“what if you do it again?” is what i commonly ask myself before i consider extending grace. it’s been a long race being the understanding person, it’s been draining being detrimentally emphatic, and for once, i want to know if this actually benefits me or it just fits to favor the offender.

from an individual that witnessed how extending grace to people who offend serially not only pardons their behavior, but encourages them to keep it going, i wish not to partake in the “understanding” culture. it has ruined and destroyed the lives of many people i love, and now, do i want to join their circle of misery or take the throne to my peace of mind?

how do i explain that simply making a sly joke about me today makes me look at how you’ll probably beat me up if we’re still together in the next 10 years? how do i explain how a misunderstanding we had as friends made me figure out that you will in-fact do worse in the near future? exactly, i don’t. i won’t explain, i’ll leave you to it.

many people i love deserved a better life, better love, better company, but what ruined all of that was none other than forgiveness and grace. the red flags that should’ve been identified sooner were pardoned and “managed”. this dangerous habit of “managing” confines them in a loop of misery. a life full of empty apologies, confrontations, disappointments and heartbreak. if i have witnessed and analyzed all this, what makes you think i’d want the same life for myself?

even if it’s trauma, i can’t count how many times the little things people do scare me to my bones. if it’s the times a man temporarily raises his voice, or when he makes a little comment mocking your feminine adventures, or when he gets a bit aggressive, it’s like i’m seeing our future, and it doesn’t look bright at all.

rather than live a life i’ll regret, i’d rather be free from you entirely. no matter how much we laughed, how much you made me happy, how long we spent together, if a gesture triggered something i’m struggling so desperately to move on from, i’m leaving and that’s final.

religion and societal expectations have a way of deceiving you into being a “better” person. now, don’t get me wrong, i am religious and i love my religion, but i’m not keeping a man-beater in my life because i’m being taught to be forgiving. i’m not keeping a toxic friend or boyfriend, i’m not keeping monitoring spirits in my space neither am i extending grace to serial offenders. i can get you out of my mind, you may not be a topic of discussion ever, but please, stay away from me.

sometimes, i do feel insane. little things do trigger me and it took time to realize it was a coping & prevention mechanism my mind had developed. i can foresee the future, how this person is going to treat me and how i can stop that from happening.

i was speaking to a man recently, and before we were about to head out, i was still laughing at the joke he made, and if you know me, i loveee to laugh. he opened the door for me and asked me to get in the first time, but i was still laughing and could barely stand straight because of how much i was laughing, the second time he said it was so much more of a command, with a straight face and no smile, i was terrified. suddenly, the joke wasn’t funny anymore and all i could think about was how i was going to go home and block him. i couldn’t stand having an abusive man in my life. now, i know i’m not overreacting but i’ll prove to you with more instances. several times he did make derogatory jokes here and there and i’d shut them down immediately and complain but because he knew he still had a mission to achieve with me, he’d apologize and try and be more submissive till i flatly told him i don’t want anything sexual to do with him, i wanted it to strictly platonic. it was a terrifying moment for me watching him switch from the hilarious cute guy i knew to a monster in the flesh. and that’s my why.

the same way i’ve had ex-friends that constantly remain unbothered about my well-being. they’d leave me in the face of doom and only come around when it benefits them. they’d never find me worth the inconvenience. they’d apologize after like it’s something forgive-able when it is in-fact a reflection of how toxic this friendship is about to be. i can’t be giving, and giving, and giving, and giving and givingggg but receiving nothing. i too, deserve love, i deserve it in abundance because i give it in abundance. i’ve had a man give me the most blissful fairytale love for 5 days straight and switch up when i refused to get in bed with him so no, i’m not about to let that entire one year of healing repeat itself.

since i’ve recognized how sensitive i am and how long it takes for me to move on from things (even though i technically never move on), i’d rather protect my peace because i’m the only person that will genuinely have my back the most in this life.

one thing i’ve learnt to understand is it’s not how long, but how well. sometimes, i have to forsake the length of our friendship/relationship to attain true peace by letting you go. it’s okay to be distraught by how your loved one treated you and to leave, i’m not selfish neither am i overreacting. i’m not any of that nobody would genuinely understand how i think because it’s particular to me.

i don’t need to carry the burden of making you feel comfortable around me, i don’t need to entertain your jokes neither do i need to be in your space to provide good company. it’s high time i let myself receive the love i give out and the love i want.

as a very sensitive individual, i’ll always leave. it’s too early to be traumatized by every interaction i encounter, and it’s not my responsibility to play the role of assistant Jesus in the lives of people that hurt me time and time again. i’ll stick to the morality that also favors me.

and so, while i review the way i let go of the ones i loved so deeply, i’ll still always ask myself one question, “would they do it again?”

love,

chinenyenwa.

it’s competitive living in a world with perfectly curated instagram highlights, soft girl aesthetics, ever-changing beauty standards and an unrealistically challenging dating & friendship pool. one day it favors thicker women, the next day it’s for the ones who fall on the skinnier side.

it’s torturous in general being a woman, i must confess. i am a figment of every man’s imagination, and when they realize i’m not a cartoon character they have control over, they leave. so if i’m honest, would you stay?

would you stay the days i’m a mess and my entire wardrobe is on the floor because i’m one step to crashing out about not having a good outfit to post in for YOU to see? would you stay the days i’m in my luteal phase and i can see my father’s perfect image in myself and don’t want to ever come close to a reflective surface? would you stay the days that i scream all the embarrassment encountered in my life out and you don’t know if you run or call a mental doctor? would you?

i’m everything different from your imagination, and that’s why we could never co-exist.

it’s challenging existing in a world where to be a woman is to perform. and what’s even more exhausting is how women build their lives and happiness on this foundation of performative arts. everyone’s struggling, battling to be the most feminine or whatever entails to the man’s definition of feminine. fashion trends revolving around the male gaze, friendships crashing over the male gaze, anxiety levels increasing because of that same male gaze and you find yourself dying because of the male gaze.

if you knew me, you wouldn’t love me, and i know that but it’s okay.

i’m not always the perfectly curved woman i post online. some days, i could have a heavy lunch and decide to rot away on my bed with my bloated stomach and be at peace. some days, i’m not in the mood to feed into your perception of me, i could decide to have my hair, nails, toes and lashes undone and be in my own world, existing, but i know you wouldn’t love me that way, but till then.

i can’t just stick to posting cute selfies, aesthetic quotes and more fit checks on my story. most days, i want to post a 5 page essay on my opinion of today’s news, i want to post a video of me crying about the women in Afghanistan, i want to sing my poetry loud enough to bleed every ear that comes across it, i want to post a photo my friend took of me sleeping with my bonnet off and my mouth open just because it’s cute and funny, other days i want to post the funniest memes on earth i come across but mid-way, i’m struck with the sad news of how it’s against my projected image, or is it?

did i even ask you people to view me in that manner? the world always has a way of self-proclaiming who you are and who you ought to be. any fight against your always proclaimed name is deemed abominable and won’t be tolerated nor obeyed.

i’m nobody but what you think of me. but to me, i’m somebody, somebody worth your time, worth your grace, worth your patience, worth your support. a woman that did nothing wrong but exist. and for existing, i have to keep up with the beauty standards, shut the fuck up and focus on being pretty, learn to walk the best in heels, laugh like ariana grande, dress in provocative ways sometimes and chic & prim ways the other days, speak like an angel and don’t dare raise my voice and keep my nose out of men’s disciplines — the law, politics, etc.

if you pity me just once, just once maybe, you’d love me for the woman i actually am. not the curves i have you like and you crave to touch, not the lips you can’t stop complimenting, not the physical, not at all. what if you let me show you how my mind operates, maybe the books i’ve read this month or the last poem i wrote? what if you sat down once and listened to one or two political conspiracies i’ve thought of or the health benefits i’ve read this week? but promise that if you give me the chance, you’ll stay after.

i can’t keep up and i’ll admit it. i can’t keep up with being a man’s playground, i can’t keep up with the women who judge on behalf of men and i can’t keep up with the universe punishing me for not being the ideal woman. i can’t keep up with always being alone, i can’t keep up with always lying that i don’t need nobody to talk to over the phone, i can’t, and so, i’m going to tell you one thing:

if you really love me, if you really want so much with me, if i’m honest with you about myself, will you stay?

will you stay through the ugly, the beautiful, the hurt, the healed, the failure, the prosperous, the scattered, the organized, the weak, the strong? will you stay?

love,

chinenyenwa.

it’s been years, my entire life actually, holding onto the walls i use to protect myself from the dangers of human affection. it’s how i cope, it’s how i remain sane, safe from disaster but away from the happiness i want so desperately.

i’ve always believed it’s better to be safe than sorry. defensive in every situation, precautious, always on the look out but never for once did i stop to analyze how detrimental my survival tactics were.

i prayed for a life full of love, peace and prosperous company. but what i didn’t know, was that i was actively fighting against my own happiness. let me not lie, it’s not today i figured it out, but it’s been a long time living in fear of switching up my habit. i don’t know what awaits me the moment i allow myself to be loved by humans, especially with how knowledgeable i am about how dangerous they are. the thought of being used for a game of tinko, where love is given and withdrawn from me like humorous play. the agitating thought of this has forced me to remain defensive, but i’m writing to advise you against this lifestyle.

growing up believing you are different does many things to your mental compound. when you were raised picking interest in seemingly different things and not having many friends or people to relate with you, does do a lot of damage that you may only discover much later. now, being in isolation almost all your life and finding peace in your own company, only to figure out you don’t want to do life alone anymore and you do want company just to find out the company requires some sort of disappointment. their validation may become equal or even dominate your own self-validation, you start to care about their opinions, you start to depend a bit or a lot on how much time they spend with you, and because you’ve had a taste of the company you’ve wanted after a long time alone, it becomes an addiction — their love. now, not everyone experiences that horrendous episode of life where you’re dependent on somebody else’s affection towards you, some people like me and maybe you even, prefer to live the rest of our life avoiding it.

does being defensive truly protect you or does it steal your life from you?

the truth is, being defensive may seem like the safer option, but it’s a hard truth to swallow that is does steal your life from you. if you’re a passionate person and you do want the best out of life with emphasis on relationship endeavors both romantic & platonic, “playing safe” may be the worst decision you’ll make.

as humans, we were designed to feel. living the opposite would just mean you giving up your birthright for temporary comfort that costs you an eternity of misery and loneliness.

trying to break out of your shell is hard, i know, because i’m currently fighting that battle. learning to let somebody love you and learning to accept that they do love you is a lot. once you believe somebody you love loves you too, the connection begins and you both are slowly on the road to becoming one. the concept of “becoming one” and the concept of a “connection” is quite scary to an individual that was raised in segregation from her/his peers. it’s terrifying to a person that has lived in comfort alone for so long. but how long do we remain this way?

playing defense only does one thing — it maes you realize nobody is attacking you but yourself. you start defending yourself so much that you don’t realize that nobody is holding a weapon, but one — your fear of company (attachment, abandonment, not being understood).

you’ll remain alone, miserable and filled with so many words you itch to say if you don’t let yourself feel. let yourself feel the pain, the hurt and the rejection. let it consume you and allow yourself heal from it, it’s all time before you become the better version you’ve always wished for.

i want you to stop being ashamed of being passionate about your life. love passionately, hurt passionately, cry passionately, heal passionately.

the world truly is our oyster & your life is under your control. there’s nothing wrong with disappointments, nothing wrong with rejection, nothing even wrong with not being chosen. let it happen & let yourself learn from it.

failure is a figment of our imagination & truly, setbacks only exist to empower us and not to bring us down mentally. it’s all about how you view it.

so when next you want to withhold your emotions to “protect” yourself, remember how much damage that actually does that “protection”. get everything off your chest — words and actions.

tell that person you love them too, take that trip, buy that item, cry on someone’s shoulder, hug them longer, laugh as loud as you want, i mean, you won’t live forever, and you actually deserve this.

love,

chinenyenwa. 💕

Days like today when showers pour,

Both in my surroundings & from within,

I think of how much longer I can endure,

Without you cuddled up beside me in our inn.

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If you exist, I’m really upset with you,

Letting me do life alone this long, without a clue,

I wish you got to meet the “me” I once knew,

Instead of the one I know, whose love isn’t true.

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I don’t deserve the love I want you to give me,

But I need it, if I’m to speak with honesty,

I’ve spent too much time isolated, I can’t just leave,

Because how am I sure the time I’ll spend with you will last to eternity?

I have no love left to waste,

It’s just me and my fear of abandonment I’m left to face,

If rhapsodic & temporary love is the case,

Then let me be, so I can focus on the life I chase.

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If you exist, could you take any longer?

Staying so far from me, while my heart grows fonder,

For a person I know nothing of, but all I do is ponder,

If I’ll be able to love you as much, and if the weight of my soul doesn’t crash our canopy while we’re under.

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It’s silly of me to act like I don’t need your touch,

It’s ridiculous of me to pretend like I don’t pray for you that much,

A partner of my dreams like you that promises and does as such,

But you’re not coming anytime soon, so I might as just have my tears for lunch.

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If you exist, I pray we’re meant for each other,

I pray our love doesn’t make me pray for another,

I want us to be soul-tied birds of the same feather,

A pair that remains together even in changing weather.

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I want to be the muse that fuels your breath,

I want you to look at me and forget the smell of coins, because our bond is your entire wealth.

I want you to be the reason I believe how my body curves doesn’t matter,

But how beautiful we mix as ingredients in our love story’s batter.

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If you exist, which I pray you do,

It’ll be everything fairytale, just me and you,

I can believe that this love will be delayed but not that I’ll be alone forever too,

Prove me wrong please, and be here in a few.

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Once again, I’m alone with my thoughts past three,

Wondering if days will come when my emptiness will turn to glee,

To my future lover, my forever, whether he or she,

If you exist,

hold on for me.

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Love,

Chinenyenwa.

it’s not news that there’s a virus spreading. not the one that’ll get you hospitalized,

not the one that causes death or symptoms of ill health directly but it’s a disease of the mind.

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the bad character pandemic came stealthily, like a thief at night. started off as a joke and before you know it, it’s now the standard of life for many. not only is it an issue on its own, it’s now being taught and followed dutifully. courtesy, kindness and even love is frowned upon. society is regressing and the standard of connection is dying. acts of love is laughed at, mocked, ridiculed. there was a time where humanity existed and these were basic, encouraged acts that improved how we lived as humans. but today, everyone has bad character, and they’re proud of it.

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i won’t act like i’m not a victim, because i sure was, or am, still trying to stand on two feet on that. there was a time when i was immersed in the older ways of connection. i loved the handwritten letters and notes, the meet-ups at serene, lovestruck environments, when holding hands meant so much to me and when i’d still day-dream of kisses in the rain. there were times when kindness was what i went by. i believed everyone deserved love, even the strangers we know nothing of their sins. i found peace in conversations with strangers, all types of them — bolt drivers, waitresses, hairdressers, even street thugs. i loved the person i could be around them, unguarded, unfiltered, finally, myself with the joy that they had no backstory knowledge of me and would accept me for the person i present. they knew nothing of my past and so, they give me and give themselves the privilege of accepting me for my present. this was the standard i went by — actual genuine human communication. then, the standards of things changed. humanity began to regress. people were no longer kind, no longer hospitable, everybody was in a rush to hurt others before getting hurt themselves, everyone suddenly became emotionally unavailable, less expressive, non-affectionate, rude and all manners of terrible traits. i felt segregated, like i was fighting for the wrong cause.

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despite my strong sense of self, when a soldier stands alone, it’s realistic for that soldier to lose. against an army of people with differing values, mine felt weak, and in turn, i began to feel weaker than i actually was. people who loved genuinely were deemed stupid, the deep, long, beautiful conversations were a “waste of time”, loving someone for the right reasons became a mistake and i fell for it. the bad character pandemic went from poisoning the standard for romantic relationships to evading the scene of platonic relationships. friendships became a flimsy endeavor. people began to pay less and less attention to their friends because “one man for himself”. mistakes would happen and everyone would repeat the same phrase i still do not like, “everyone knows what they’re doing.” and what of they don’t? now what?

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the term “grace”, has lost its meaning. people don’t give that out anymore. people tend to interchange the use of this bad character. some people only display such attitudes to their friends but pay more attention to romantic relationships because that is their priority, some pay more attention to friendships more than they do to relationships because that is their priority while others, pay attention to none. disagreements and similar situations to disagreements are treated harshly, like everyone is in a rush to cut everyone off. you see that phrase “cut off”? leave it for this generation, we sabi am like mad. both the forgivable and unforgivable, everyone is prepared to lose whoever was their supposed “back-bone”. nobody builds foundations in friendships anymore, it’s more of a temporary thing, a fling kinda. it’s for the mean time, not for a life time. and then there’s me, finding lifetime partners.

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for the longest time, i felt disassociated. imagine growing up in intense love, peace and generosity to be set out to a society built on envy, individualism and chaos. it felt like i had a lot to catch up on, like i was stuck in my imagination for too long and i need to grow up, i need to adapt. the bad character pandemic was on, and i needed to get in line. the films and cartoons i watched filled with fairytale love, dancing in the rain, soul connections, selflessness and charity were just a part of my imagination, not to be adapted to in real life. it felt like a scam. i felt like i had the right to be angry at those organizations that sold me the dream of a life free of chaos. they told me that the world was actually rainbows and dew but it isn’t, and i had to adapt as fast as i could.

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nobody prepared me for the heartbreak of figuring out that you would barely find yourself in other people. i didn’t know i’d spend years chasing a mirror of things i was accustomed to doing in other people. i wasn’t aware of the existential crisis, the self-doubt, the confusion when met with promising souls with horrible insides. it’s not like you wouldn’t find like-minds, you would, but not a mirror of you, not at all. they’d mirror certain traits, help you here and there, but most days, you’ll be left to yourself and still wondering, if the ones you prayed for to meet are still out there. people that aren’t embarrassed of being humans — the depth, the whimsical, the creative, the ecstatic, the esoteric, the curious and in general, the humane.

i found myself putting in effort i’d never receive, practicing the gestures i was taught and raised with only to be shown a different type of love — tough love. everything was earned, respect, kindness, being loved. it wasn’t a standard for meeting people, it was a standard of preserving people. sometimes, people even wander off and forget they love you, they withdraw such privileges and just for you to go back to where you started from.

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i felt like i was over-doing it. was i the first person to love someone? did i need to always outdo myself? was i even sure they loved me just as much? the art of old love is gone, and so is everything encompassing it. what’s now dominant is the bad character pandemic. everyone’s told to “wise up”, “stop dulling”. a girl can’t want cuddles anymore? hugs? reassurance? love without the influence of social media? is that too much to ask for? is asking for the re-inaction of my favorite fairytales dumb? is asking for genuine human connection worth laughing at? is asking for love devoid of fear impossible?

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everyone is guarded, everyone’s afraid, everyone has trust issues, everyone has bad character. being rude is the safest option, being unavailable is attractive, being disrespectful is classy, being dismissive is proper, being inhumane is humane.

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is it a generation of shallow souls that i want to frolic with especially as a soul with depth? obviously not. but then, what company then do i have but them? and so, i conform. i conform to the emotional unavailability, the defensive mentality & every other toxic adaptations of humans today.

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these adaptations affected me detrimentally. i began to identify differently with the person i know. i was questioning myself severally if i really aligned with these concepts, if this is the life i’ve chosen to live. living a life of values you don’t believe in is hard, but it’s deemed rewarding because it’s a “survival” mindset. if you don’t abide by the rules of this “bad character pandemic”, you’ll be rest assured dead, at-least mentally & emotionally, but if you do abide by them, you’ll face an eternity of self-doubt, false sense of self and still face death in your emotional and mental health.

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i was dead for sometime, but i had to remember that life is way too short and way too beautiful to shade my canvas with only dark colors. there’s pink, teal, cyan, yellow and an entire rainbow to my dispersal. why then, would i pick to live like a shadow when i am in-fact the light? the bad character pandemic is still the standard of living for many, and it’s taught on social media “schools”. i’d prefer to disassociate from its danger and retrace my steps back to the beauty of actual humanity.

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do you have bad character? are you proud of it? if yes, then fine, but if you’re not proud of it, i’d urge you to find peace in your human form. to find peace in your bubbly, clumsy, imperfect yet beautiful nature.

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love,

chinenyenwa,

a hopefully ex-victim of the bad character pandemic.

{sourced from Pinterest}

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To love is to sin,

Time after time, each embrace makes me compare myself to the bin,

The itch, the crave, the desire to finally be seen,

Is my desire to be loved a badly inherited gene?

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I feel against the fight I champion,

Trying to prove to the opposite that I am the lion,

What’s worth being the head of the jungle?

If I keep to muffled cries and love I wish to profess, but can only mumble?

To be against the humanity in me,

In a bid to prove that I can stand as one entity,

To prove I do not need my peace I left on D,

And all for what? To prove women can be free?

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Maybe, to be free isn’t only to have a choice,

But the liberty to become one with another voice,

One with a part of me I know nothing of,

But with just enough intrigue, just enough purpose to declare, “so this is love.”

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To feel is to die,

Where mere affection feels like a call to the sky,

Away from the home I know, to a place with just myself, and the one I call mine.

To die, is to feel,

Every kiss shared is an open invitation for your heart to be the next meal,

As it’s hot, fresh and cooked with everything you’re made of that’s real,

And so, you watch as they feast, with one thing in mind — How long it’ll take to heal.

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To win is to be made of steel,

To lose, however, is to let steel steal,

To let the one you were before get stolen,

By none other by yourself & your fear to be chosen.

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To love & to feel is to sin, die and lose,

But before I die, I’ll let my heart be of use,

Single out the blue and discover my human muse,

So that at-least, prior death, I can live a life that I choose.

And what is love if it costs my last cent?

Does it differ by every accent?

It feels like putting myself up for rent,

And I can’t help but ask, “Is it worth the stained garment?”

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Love,

Chinenyenwa.

{photo sourced from Pinterest}

i wouldn’t refer to myself as a depressed soul. i wouldn’t call myself unfortunate or melancholic but the weight i’ve been holding all this while, is slowly catching up to me, and my biggest fear is it surpassing the glee in me.

being alive for a while, looking to my left and right and observing different forms of beautiful unions everywhere and still, i can’t partake. not because i’m unworthy, not because i’m not special, but just because the weight i’ve accumulated can’t be carried by another individual.

i think this decision of mine to remain alone is perceived more of selfish than how selfless it really is. in my defense, i don’t think anyone deserves to sit by me and help me dissect all the terrible i have. not that i don’t want that, i do. i want the hug, i want the forehead kiss, i want the “it’s going to be fine” and i want the “i’ll always be here for you”. but at the same time, that would be a waste of their time. i’m not buying into your words, and i’ll tell you why.

being raised in an arena of warfare, hateful romance, screams and disagreements, i believe, has permanently altered my perception of love and companionship. i’m lucky enough to still believe in friendships after everything, but a healthy & happy relationship? no way. it’s even more consuming having to be alive in this time and age where social media is the dominant means of communication. i open different apps and there it is, the love i fear, splashed all over my screen. from ebooks, to substack articles, to tiktok trends, to snapchat stories, to instagram reels to even pinterest. everywhere is just soft launch ideas, couple trends and everything encompassing the concept of love.

sometimes, i wish i never had to witness everything i did growing up. i didn’t deserve the emotional instability, i didn’t deserve the loud echoes of voices early in the morning, i didn’t deserve the violence in every corner of my living, i didn’t deserve it at all. for a soul like mine, so full of love, suffering the agony of having to neglect that love i’m made of to face the aftermath of a broken home.

something that tortures me more is the current discourse of “letting your childhood trauma affect you as an adult is immature and unacceptable”. don’t get me wrong, i agree, on certain levels. yes, there are some habits that are inexcusable and must be thrown away. but the thing is, i think we don’t understand how heavy the gravity of trauma really is. victims of domestic violence & sexual abuse and children of divorce & separated parents may never be able to understand the reality of life without chaos. they can’t wipe their lens, it’s broken. it’s not as easy as people say.

why the culture of “copy-copy avoidance” is detrimental.

ever since the word “avoidant” came about, it’s been over-used, and used wrongly. it’s becoming a trend, a sick trend. the real “avoidants” are ashamed of it. they hide it like a childhood scar that they’ve ashamed of. every now and then, all i hear is “i’m an avoidant”, “i’m avoidant”, “i have avoidant attachment.” self-diagnosis is wrong to both you and the actual victims. you’re programming your mind to believe the wrong things and therefore, preventing yourself from what you actually deserve. “avoidant attachment”, “anxious attachment” and “disorganized attachment” is often found in products of broken homes. it’s serious and they needs to be helped. rather than turning it to social media trends and hashtags, it should be a call for attention. true avoidants didn’t wake up one day and claim the title, it’s been surfacing for the longest time in their lives. it’s something they never believed existed. but while we delve into this, i just want to say,

avoidants deserve love too.

to the common eyes, i may look smaller than the weight i hold. the years of compressed pain and anger, the times of intense melancholy and eternal regret, the days i crave what i can’t accept, that’s what i hold, and i’m not sure if you can handle that.

it’s a creative’s greatest tragedy. it’s my curse, it’s my cross to carry. that i can write what my lips can’t speak. that i can imagine what my hands cannot make. it is indeed, a tragedy.

the love i write of, the love i see, the love i read of, the love i imagine, might never be mine and i’m not okay with that. not because i’m not lovable, not because nobody can love me, but because i can’t do well with that love, and i’ll most definitely destroy the beauty in it.

they say, i say, “don’t find a partner to complete you. complete yourself and take them as a complement.” but i feel incomplete forever and i can’t even accept somebody else as a complement. i think love is the antidote to my illness, but i prefer to remain sick forever than to try and die. if only the vaccine were given to me while young, this would never have been my predicament.

to mum, to dad, you tried your best and i’m not upset, but the damage has been done and for the rest of my days will i carry the aftermath.

love,

chinenyenwa.

“Better live your life,

We are running out of time.”

{sourced from Pinterest}

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you’ve heard it before, “we only live once”. in my defense, we trivialize the true depth of this statement. the power behind it is beyond our control. we actually only live once.

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the ambitions we scribbled on paper in the name of a bucket list at 7, the careers we imitated in school on costume days, the silent prayers we made to God without effort are all trying to fit into just one lifetime.

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i don’t think you heard me right. we have just one shot at everything we’ve admired and chosen to pursue. just one shot. what terrifies me most wouldn’t even be the fact that our days on earth aren’t certain enough for all the dreams we have but how unpredictable the afterlife is.

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what exactly happens in the afterlife?

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what happens when on a random day, i lose touch with my mortal body and i drift to an unknown realm to continue the rest of my existence? what happens to my dreams? my hopes? my prayers? my ambitions? the abstract capacity of these things don’t live on, what does is the most you made out of those hopes, dreams and prayers.

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so what exactly have you done so far with these hopes, dreams and prayers?

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this is a question i ask myself regularly. the days when i feel a bit of shame for the things i take fancy in, the days i happen to care a little about the audience i didn’t ask for and what their perception would be of me by now, the days i wander off into my very own infinite universe— my thinking faculty, and i start to regret many important decisions i’ve made in my life, i spiral back to this question— what exactly have i done so far with these dreams i have?

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i could sit back, relax and do nothing about them, but it remains inevitable that my being is mortal, and my days are counting. the dreams i do nothing about, will be done by someone else. that someone, is a person who actualized the vision. they didn’t waste the time they had, so they made sure everything was done before they were done. for this sacrifice they’ve made, that is, sacrificing their relaxation, their deeds get to live on longer than they lived.

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many icons we speak about day by day are long gone. many of us never lived in the same lifetime as they did, but they inspire us from above, because their souls remain on earth, or at-least, their memories. they did the unimaginable, and some, the imaginable, but in a spectacular way. they followed their dreams and got to live more than once. their soul gets to drift above and see what their mortal bodies have impacted on the world. that’s exactly what i want — to live more than once.

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i don’t fancy the idea of being tied down to my mortal fate. i want to try and alter that a bit, my way. i want to accomplish everything i’ve set before myself, and be the reason that more is accomplished after i’m gone because i’ve already set the standard.

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but i turn around and see like-minded individuals doing differently. soulful people who neglect their gifts for negative whispers. who shun their talents for general societal acceptance. we care too much about feedback, especially unsolicited ones. who cares if “nobody” understands your poem? who cares if “nobody” deciphers the code in your book? who cares if “nobody” appreciates your art? you’ve done it, and you have no idea who you’re inspiring by your courage. i’m not telling you to take bold steps to inspire people, i’m telling you to do it for yourself, for the little or big one in you that prayed for days like these. the person in you that foresaw all of this and wished for it to come to life. do what you want because it heals you, completes you and fills you. side effects may be you becoming a major inspiration to many, but that’s not the main deal.

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whether you stuttered during a presentation, made a mistake during a performance, didn’t use the right pitch to sing or messed up a color code whole painting, your work is still yours and as far as it’s yours, you have the liberty to decide it’s grade and worth. we overthink the most than we’ve ever have in this world. there were days when the ones before us would try and try and try again, but now, one failure and we beat ourselves for it, forgetting that this is our last shot at getting it right. if we don’t accomplish it, that’s it, because no one has an idea if there’s another earth in the afterlife. the people we’ve lost haven’t returned, and neither have their hopes and dreams. they may voluntarily decide to live on through their offspring who decides to inherit those ambitions or they’re left to decay for eternity in the breeze.

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i’m begging you, live.

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you may not have another chance at this.

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the person who makes you happy, speak to them. the friend you miss, propose a hang out. the person you love, tell them. there really isn’t much to life than what you make it.

i read once that,“in life, the step backwards is also part of the dance.” and that altered a part of my thinking. failure is what we make it. a mistake can also be part of character development or considered success in the grand scheme of things.

we have just one shot, make it worth it.

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so while we’re at it, i’ll be here, figuring how to live more than once.

love,

chinenyenwa🫶🏾

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When the fog fades away,

And Adam & Eve have no where else to stay,

The revelation of symphony begins to play,

“We only have each other, tomorrow and today.”

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The woman wants to be heard,

Loud and far, enough to wake every herd,

She wants to be worth more than a pronoun,

But everywhere, her sincerity paints her a clown.

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All she wants is a touch softer than hunger,

A touch that desires, and will last a little longer,

Warmth that melts her ability to ponder,

Warmth that makes her the protagonist even when she defines “sonder”.

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The man wants to be seen,

Just as he is, with more attention to behind the scene,

He wants the love he had at thirteen,

When he had nothing but a cartoon wristwatch and one pair of jeans.

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All he wants is a look that’s proud of him,

A look that sees his light as bright, not dim,

Acceptance he can study, not skim,

Because this acceptance is here to stay, and finally, he isn’t his own victim.

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The woman feels like the man doesn’t hear her,

Not her intermittent cries during slumber,

Not her sighs and shrugs filled with words she’s too scared to utter,

“I love you too”’s with eyes that say “I don’t want to suffer”.

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She doesn’t feel heard, she never has,

She thinks he only hears ATM’s and cars,

So by herself, in serenity, she wishes to the stars,

To have a man that’s intrigued by her more than the study of Mars.

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The man feels like the woman doesn’t see him,

Not his efforts, not his intentions, not his prim,

Not the way he looks at her like a holy masterpiece of a hymn,

And so he swallows his words, till they’re filled to the brim.

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He’s never felt seen, and so he hides,

Hoping to find a voice soft yet certain, that guides,

Guides his being to where his heart and soul collide,

A place where him and his lover, eternally abide.

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Little does she know, he hears every murmur,

And little does he know, she sees when he’s about to stutter,

For a match perfect just like bread and butter,

They find every excuse to reject the other as their destined lover.

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And when they depart and kneel to pray,

To pray for “the one” at the end of the day,

The revelation of symphony begins to play,

“We only have each other, tomorrow and today.”

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Love,

Chinenyenwa💕

over time, i’ve come to realize that the entire scope of “femininity” was built and carved on the foundation of the male gaze. everything we regard as “feminine” is a man’s perception of an ideal woman, not a woman’s reality.

femininity since the beginning of time is a term that imprison’s women’s beings. we become a man’s puppet in the name of being “feminine”. femininity is all about being dreamy. dreamy in the sense that this cannot exist in real life. as a growing woman, it’s normal for you to have hair, to be angry and upset whether due to hormonal changes or environmental factors, to look the way you do naturally without getting procedures done. it’s totally normal.

i’m sitting beside this man, quietly yet intently, angrily processing everything he’s had to say about his perception of femininity. it took me a lot not to stop his expression mid-way and give him a resounding slap, but i was eager to really understand how men perceive women, and now i’ve gotten what i want and i’m more disgusted in this gender than i was before. he reduced femininity to just the softness in touch and the warmth in intercourse. as he spoke, i felt like an object. i felt still, i felt lifeless, i felt purposeless. i felt like my entire being was created to serve. he did not mention one thing regarding femininity being related to creating, leading or managing. he made me feel worthless, i’d rather say.

i couldn’t choose between wanting to cry or get angry and throw a tantrum. then i realized, the two both have significant differences. if i were to cry like he earlier stated, “women are quite crybabies and helpless.” i’d prove him right that we’re just big babies with no sense of reasoning and initiative. i would be feminine in his very before, and for a second, i hated being feminine. if i were to throw a tantrum and get upset, i’d be just like him — a man, a masculine individual — judgmental, insensitive and emotionally lacking.

what do i do now?

the ideal feminine is not what men take it as, it’s the entirety of womanhood — both the ugly and the pretty. it’s the stains on your sheets that spoil your day from the start, it’s the 4 hours you take to get dressed, it’s the tummy rolls that make you stop buying crop tops, it’s the attention and touch you crave at 2am just before your period comes in, it’s the “you look good” you want to hear every morning before you go out, it’s the unexpected tears that roll down your cheeks when you see a hurt animal, it’s the junk you consume and cry about feeling fat after, it’s the nights you spend in your room learning to walk in heels, it’s the days you spend surfing the web planning your birthday in 11 months. womanhood is femininity, femininity is womanhood.

as a woman, you already are feminine. the pitch of your voice doesn’t determine whether you’re feminine or not neither does the length of your hair, the colour of your skin, your major in school, your fashion sense, the topics you find so intriguing and you read so intensively into, the way you walk, whether you can cook or not, nor your hobbies. as a woman, you are feminine as you are.

the patriarchy has brainwashed women into thinking there is only one ideal feminine, and that’s the vulnerable, delicate, naive woman. the woman who takes in disrespect and soothes the situation with calmness and soft chuckles to excuse the display of inhumanity, the woman who cooks her heart to serve the greedy, the woman who walks on eggshells bare-feet sometimes and most times on super high heels, on a perfectly straight line, the woman who knows just two colours — pink and white, the woman who pretends to know just a little so she doesn’t overpower the conversation, the woman who speaks not louder than a whisper and is always spoken over, the woman who just exists to comfort the sinning man after a day of evil not to correct him, the woman who writes off her destiny and dreams to a man without tools but borrowed ambitions, this is the “ideal” woman, the kind of woman i do not want to be.

i want to be everything that’s not feminine. well, not the type of feminine you know. not the feminine that’s child-like, naive or vulnerable. i mean, i still want to wear pink and tie my hair in a ponytail. i still want to compare two shades of blue tops and spend 3 hours painting my face as a canvas to go take photos at a fancy restaurant with the girls. i still want to cry over trivial things like the cheese in my sandwich tasting different than usual. i still want to fold my hands and sigh 8 times in a row till i get the attention i’m looking for. i still want all this and everything else, but i don’t want to be the “ideal” feminine.

i want to be the woman whose voice echoes in conversations. i want my intelligence to overpower yours and everyone else present in the room. i want to be disgustingly educated in complex sciences. i want to be proficient in languages used as the stamp of communication. i want to have a diction so extensive that my family may be accused of being one of the founding families of English, i want to react with anger when i am aggravated without feeling guilty, i just want to be human.

i don’t want to be your dream girl, i don’t want to be your definition of wife material, i just want to exist in my filth and in my glory, and if it happens to favour you, so be it. i don’t want to spend hours perfecting my carriage to excite you, i don’t want to alter my fashion sense to appeal to your vision, i don’t want to make drastic changes to my appearance to make you certain about how you feel about me neither do i want to do anything to make you feel entitled to who i am as a person.

“feminine”, he said. to him, feminine is to perform. feminine is to appeal, to soften, to heal, to comfort. to me, feminine is to create, to be glorified, to be applauded, to set records. it’s not to speak softer, it’s to raise your pitch, somebody needs your voice. to me, feminine is to wear your intelligence as cologne and let your thinking do the work. feminine is to empower, and that’s the feminine i want to be — the feminine that’s powerful.

you know what hurts most? the fact that the ones who spread the word of the detrimental part of “feminine” are in-fact, women. i’ve had a girl glorify another woman as the “ideal” feminine. i questioned such statement and her explanation was enough to convince me never to be in her premises again. she called everything trivial about her feminine. not her intellect, not her confidence, but her delicacy, her vulnerability, her naivety, her petite personality and body and everything pertaining to the fact that she’s child-like.

is that the requisites of being referred to as a woman?

a woman is not a child, but a growing individual. you can’t pause growth, and so, you applaud it. you praise the woman she’s becoming and support it where you can. you can’t pick an choose traits. you can’t want the innocence of the little and the maturity of the older. humans aren’t built to be made pleasure tools but for the sole purpose of living. and in the process of living, in the journey of life, there comes downs and there comes ups, it’s essential to make all of it important.

the concept of femininity and how wrong it is makes me question if being a woman is worth it. if being gifted emotionally, sentimentally and psychologically is worth the devastation that i’ll never amount to a complete human being, but half a human and half a puppet.

“feminine” he said, and “feminine” he said wrong. to be feminine is to be a woman, and as a woman, i’m feminine without the piling expectations, i’ll always be feminine without them.

love,

chinenyenwa💋

and i believed him.

“it’s not that deep” is a deeper sentence than it seems. it has a deeper meaning, deeper side effect. and the worst effect it has, is the power to brainwash you into thinking it actually isn’t that deep, for the rest of your life.

“it’s not that deep”, he said. as i told him i don’t feel comfortable remaining friends after a failed love story attempt.

the way he said it, so dismissively, as i spoke passionately. “it’s not that deep”, he said, as i held my heart in my palms and he looked at it, and laughed.

“it’s not that deep”, he said, as i voiced my dismay towards the joke he made about my appearance. he mocked me, he mocked who i am as a person, and he told me, “it’s not that deep”, and i looked at him, broken within, and for a second, i almost believed him.

“it’s not that deep”, he said, as i complained of his inconsistency. i told him this isn’t what i thought love was like, and he told me, “it’s not that deep.” for a second, i felt over-dramatic. i felt mad. i felt insane. i almost believed him, i almost believed love wasn’t that deep.

today, i find myself doing the same. i’m being confided in, “he wants to remain friends after all he did to me”, i hear myself say, “it’s not that deep”, and for a second, i hear his voice, how he said it the first time.

i’m with a friend and the pain in her voice as she describes how he ridiculed her looks and i don’t say it, but i remember when he did, “it’s not that deep”, he said. and i look at her and that’s all i can hear. not her tears, not her screams, but the silent echo of his voice putting her sorrow together in a sentence, “it’s not that deep.”

what he said stuck with me like a piece of gum at the back of my shoe. it took me through every journey and sat with me in the silence and in the still. but one thing i keep asking myself is, what if he never said it? what if he never told me “it’s not that deep”?

i wonder how life would’ve been for me.

i can imagine the more love i’m would’ve given without feeling it’s past the limit. the times i’d let things slide because i didn’t want to overreact, after all, it was never that deep, or was it?

i feel like for the longest time, i chained down my emotions because i kept him as a judge in my cognitive panel. he oversaw every decision, every step, every move. he oversaw it all whilst not being in my life, but i let his voice stay with me, i let his shadow follow me and even worse, i let his thoughts overshadow mine.

it probably is that deep though. in fact, it definitely is. it is very deep when it comes to opting for friendship after a failed love story attempt. i wasn’t overreacting for not being able to put my leftover feelings aside to start a platonic bond. i wasn’t overreacting when i didn’t find his jokes funny and genuinely started feeling less in that aspect. i wasn’t overreacting when i didn’t like the distance we had in proximity and the inconsistency amidst constant promises.

it is that deep, in fact, it is deeper than i know.

i wonder who he tells now. i wonder the girls he tells “it’s not that deep”, and the eternity of second-guessing and self-doubt they’ll have. i wonder how they review his statement every night before they go to bed to avoid starting an argument over one of his faults. i wonder if they cry about it. i wonder if they’re left empty. i wonder if they need a hug, i’ll do anything to give it to them.

i’m not insane. i’m not mad. there’s nothing wrong with me. i’m sensitive, and that’s fine. sensitivity is part of humanity. we were designed to feel. deciding not to feel things is a terrible adaptation to a horrible environment. it’s not part of our composition, our culture nor our nature.

i feel things deeply and that’s fine. i prefer gentle love, not the rough one he’s probably used to. i don’t like mean jokes and that’s fine. i don’t like being dismissed when i speak from my heart, and that’s fine. i’m just human.

i always have an opinion and not just an ordinary one — an extensive opinion. that’s human of me — to want to speak. i don’t deserve to be dismissed or to be made fun of. the gravity of my thoughts are to be respected at all times and even in disagreements, it should be honored. i want to know and speak about everything i fancy, and i should be given a chance to and recognized through out it, that’s human, that’s what humans should do.

listen to me.

appreciate my input.

honor my voice.

hold my hand when i’m shaken and in distress.

let me speak, let me cry, let me scream, i’m just expressing myself.

i’m not overreacting.

i’m just human, and i have my own ways of letting my thoughts and feelings out.

so next time you see me, see anybody at all, in a social gathering and in the silent hours of solitude, before and after they speak, listen and understand, maybe it really is that deep.

love,

chinenyenwa.

i’m the villain in your story, but to me, i was doing you more of a favor.

love is the most beautiful thing i know. i write about it, i listen to songs about it, dance to tunes about it, read what others write about it, and despite the joy it brings me, it’s the one fear i’m yet to conquer — being chosen to be loved by somebody and the responsibility to love them just as much.

loving somebody isn’t my problem. i’m full of it. i inhale and exhale love. i believe my every being is made of it. but to love you, love you as intensely as i write about? i’m sorry, i can’t.

i left you, and i’ll leave you again.

your “i love you’s” felt too deep, my soul was so intrigued yet, they had no depth. i couldn’t decipher this love you speak of, i couldn’t decode it, so i left.

i want to know why you love me. i want you to tell me everything, start to finish. explain every detail of me that intrigues you, look me in the eyes and promise me you mean it. but even if you do, i just can’t believe you.

the one thing haunting me till date is my inability to have faith. i want everything explained, i want the thesis in my hands, i want to study the evidence of your claim, but there is no evidence, there is no thesis, and i’m left with the only option — to believe you.

i don’t believe you because i don’t believe i deserve love. i imagine the most incredible love stories and picture myself and some mystery man. i think i don’t believe you because the danger of letting you handle my emotions is too great. i worked so hard to stabilize my feelings to this point, and the thought of my ship being wrecked haunts me.

i want you in my arms, i want to take care of you, i want to make sure you’re okay. but what i want but i can’t handle, is you being in charge of the above mentioned. when i start to wait for your compliments, wait for your reply back and calls, when i start to care too much about the tone you use to speak, i pull away. i don’t leave because i necessarily hate you, but because i hate what i’m becoming.

i know that when you get to know me entirely, you’ll pull back anyway. the person behind the pretense. the tears that lubricate my smile to shine for the camera. i don’t want you to see how broken i am, i don’t want your sympathy either. i don’t want you to see me as i am, but i want to see you.

there’s a sense of comfort i feel when i’m able to control my emotions in a relationship, and that’s only when i haven’t fallen in love with this person. when i love, i love hard. i literally become a reflection of a maniac. i want to be in your skin, i want to know what makes you the way you are, i want to know every single detail. and this, this is against the person i’m comfortable with being. i don’t like acting out of proportion, but i have to, because that’s all my mind does when i’m in love with somebody.

i don’t think you deserve somebody better,

i am better.

i just need time, but don’t give it to me,

let me go,

let me be,

let me grieve your absence that i caused,

let me savor my misery,

leave me alone.

for a clingy individual, i sure do opt for space way too much.

sometimes i feel like a liar.

i feel like i’m lying to myself. i write so much about love but i can’t accept it when it comes.

i only write about the love i had for them once i’ve taken them out of my life.

i never let them know how much they mean to me, i never let them read the poems i wrote for them, i never let them get a taste of the future i prayed for us. how do i convince you i wasn’t lying?

it’s safer being in my own arms, it’s safer having people in my own arms, but to be in somebody else’s, that’s a risk i’m not willing to take. my heart is to fragile for test drives.

i don’t heal from traumatic experiences. i carry each scar, each wound, to every stage of life i’m privileged to witness. i carry it to each country, each waterfront, each balcony, each café. i still remember how i was cut, i remember how much i bled, and what i don’t remember is how much it hurt, i don’t need to remember, because i’m still hurting. it’s in present tense. no matter how long it’s been, everything that goes wrong stick with me, and i don’t need new injuries.

i could’ve probably skipped the one for me, i could’ve left the person of my dreams, but i had to, for you and for me.

i’m definitely not who i’m supposed to be. but i don’t know where to start from. i love so intimately, write about love so passionately, read about love so intently, dream about love so deeply and listen about love with tears running down my face. but one thing i’m yet to do, is to let someone love me just as much as i consume content about love.

i want you, i really do.

i want your perfections & imperfections.

i want the days that pass in muffled laughter.

i want the warmth in your embrace, seconds, minutes, hours.

i want all of it, and i want it with you.

but unfortunately, i’d rather love you from a distance. i’d rather shoot my love from where i am while making sure you’re completely out of reach.

loving you and not having it reciprocated exactly would break me. don’t let me be broken, i already am.

let’s just remain as we are. and i can’t assure you change because i left and i’m sure i’ll leave again.

love,

chinenyenwa.

When I look in the mirror, I see you,

Your perfect jawline & that smile too,

The confidence in your eyes that could lead a military coup,

And even worse, the person that made my pink want its blue.

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I’d be lying if I said you were a thing of the past,

You were the person I truly loved last,

How you left still leaves me aghast,

Because then, I thought I had found my forever at last.

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I despise how you knew me too well,

Intrigued by your every being, I’m convinced I was under a spell,

That after every kiss, I’d wake the butterflies within me to tell,

Tell them of the “ever-after” of which I now dwell.

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When banter felt bitter-sweet,

Like a dance showdown, and we stepped to every beat,

You always won, the best at stepping on my feet,

And about the throne of my heart, that’s your seat.

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If only, I say, If only we weren’t the same,

If only I didn’t hear my voice when you called my name,

If only we didn’t know all the cheats to our own game,

If only you weren’t the very monster I found in myself, that I just can’t tame.

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And so, I tilt to opposites, the safer option,

I feel more like a coward. I want the danger, no caution,

I kind of liked our contradictory fashion,

It was what spiced up my perception of passion.

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Maybe, I should miss what we had, the connection,

But there was more hate than affection,

Walking on eggshells, love with no direction,

I don’t fancy you, I hate you, you’re my reflection.

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Love,

Chinenyenwa.

i’ll be writing in first person form, just for the sake of better understanding, not because it has happened to me. tell me thank you for considering you.

word has been going round, apparently, lover girls dey injure oh.

and i’m not talking of the lover girls squad of TikTok, the ones that curate all the “repostable”

videos that the most evil people pounce on to beautify the stalking journey of their admirers, i’m talking of the real lover girls gon gon, the OG squad.

now, who are these lover girls you ask?

jiri nwayo, take it easy, i’m getting there.

they’re all in the hospital. for research purposes, i had to take a stroll in the psychiatric ward to get personal stories for this article, because, like i said, these lover girls don injure wetin no good.

the tragedy that befalls many aspiring and current lover girls is the unsettling fact that the days of “love is in the air” have passed. we keep reading old novels, watching old tv series and movies, just to close the book and turn off the television and have our bright smiles turn to frowns once we try to apply these gestures to other individuals in real life.

my dear, that love letter you’re writing, squeeze the paper and hand me the pen. it’s okay, go and sleep.

the energy you’re using to write that letter, you’ll use x2 to cry after the result. just go to bed.

but then again, what if the love dey sweet you and you’d just like to communicate how it feels to be engulfed with endearment for somebody?

my dear, same o, my friend told me she feels like that sometimes, definitely not me, can never be me. stop looking at me like that, i’m not lying.

current day relationships are all about sex, nudes, midnight calls talking about sex and more nudes. so us that view love as kissing in the rain, crying on each other’s shoulders, getting flour on our clothes while playing during a baking date, dancing under the moonlight to some cliché Ed Sheeran & using our ugliest laughs when we’re around each other are kept one corner for severe punishment. our punishment, is the truth. the truth is that, those days have long gone and we need to pick up more current books and stop lingering on clips from 2000s romcoms.

love today, is all about pretense. you see a photo of me online that you fancy, and you take your time to dig into my personal space and find some bits of my personality stained all over my social media accounts. you don’t draw a table of pro’s and con’s and measure the balance of our personality traits, you instead, decide to mimic these likings of mine and shape yourself to be the perfect partner for me just to get under my pants. some don’t even get to the destination of sleeping with you, they’ve already started lagging and glitching in their fake mask, and soon enough, you’ll be able to decipher the stammer in their “i love you’s”. but unfortunately, you don’t know whether to be grateful for being saved from a fake love story or be disappointed that you’re now aware that they’re lying, and you’ll probably never get to find someone just as good as a liar as they were to love you as intensely as you wanted.

does that mean i should forfeit my perception of love, just because they don’t align with the current day “definition”?

the wise answer would probably be yes.. but the lover babes remain adamant, holding up their #wenogogree posters, chanting it on their journey into “love island”. sha, yesterday, i went to pick some of them up from the airport, them don injure wetin no good for that “love island”, if not for me that refused to join them, who would’ve assisted them to the hospital for treatment? i mean, one has to take it for the team.

and for the souls like mine, who refrain from the love we want because it does not want us how we want it to want us, soon enough, we’ll get there, and not be injured, can i hear an amen?

it’s hard having your every being crave that love and touch that you read and watch about with so much passion. you want to give somebody your all, but you look to your left, and your friend is running to you in tears ranting about the misfortune of a love story she had with her past/current lover. you look to your right and see the way men treat women they claim to love and even hear the despicable things they tell them. you fold your hands in disbelief as you quickly look to your front where your book lays open, or the television screen is left on as you cross-check and confirm if this is the same love you’re so obsessed reading and watching about. we Igbos say, O di egwu, it is well. because what else do we say?

now, about the gon gon lover girls.

i’m not talking of the wannabe’s oh, i’m speaking of the die-hard, dramatically obsessed & soul-wrecking lover girls. the ones that burn the edges of paper and breathe life into it as the ink bleeds the entirety of their soul into writing. the ones that stay up all night, all day, perfecting their gestures, from scratch, for man. (this last part is a reference from TikTok, Luchi fans, stand up)

the girls that listen to music, thinking of their supposed significant other and imagining the dance routine of their imaginary ballet, dancing gracefully with hands intertwined and waist held, drifting not just on land, but souls drifting from star to star, their love traveling like a shooting star from one eye to the other eye, noses touching and lips tempted. the girls that kneel at any slight convenience, praying for their partners more than themselves, putting their future before their own and commanding God, not begging him, to reward their partners, whether they deserve it or not. the girls that deny their cravings to save money to get their partners that little or big thing they’ve spoken about in one of their numerous midnight calls where she listened and while he spoke when really, all he wanted to do was shift the conversation to how they’d make love to each other soon. these girls i speak of, dey injure oh.

and like they always say on tiktok, your healing stage go long.

that love you’re doing, body go tell you.

it’s unfortunate to be a lover girl in an overly freaked out generation. where your heartfelt gestures are dismissed or taken for granted because all he wants from you is the sight of you undressed. the “wise” ones tuck their love in their pockets and entertain the lustful ones they get to meet, because where them wan find who go love them? some monetize these lustful men, at least they’re getting something out of this foolery, but the remaining who understand that love has nothing to do with wisdom still have their numbers saved on their psychiatrist’s phone as “Blood🩸” “Eje mi” and the rest concerning you being a loyal customer.

so next time you switch on the tv and surf the internet for a spicy and soulful romcom or walk through all the aisles of the bookstore/library in desperate search for an aching romance novel, listen to me when i say, if you decide to act out the content you’re consuming, it’s your story i’ll use to write part two of this article. you go injure wetin no good.

love,

chinenyenwa.

the unsettling feeling of emptiness of an over-achiever.

{image from Pinterest}

before i progress, this doesn’t mean i’m necessarily a sad soul. it doesn’t mean i’m constantly spiraling around negative thoughts, but somehow, no matter the things i do to fill my cup, it empties it out even more.

i’m my own competition. i see discourse all over social media, friends being in competition with each other, siblings, co-workers, classmates, and here i am, zooming in on all my photos, comparing my work to the last ones and making sure the present is always better. i see something beautiful, most times, i forget to appreciate it. i forget to appreciate the things i find spectacular, instead, i add it to the various tasks i have to achieve before the mental deadline i’ve assigned to it. everyday, i sit, or stand, for hours, thinking of ways to become the ultimate best version of myself. but the thing is, when i feel like i’ve reached the said “best version” of myself, the victory doesn’t settle. i don’t feel like celebrating. i think of something else to add, more things to add, more things to be the best in. once i start missing previous versions of myself, i feel like a loser. why am i hanging on to that? why am i not perfect yet? to everyone else that is loving enough to pitch in their opinion, saying things like “i wish i were you” or “you’re perfect”, it doesn’t feel worth celebrating.

as an optimistic, extremely driven individual, i find it depressing why i cannot physically celebrate my achievements for long. once i get what i’ve worked so hard for, sometimes, i’m privileged to smile for a few seconds and then, a sharp bullet hits the center of my entire being, my heart, and it’s like i’m being punished for the good in my life. i start do downplay my achievements. i have something less but just as intense as a depressive episode, and i feel the urge to disassociate and overwork myself to prove to myself that the achievement isn’t all that.

because of this competitive nature, i can’t fathom the fact that an activity exists and i cannot be the best at it. i want to read every book and discuss extensively about them in gatherings of intelligent individuals. i want to listen to every genre of music and have applaud-worthy critique every time the conversation is brought up about a song or a particular lyric. i want to be able to style myself to fit every fashion taste, all the lengths of skirts and sizes of bracelets. i want to train my voice to sing at pitches my body tells me i can’t attain. i want to dance like the vision i have every time i read dancing scenes in books. i want to be able to love every type of human, be everybody’s person and love all of them how they want and be the person that loved them in a way they’ll never forget. this makes me question myself a lot, if my personality is a mirror of who i am as a person, or a reflection of all the traits i’m trying to prove i can have as well. i feel performative. i feel dirty. i feel disgusting.

as a person, right from when i was younger, i’ve always been a fan girl. i’ve always loved to sit and admire others and cheer them on. i would monitor the people i admired and take mental notes on things they do that make me like them, and how i can start doing them as well. i’ve never been the type to talk down on myself. i simply believe everything i admire, i can do it. it takes a vision, a plan, and effort. i would sit in-front of the screen as a child and watch particular influencers and prominent world champions live and i’d be full of awe. i’d carefully carve myself to fit that narrative and i’d force myself to keep doing it until my former self can proudly look up to the person i am now. and every now and then, i do recognize my achievements. i see that i have become the woman i’ve always wanted to be but once again, that gun shoots. i feel it in me, there’s more to do — more to become.

i keep doing everything in sight. i read everything, including the disciplines that have nothing to do with me, just so i can be a notable and applauded critic when the discourse arises, because what is a law student doing reading so extensively on astronomy? i try every dance, learn every language, try to dress like every different fashion style, but no matter how well i do it, how well i speak, how well-read i am, how loved i am by the people i try to love so well, how well put together i am in my studies, how beautiful i become, it still isn’t enough. i want more, and the more i want, the less i become as a person. as i assign more tasks to myself, i feel every achievement slipping away almost immediately.

so here i am again, overworking my brain, stuffing in more knowledge and failing to congratulate my success. looking at myself and seeing every single thing i’ve admired and wanted in a person but still, it doesn’t feel enough. carefully analyzing what more to add, what more to do. what more to read, what more to learn, what books i need to buy, what clothes i don’t have, what skincare will work for a skin mishap that isn’t so conspicuous, how to love a certain group of people in a way they’d never forget, what to eat to look a certain way, just a lot of what, how, what, how, what, how.

i feel insane. i feel mad. i feel demented. i don’t know if i should use my pilates money to get therapy, but then again, i won’t get what i want out of pilates, but it’s not like i was ever going to celebrate the win anyway. i feel ungrateful. i feel like a monster. i just want to feel contented with my wins. why i do still feel so empty after winning? am i really winning? or am i a loser that just as a positive mindset? a winner with a negative mindset? what am i even saying??

i tell people i published my first book at 6 years old, i speak of my track record of commendable academic excellence, i speak of intellectual heights attained even as a minor, i speak of rooms i’ve been in that my peers would never thought they existed, i speak of achievements, i speak of wins, but no matter how impressed they sound, i feel nothing.

this is the price i pay for being an over-achiever. you eventually become immune to winning, it feels like the standard, it’s supposed to happen. but however, if it doesn’t happen, i would rather not speak about what would happen.

maybe someday, i’d win, and feel good for once. i’d feel like the best version of myself finally, the version everyone else seems to be proud of, but i’m constantly criticizing.

love,

chinenyenwa.

(photo from Pinterest)

Dear Caterpillar,

I await your growth every passing day,

Itch for the sprout of words, but to my dismay,

Your echo grows faint, while mine has more to say.

.

I wish I could sing in a layman’s tone,

Unfold the future in your before, preferably over the phone,

Love without using my sanity as collateral for this loan,

And stitch our hearts with thread so thick, it lasts till we’re grown.

I want to tell you things that make you question everything you’ve known,

Start to finish, including the sins I can’t atone,

Let you ponder on the world, to you, I’ve shown,

And at the end, ask if this is how you want our love sewn.

.

To Butterfly,

You speak of a tune I’ve never heard,

Narrating a dance of Ballet when I’d prefer Contemporary instead,

I’d love to believe you, but you’ve out-powered my nerd,

And for this, it’s unlikely for me to take your word.

.

You’re poetry, but I can’t read,

You’re everything I want, but I don’t see that you’re rather, what I need,

Every time you speak, I feel your heart bleed,

Crying, mourning and regretting that its damsel can’t meet up with its speed.

My sincere apologies that I failed to water our seed,

I let it die, because I wanted to hear how you sound when you plead,

Your lies sound better than your apology, is it too late to feed?

Feed the last bit of hope that saw the arrival of a new breed.

.

Dear Caterpillar,

You’re too naive to comprehend the words I speak,

The realms I’ll unlock to find every answer you seek,

The love I’d offer, higher than a mountain’s peak,

I just wish you’d understand, even for just a week?

.

If we were both butterflies,

We’d surpass soul ties,

Merge and see the world from the same eyes,

And there, that’s when we’d discover where the truth lies.

The truth that sleeps in disguise,

That includes me loving you in every way that’s not wise,

Being by your side during the lows & the highs,

And you taking me as nothing but the prize.

.

To Butterfly,

You speak of promises I crave to fulfill,

But first, understand my world stands still,

While you prefer to go up the hill like Jack & Jill,

I’d rather stay on the ground, for the sake of free will.

.

Dear Caterpillar,

Will you ever outgrow and let me teach you how to see?

Show you the poetic elements of glee,

Trace your entire being and let you know you’re my own key,

And without you, being a butterfly isn’t how I want it to be?

.

As much as I ache to hear your response,

I know you prefer to remain ignorant at all cost,

To be buried in your shame and cover yourself with dust,

Rather than let me show you the life outside your beloved lust.

.

Dear Caterpillar,

Till my butterfly comes along.

.

From Butterfly,

And even then, my love for you remains lifelong.

.

Love,

The Butterfly,

Chinenyenwa🫶🏾

the cold breeze of shame, inconsiderate yet forcefully necessary occasionally blows to dry up the last bit of creativity in the artistic community. as you pick up that pen, that pencil, that instrument, to create and to invite the rest of the ignorant populace to a new realm — a realm designed just for the atypical, e just get one kind shame wey go hook you for bone marrow.

it’s almost midnight, i have a shameful number of poetic masterpieces tucked into my safe and cozy notes app. sometimes, i’m satisfied with not having to consider the understandability of my poems and tone down my writing for my audience, so i let out my heart and lock them up in my phone. some other times (most times), i feel ashamed for buying into the criticism thrown at true creativity and can’t help but console my poetry for limiting its exposure. i’m brilliant, i’m passionate, i have so much to teach the world, why am i so embarrassed?

it’s simple.

the generation i’ve been born to is more in tune with casual. casual life, casual love, casual support, casual culture, casual lifestyle. “don’t live on the edge”, “don’t go the extra mile”, “think inside the box”, “don’t do it first”, “nobody does that”, “put yourself in their shoes”, but fortunately for me, they’ll never have the privilege to wear these shoes i have on. these shoes walk to places undiscovered, walks the extra mile, stands outside the box and i don’t mind being the first person to wear these shoes.

what if i don’t like casual? what if i want to write gut-wrenching poetry without hearing “relax”? what if i want to love somebody so soulfully without being called a “mumu”? what if i want to support my friends, celebrate their wins and hold their hands in the rain without being judged for “doing too much”? what if i want to dance like no-one’s watching, but not the cliché, corny type, more of a showdown between me and the demons i’m fighting? what if i want my singing to echo? what if i want to create a life outside casual? is this generation for me or was i meant to be born before or after now?

wanting a career is normal, wanting to achieve unheard dreams and goals in that career is normal, wanting to be loved like your fantasyland is normal, wanting to love someone like your fantasyland is normal, wanting loud support is normal, wanting a bond that sticks for life is normal, wanting to express yourself beyond comprehensive measures is normal, wanting to live outside the cruel restrictions of life is normal.

as a passionate soul, i prefer to feel everything to it’s highest degree. i want friendships that feel like sisterhood. i want to be the loudest to cheer at every event you win at. i want to be the person that blows your nose after you’ve soaked my tee in tears. i want to be the girl who carries her loved ones like trophies without feeling like i’m doing too much. i want to tell the entire world how much i love you in the form of ballads, songs, odes and every other form i can think of. i want to consume everyone i love with affection. i want them to live on after this world and still reminisce the person i was on earth. i want to love in an unforgettable way. i want to kiss your forehead in the way it breathes peace into your troubled mind. i want to hug you in the way that’s warm enough to defrost decades of unsettling cold. i want to love and live and love again and live again with even more passion every chance i get. in general — i’d prefer to live lovelier.

it’s unfortunate that careers are now plan B’s. everyone’s plan A is to make it big, no plan, no direction. a degree, it’s just to fall on for extra support when the money-making scheme goes south. i feel a bit alone sometimes, having my life planned out so early. wanting a career and wanting my career to direct my life entirely feels like something i should rethink, especially with how careers are taken so trivially. and here i am, asking myself why there’s so much embarrassment alongside passion in today’s world.

i don’t want to be called “joseph the dreamer” or to be lectured on “that’s not how the world works”. life can happen as it pleases, but if there’s a will, there’s a way.

creativity is what leads this world. the stereotypes and standards all emerged from radical change, before they were made conservative. radical minds are still needed, we do not need to conform. i’m passionate, and that’s fine. maybe i don’t like the little things, and want the biggest fish in the sea. maybe i’d prefer more and will keep reaching out for more. maybe you should too, maybe they’re wrong, maybe there’s nothing embarrassing about passion.

love,

chinenyenwa🫶🏾

If I place the weight I hold within,

The castle I’ve built, and kept you in,

The size of a mountain, but to you a milk tin,

It would sink any ship, down to the abyss of sin.

A dialogue of faith, whispers promising fate,

To dance away disaster and use this chemistry to lock our gate,

Bid farewell to the dictates of day and find coverage during hours of late,

In dim lights, you and I, twists and twirls, hands held, just like our first date.

In the end, we retire to the tales we tell,

Speaking of a future we’d eventually sell,

To afford to taste reality, not blurry images of you, the Beast, and I, the Belle,

Because unfortunately, it’s within this nutshell of actuality, you prefer to dwell.

Sometimes I blame the umbrella for it’s shield,

I want the rain to wash all your filth, just for you to be healed,

Healed and for me to see who you are when the world’s stain on you has peeled,

This is all I itch for, now that our oath is unsealed.

But to my dismay,

Whether I write 5 ballads to keep next to you where you lay,

Or prophesy us to be the moon and stars that dictate the rise and fall of day,

Your facility of thought would never be worthy to comprehend the depth of what I say.

That alone, is enough for me to pick up my remains,

Find where the sun in my thoughts can shine and where my word rains,

Discover depths devoid of intellectual gaps and sentimental chains,

And finally be the reason rhapsody finds me, not by luck, but because my Heavenly Father reigns.

I feel my love for you down to my liver,

I could chant your name, just like a believer,

Sick every time you cross my mind, my beloved fever,

Yet with all these words, one I’m yet to utter, is that I’ve ever been the receiver.

With every passing day, I’m honored to be our memories’ keeper,

Opting for reminiscence of limerence than settling for love cheaper,

And even when I make effort to stand where our fate is steeper,

You’d always love me 6 feet deep, while my love for you goes 6 feet deeper.

Love,

Chinenyenwa💘

The strange valley you made me take as a home,

The times in solitary, I never felt alone,

Because to me, loving you went past the words we shared over the phone.

The sticks and stones I believed couldn’t break my bone,

The err’s I’d dismiss and condone,

The sugar to our union kept leaking from its cone,

Till I could properly sense the resentment in your tone.

To love is to err, and I’ll err a million times,

That to smile again, I’ll have to pay multiple fines,

Was spinning too fast, I couldn’t see the signs,

That whenever you smiled, it never left any smile lines.

Of the same feather, not the same breed,

Made me believe friendship was something that I need,

Without it now, I find it harder to feed,

Feed the soul that was dedicated to her creed.

And now, I bid farewell,

To the story so perfect, I itched to tell,

Is my part valuable? Enough to sell?

How do I make up for the loss, so I can again, once propel?

I’ll always hold the fancy I had for you dear,

I still reminisce the laughs and each tear,

Will still keep my memories of you near,

Because a friend is forever, what’s lost is cheer.

Coupled by uncertainty, glazed by fear,

Could a needle and thread possibly fix this tear?

Compelling it is, I must find another listening ear,

And find another missing rib, preferably my peer.

Without you, the higher it feels up this tower,

Farther from warmth, more like an observer,

Now when it rains, It doesn’t feel like a shower,

Doesn’t rinse, doesn’t cleanse, just makes everything taste sour.

I remember you when I see your favorite flower,

Mid-way baking and I forgot we always used your flour,

Maybe it just wasn’t our cue for golden hour,

Lived in your skin every second of the day, till the hour it wasn’t ours.

Love,

Chinenyenwa💘

But I’m too busy counting my days, is my end today?

Where we can’t respond definitely, everything ends with a may,

I can’t even tell you the genesis of our problem, E don tey.

In a country where even the majority are only entitled to their say,

We say and say, till our words be the reason we’re put to lay,

Where even the cock is tired, it’s now bad news that start the day,

It’s all coming to an end now, and nobody wants to stay.

Our neighbors hold hands and walk as one while we fight our faults instead,

Drawing the battle line every now and then while hungry, for with our blood, we’re fed,

Everyone in haste to be in-front, with greed, we’re led,

Chasing the bag, chasing the bag, till because of that bag, you’re dead.

You don’t speak, you don’t share, even from the comfort of your bed,

While you plan ahead, the lowly reminiscence from above the times they shared,

How their dreams bled into how you made your daily bread,

How they shed, even in their own shed.

The war we couldn’t fight,

To protect our little and preserve our might,

The Indigenous still kept their tears in their pockets and instead, fought for shared right,

To be counted amongst the living, but in their living rooms, they planned to hold our necks tight.

For a sector you troll and neglect,

Please let us go, we also, wish to stand erect,

In your eyes, we’re flawed, but we know we’re close to perfect,

Let the East breathe, we are not a suspect.

“Bring Back Our Girls”, slowly turning to an annual ritual, annual plea,

That every night I close my eyes and I pray tomorrow, they get to see,

But what’s worth seeing? The lost glee?

The dreams shipped away at sea?

Our sweat and blood they use to go on a shopping spree?

Sometimes with the ones who have lost hope, I can’t help but with them, agree,

That nothing can protect us over this place we dwell, our said canopy.

That the posterity will be born to be harassed,

I thought the days when little girls were made grown had past,

Ochanya’s heart was once beating, and that’s what should be broadcast,

That she was promised so much, and those promises were taken away so fast.

The Gender Based Violence we fight for,

The women poorly treated because they’re said not to have what men have in store,

I wish we could uplift them and do much more,

But the scent of inequality is still evident to the core.

That the sweat of our forefathers are being used to purchase what we say we can’t afford,

Na them dey sin, na me dey beg for forgiveness before our Lord,

The fertility of ourselves, we each hoard,

And refuse to ever take our brothers on board.

To each man his own, and so we stand alone,

“We go again next year”, and the goodness left of the year, we postpone,

Condemn the act in person, and keep in touch with our sins on the phone,

And leave the misfortune to the less privileged, for them to feel it in their bones.

We’ve found peace in chaos,

We don’t sympathize with our loss,

We’re too focused on sympathy’s cost,

And our hopes and dreams we’ve lost.

In a country where health providers who save lives can’t save their own,

Which sin are they to atone?

Is our curse written on stone?

How are the perpetrators of this chaos still “unknown”?

To the rich, to the poor,

To the ones who believed Nigeria had so much in store,

To the ones still crying over our historical lore,

It’s you, I wrote this poem for.

I know you wish the country prioritized how you fared,

I know you wish they took to note everything you said,

But we need to push aside inter-group differences and whatever’s going on with Ned.

We need to stop shedding in our own shed.

Love,

Chinenyenwa❤️