Drive Past It

I stopped driving at 16 when I had my first accident. The cost of it all made me decide to let the keys go, like lovers on some bridge in Paris, after adding their locks to the teeming number that will cripple the bridge.

This is not a poem. And it is not about lucks or keys
or a kiss or about spoon feeding emotions
or trying to have a relationship
or driving a career worthy of a Fast and Furious adaptation or a Shakespeare narration.

This is to the one who has felt heartbreak close up but, like one of the blind asked to describe the structure of the elephant, will take my words with a pinch of salt. Add it to that part of your wound that a heartbreak caused, cover your cracks with it, do an Nsibidi inscription on your sensitivity.

Heartbreaks are bad for your Health.

Remember when I said I stopped driving, well, I will drive again, and again and again and again. That is how hearts get broken…and heal.

You love or trust or have certain expectations for/from people, their inability to meet up or match your expectations leaves you hurt, and now I have been summoned from Frankenstein’s grave to tell you this;

Don’t stop loving, don’t stop being optimistic, don’t stop expecting the best from people.

Don’t stop believing…
Don’t stop loving…
That is how hearts get broken…and heal enough to heal other broken hearts.


Ice Nwa Ǹkwọ
©2020

Letter to the Boy

Being single could make one appear socially awkward, especially, when you get to 24. People would ask a lot of why questions and before you know it, you are out of perfect replies. It could be maddening, you know? Especially, when they see you converse with a pretty lady, then start with their 1000 rule advice on how to win her over, as though you had asked their counsel on how to get a “bae”. It could be ridiculous too, when a lady tells you, “upon all this your sweet mouth, you dey claim say you no get babe”, as though being a good talker is all you need in order to be in a relationship. dat one no too dey pain me. I get more annoyed when fellas try to point out a girl for me just because she has the kind of hips that are very close relatives of Abakiliki mounds and breasts that are large enough to suffocate a toddler. And on more occasions, a complexion that is characterized of an over ripped pawpaw. They would just shout “wow” like Jesus Christ got born again… I know you got the juicy part of such tales in your head.

Then, if you are not careful, you would settle for the glaze on the utensil without considering the type of material it is made of. That’s me waving a “welcome to Hell Street”, because, all you will ever dream of is, an exit strategy from this business that you entered into without much consideration. You know how you just end up scheming on ways to get her hyper pissed off with you and end up asking you for a break up, but when it fails, you start rehearsal of your 360-word break up line. And when finally you are done with the inscription on her heart, she starts seeing all boys, guys, and men, (forgive the redundancy), as an evil she have to live with. However, because emotions still run through her veins, if no one wise enough is close by to advise her rightly, she becomes a formidable heart basher, who only cares about your little change, in an exchange for the toy of herself, remember you made her to start feeling like a toy.