, after our heated exchange, I breached our unwritten pact: Never sleep with unresolved anger. I was exhausted from the unending babbling and succumbed briefly to sleep.
His message, lengthier than the Great Wall, adorned with words like ‘space’, ‘workout’ and ‘preposterous,’ elicited a laugh as I tried to decode the facade. Thirty words had been his cap, except for job leads or controversial topics we needed to discuss. I wrongly guessed that we were talking about a recent health-related article he had written on exercising.
I nodded, acknowledging his unexpected literary effort. Yet, as I approached the closing lines, the air around me turned to water and I found myself drowning, first in thoughts of self-doubt and then in the stark realisation of my situation: I had just lost my soulmate. He was the same man I prayed for every morning at the sound of the cock’s crow—a man who embodied my definition of perfection and love.
I tried calling him that day, and after the call went through, I heard him whimper. From the tone of his voice, he had mucus running down his nose and bloodshot eyes from crying uncontrollably, and for a fleeting moment, I pictured them as the colour of bright roses on a sunny day.
He had broken my heart, and ironically, he was in anguish.
“Babe, what’s going on?” I asked, my voice trembling. It was our dynamic—I was always the fixer, the accursed partner who tried to find the problems while he was my comfort on stormy nights. Even with one foot in distress, I’d press on to find out why.
Silence stretched between us. His breaths were audible, but the silence weighed me like an anchor. It reminded me of nights spent in a parallel play—me writing fiction for submission while he crafted health and wellness blog posts for his odious client. I would sit there, fingers tapping restlessly on the keyboard, trying to find synonyms for simple words like ‘care’ and ‘find’ as he fervently typed away, immersed in silent battles and unsettling conversations with anxiety. Our gazes seldom met, and when they did, we were already adrift in the shoreless ocean of our thoughts, Two lovers together yet apart. We needed to work.
And when we finally spoke, a simple word would serve as a matchstick, igniting the tranquility that enveloped us. We would scream for a couple of minutes, and I would leave for my father’s house yet again to breathe a calm brand of air after we had turned his home into an arena of emotional turmoil.
Our disagreements were a tornado—a violent rotating windstorm of emotions colliding and shattering the delicate emotional decorations we had carefully built for years.
The silence that followed was more deafening than our stormy exchanges. It was at that moment, I felt the weight of emptiness hit me. The space between us had widened, swallowing our shared laughter and intimacy and leaving behind an echoing insincerity that lingered long after the arguments subsided. We were falling apart while attempting to build a future together, and I was so clueless, well, until he chose to let go.
“Babe, speak to me, please,” I pleaded, snapping out of my thoughts.
“It’s final.”
I let the words resonate, and in a blink, the call disconnected.
They don’t teach this in school—how to carry a heavy heart with a smile on your face. Should I stride sluggishly or should I widen my legs and walk as though I have a ball between my legs? Should I feign an interest in Albert Camus’ philosophy? Or should I…just smile?
They only teach us simple things like algebra and calculus; they teach us insignificant lessons of patriotism, and on our lucky days, they teach us cooperation. They don’t teach this in church too, the supposed home to the connoisseurs of all things loved and loving. So when my friend asked me why I had fresh cuts on my arm, I squared my shoulders, deepened my voice, and asserted with a little confidence, “He hurt me yesterday.”
She widened her eyes, and I could smell her pity from where I sat, like spoiled beans laced with curry leaves. She squinted her eyes while studying the wound as though it were a specimen. I wish I could show her the deeper one—the one that sat pretty on the left part of my chest. I wished I could ask her for a hand. I was heavily laden from the weight of my heart, and my body hurt from all the crying I had done for days.
“We have to teach him a lesson,” she declared, grabbing her bag with urgency.
I remained seated, watching her eyes move like the propellers of an aero plane. I could hear her homunculus; it was a bustling city in her brain, and I could tell by the way she shook her legs that she truly wanted to hurt him. Observing her restless gestures, I felt a tinge of guilt for blaming him for my pain, but the hurt was real.
“I still love him,” I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper, the weight of my admission pulling my gaze downward to the safety of the ground beneath my feet.
She scoffed, a mixture of disbelief and frustration colouring her reaction, while a frustrated sigh escaped her lips.
“You’re a fine babe, Ogechi,” she offered gently, her eyes scanning the room as if seeking solace in the walls around us. “You can get better,” she murmured. The simplicity of the statement irritated me.
Get.
That single word lingered in the air, pregnant with possibilities but it was a strange word to suggest.
The word, “get” is a verb used when you desire to acquire a property. For instance, I want to get a bulb for my room. Or I want to get my nails done. It is not a word used when you’re trying to soar. To reach for the stars and cling for a star, something impeccable—a lover. A lover who will love you effortlessly.
“Don’t start,” I murmured, concealing my irritation.
“Abeg, plenty fishes dey inside water,” she argued.
Of course! In the country I come from (Nigeria), love is often mistaken for a commodity and on some days, it is mistaken for a fish.
But regardless, are we seeking the fish or the thrill of catching the right one? What good would it do to me if I caught catfish instead of a well-desired Scumbia? Perhaps it would teach me how to toss. The same way I had learnt how to toss after sharing a kiss with Ahmed in my quest to find the right one. I had woken up with a sore on my lips and sworn never to mingle with men who wear their hearts on their sleeves.
Love isn’t a mere catch; it’s complex and elusive and accepting this truth is paramount.
I loved him deeply. Like the plants love the soil.
And when I speak of him, I do not speak of fishes, he is harder to catch and chasing him is a lost course. I had chased him for years before I got to him. It began with harmless texts, evolving into something Elysian—I can affirm that he can’t be pursued; He comes as He pleases.
Just like the night wind. It always comes back when it pleases, sometimes, with beautiful flowers that grace your presence and sometimes with a sharp whirlwind of sand that stings the eyes.
And do you know what happens when the wind stops?
Without the wind system, moist air won’t move around, and it would be practically impossible to live here on Earth. In the absence of that gentle touch, that invisible force guiding our steps—life would lose its rhythm, its cadence.
This realisation, like a thunderbolt, struck me—a reminder of how our lives need the intangible yet profound touch to sustain our existence.
For me, it is a man standing 5 feet tall, with a confident posture and a well-proportioned frame hinting at a life filled with purpose. His eyes are raven-black, holding fondness that seems to reflect the kindness in his soul and they sparkle when the lights go low or when he speaks of his passions—of travelling, of us.
He lives in the bustling city of Lagos and he is naive enough to think that he can change the world.
And tomorrow, I will go to him.
