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July 12, 2020 fucked up modern love essays

Talk About It

Jakky Bankong-Obi

Talk About It photo

Here we don't talk about it but if you are asking, I’m single now. Kick starting into the reinvention of language; we  becoming me, in an upside down rearrangement of first letters, the way a baby gurgles sounds into personhood, and gradually breaks through being tongue tied to self expressing autonomy. A Samson declaring love independence, because in keeping with how these things go, I’ve also Delilah-chopped off my edge-controlled locks, since they’ve become nothing but a gelled-up limp, wet body spilling into past identities.

I’ll also tell you that sometimes, in the sentry of my new me border patrol, I giraffe neck over the window of my alone, catching glimpses of the top of the line rides I used to power drive through my love allegiance. Because power has always been my thing and nothing says it better than a blast of fumes from a set of powerful exhausts revved. But it’s mostly always raining here now and the miasma is lost in the grey and the sun hardly bleeds through the clouds of gloom.

You should know too that on the sill, weeds have asylumed with the tomato seeds I potted recently, because every border is porous, even the ones that are well delineated and when it’s all said and done, the history of countries is the story of roaming. And maps are relatively new inventions in the human narrative thus things always find ways to enter unwelcome. Still, I pluck the immigrated weeds; feed them to the forlorned vista. I’m still new to this, still vulnerable and not willing to take on new citizens, yet. This fragility needs its own space to grow.

While we are at it, I should mention that I once read that gardening is a thing to do when you are starting afresh or was it when you move into a new house? I understood though, that greening your thumb keeps the loneliness at bay, or at least it’s something to take your mind off the fact that the world outside is wilding in baby making weather while you struggle still to keep it together. I make doubly sure though and plug my ears so now, I’m mostly deaf, dumb, almost blind and balding, quite insulated from external bombardments.

And lastly, I should tell you that from the earphones, Rihanna is crooning about love on the brain, to which I agree, because from this baldheaded ear-plugged glass-fogged unseeing, everything is black and blue, pain skewed. I’m love beaten, only just trying to take back the power. And someday, I want to be able to tell you about the sun when I opened my windows and let in her golden happy, how I walked under her bright lights, seeing.

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