H for HeartBreaks
If we knew the things that really mattered most goodbyes would be less of a pain. The things we adore are fleeting; life for one flashes like a shooting star. In the end, whatever that may be, we are either glad we savored the beauty or sad we thought “what the heck! There’ll be another”. But then there wasn’t, because we all get one chance.
One chance to love unreservedly, one chance to do things right. There’s no making up for yesterday, just making perfect for today. Life is bigger than our feelings, time is more precious than all the gold. If only we knew the things that mattered…but even if we knew, would it matter anyway?
See, there are different types of breakups. One thing they have in common is the hurt. And it’s always the good memories that hurt. The happy moments will crush you. Reminiscing of the pillow talks will break you.
The first is the kind where you all see it coming. It’s a wait and see game because no one wants to say it. You watch each other’s moves closely. You stop being jealous. You have sex as a chore, whereby each one works for their own orgasm.
This might drag for a while until one day you eat her leftover omena and she comes to you, holding the now empty, and unwashed, lunchbox and says, “I can’t do this anymore. You clearly don’t know a thing about boundaries and I think we should call it quits,” and you will shake your head, feign disappointment and say, “If that’s what you want, it’s fine by me.” And thereafter, when you are both out of each other’s sight, you will sing the National Anthem.
This is the best breakup.
The other one is where you will both be seeing different things. You will be seeing a wife material as days goes by, she will be seeing a tree trunk. You will think she is smiling kumbe she is frowning. You will tell your ex, “Look, I am in a serious relationship right now, please stop texting me!” And she will be asking her ex, “Where did the rain start beating us?” And at the same time laughing at all the jokes about seeing orgasms only on memes.
One day you will go on your knee to propose and she will twist her mouth and say, “Listen, I meant to tell you but I forgot. I want to be a nun.”
Motivational speakers come from this category.
The other one is the confusing breakup. This is how things go down.
“I left my toothbrush here last time, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know. Did you?”
“I did. But I can’t find it.”
“Then maybe you didn’t leave it here.”
“I know I did. Did you throw it away?”
“I haven’t thrown out a toothbrush in the recent past.”
“Then where is it?”
“I have no idea. I can get you a new one though.”
“Is that what you do to all the women that come here? Throw away their stuff and buy them new ones?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
If you are lucky she will let it go, and the next day after leaving she will again leave behind another toothbrush, and not the one you gave her. And it will be a conspicuous toothbrush too. One that stands out. One that says you are not the owner. I don’t know where women buy their toothbrushes from but you will rarely see them with a normal toothbrush.
That toothbrush will be the end of you because you can’t throw it away, again, or leave it in plain sight, because if another woman sees it she will know it belongs to another woman. She will know because only women know where they buy their fancy toothbrushes.
That’s how she will leave. And she will tell her friends how your girls have been using her toothbrush to lay their edges. The boys will just shake their heads and reiterate how dramatic daughters of Eve can be. Anyway, if you want a fancy toothbrush, ask women.
Now where were we?
Ooooh for most heartbreaks, you’ll know it is coming; you feel it. Like waves, it hits you, each time stronger than before. Just the way you’ll know when your gas is almost running out. You’ll speak highly of it today, how much it lasted the semester only the next day to give you what you ask for. And there’s nothing you can do about it; you just watch it burn as if asphyxiated until it chokes and the flame finally dies out.
You take a stroll down memory lane:
The first time you two met.
The first time you two kissed
The first time you two made out…wait, about that part.
It was in this very same bed you were sitting on. You two barely knew each other, more of strangers who just broke the ice. You didn’t even know what her favorite color is (as if nowadays we care) and she didn’t yet know how deep you had your roots in WWE. You sent her fare, and like the good girl she was she showed up. That was before Jezebel offsprings started using it for manicure. Birds and Bees. The next thing awaited and it was inevitable. The moment you had all been looking forward to.
She has fears of appearing cheap, you have your fears of looking like a satyr. Making out would be wonderful and welcome, but only if treated with the respect it deserves- more of like the icing to friendship cake, that of course didn’t bake in mere minutes.
Besides, complete honesty of feelings the way you’d be free to talk things with your friend. However, sometimes it’s not always that way. Sometimes we lie, sometimes we rush, sometimes we want it badly for our own selfish carnal needs, and sometimes lust eventually takes the better of us. We end up sleeping with someone who in a month won’t even ask if you’re okay, let alone care. She didn’t look like that type, but they always never do.
In that same bed. She showed up with that steamy dress. You’ve always loved her in dresses, they hug her petite figure. She was curvaceous.
The undressing, kissing, hands over each other, only stopping when the moment allowed. For a while, it was just you and her, clamoring for something you knew naught of, hearing her soft moans and you grunting, no talking just sensual onomatopoeia. Slowly, your mouth then found its way to her nipple and she begged you not to stop, your hand grazing her wetness, her hips rising to you.
Time was suspended, no haste, nothing else mattered in broad daylight than her, weak in bed. Minutes elapsed before you were even in her. Something was different with her. Her stomach and hips arched, desperately calling you to be in her. When you made your move, you wanted it to be something else. You didn’t hesitate, rhythm adjusted where necessary without words – faster, slower, depending on how her hips rose and fell until you shuddered like a tractor out of fuel. You collapsed as a heap into her, and she met your mouth with hers.
No one spoke. You both lay in bed.
The bodies had learned something about each other that your heads hadn’t. No one dared break the sacred silence. You just looked at her, smiled and knew she was definitely for keeps. It was the first of the many and others followed suit.
No, I refuse to believe love is just a matter of the heart. It does affect every fibre of your being. When in love your brain gets used to a steady stream of dopamine and oxytocin. That’s what causes all those blissed out feelings of love after a breakup. And now it’s replaced with stress hormones. They make you feel like garbage, headaches, tight muscles, tight chest. Your body craves for those feel good chemicals. It’s basically withdrawal.
You will forget about the breakup eventually. Facebook or google photos will come again in 2 years time. You have memories to look back on today.
Many thanks to Brian Mbanacho