Because of that, we made sure to dispose of what remained after our lips had their fill of its juice. Even then, in hunger, I had no real desire for it. I’m a man who hardly changes his mind once a conviction sets in. So why do I want a wife and a kid?

To taunt my mother, I often tell her I have no desire for marriage. She’d drop whatever has her occupied in that moment and lambast me with lessons on the power of the tongue. I laugh. It’s interesting, but she tells me it’s a good thing. To find someone whom you want to spend the rest of your time on earth with. Someone who, without a donkey, makes a triumphant entry into your heart, parting every sea that once served as a hindrance.

She reminds me that he who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favour in the sight of the lord. She is right, yet for the longest time, I had no desire to get hitched until now.

I can cast aspersions on my past. It’s the easy thing to do. Every relationship felt like it had an expiration date. Someone was always holding out. My heart felt like a stopgap until who my lovers truly wanted came knocking. Sometimes they left in search of it, and other times I was the culprit. Instinctively, I knew what we had built was knitted with ephemeral glue.

I never saw a wedding dress, and a train of best men. I was only hoping we lasted the night, so when I said I did not want to get married, my mother saw it as disinterest, but it was only fear masquerading as bravado and youthful lies.

But can I truthfully say I never wanted it if fear ruled my decision? I guess we can answer with a yes and no. While my mother shouted, “God forbid,” my heart hardened, and my resolution strengthened. I was determined to lead a peaceful life and write about lovers who walk in and out of your life.

To write about people who leave scarves to serve as a compass to their return for when things do not quite work out with their heart's desire. Stories like that sell; my life would be a canvas of all the broken promises I’d lived through.

Large bodies of water like to play the Moana trick on me. They call, but I never pick up. I hurry away until I can no longer hear it ring. Lately, however, there has been an unfamiliar tugging in my heart. Something old, something new, and something borrowed. I want a wife and a daughter who has her eyes, and I’m willing to jump off the bridge.

With Waffles, my heart does not beat in one direction. Maybe it’s the way she walked straight into my heart and stole it. I close my eyes, and there I am at the altar, building a stone of remembrance we would always look back on and swear it was the best day, as it heralded the best years of our lives. Unlike mango, I have tasted and seen that this is a life worthy of committing to. This is not a call I can ignore; unlike the water, it is coming from within. It’s as clear as when Abram heard, “Leave your land, your family, and your father’s household for the land that I will show you.” I want to leave my father’s house and start one with you. Apropos of nothing, you’ve really not lived until you’ve seen your girl in a red gown.

I do not know when this shift happened. If I had known, I know, I would have fought it. So shout out to ignorance for being bliss. I want to spend the biggest infinity doting on you. After all, some infinities are bigger than others. Of all the infinities, I want the biggest one with you.

I’m Seuncaleb, Omo ìfẹ́, and these words are meant to be felt.

The hairdresser would always tilt my aunt’s chin, asking, “E fine, abi?” and they would nod in polite acknowledgement. Why are we so deeply afraid to speak up in the stylist’s chair?

I guess we are all the same in that regard. Fragile humans, afraid to say things at the right time and sulk in bed after the fact. We replay scenarios in our heads. We fabricate confrontations where we say the things burning in our chest, and take the weight off our tongue.

You wish you had cursed that toxic lover out when you said it was all good, and told your mother you hated the dress rather than feel embarrassed when you had to wear it to church. She called it your Sunday’s best.

I’m no stranger to the cat getting my tongue. Now and again, I lie in bed and I mentally doomscroll through my day just before sleep; plugging holes with grand speeches my brain was too slow to conjure in the moments that mattered.

I remember one time I got into a fight with a friend, and it was totally my fault. In the heat of the confrontation, I stood puzzled, not knowing what to say or do.

The barrage of questions asking, “Why did you do that?” was welcomed with a multitude of “I don’t know” and bouts of silence. The relationship would eventually fizzle out. Months later, I pieced together a myriad of things I could have said, alongside explanations I could have given. We reconciled after a while, but we aren’t always that lucky. Let me tell you about a time like that.

It was 2015; Woju and Shakiti Bobo were the songs on everyone’s lips, and Valentine’s Day was fast approaching. So also were JAMB, WAEC and NECO, but that does not matter. I had bought a gift for a val I did not ask to be mine, and assumed we had a mutual understanding of what we were.

I handed over the gift in the afternoon, just before jumping on a bus to go home and thought I could steal a quick hug before leaving. As I approached, she stretched out her hand and pushed me away.

You know how cruel secondary school students can be; the laughter ricocheted in my head for days. When she apologised and asked if we were good, I said yes even when I was burning inside. Where did we learn silence?

Maybe it was when I told a girl I liked her and she laughed in my face. Did you learn it when you’d tell your mother you did not like a meal, and she told you that as long as you lived under her roof you’d eat whatever meal she fed you? Or did your teacher constantly ignore you in class, and you just learnt never to raise your hands even if you wanted to pee?

There are so many building blocks to our cowardice. So one day I sat down and wrote, plotting things I could have said but didn’t say. Things I want to say to you before eternity comes. You can get it here; maybe then you’d have the right words when the need arises. Who knows.

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Okay, everyone, have a seat, and let me tell you a story. There is no once upon a time, because I do not know when it happened. We had stolen so many glances at each other, we took each other’s hearts without the other knowing. Yours fits perfectly with me, like it was always meant to be within my possession. I often wonder how different my life would be without you, and I conclude I’d rather not find out. There is nothing to show for the time life wasted in weaving the thread of our lives together. Can you see as you make my life bloom? Can you see the joy you spark within my heart? You quell the tempest of my soul.

On her way to me, she got waffles and Fresh Yo. I protested her coming too close to me because I’d hate to transfer what I had to her. She would protest this and insist she did not care, so every cough and sneeze found a resting place on her body. She’d feed me the waffles and nurse me until my mother returned from work. So one day while writing a letter, I opened with, “Dear Waffles.” There is no way “my love” or “Baby” would translate the deep-seated level of affection carried by waffles.

My friend calls his fiancée Beans. I, for the life of me, cannot comprehend the romantic utility of a legume. But I’m not meant to. I’m certain when he calls her that, the world freezes, and she is reminded that there is a world only they know exists, a world only they can walk in and out of, and the key is beans. Someone else can call her beans, and it would never have the same effect, because whatever the story is, it’s unique to them. No one can have that access. She might have friends who call her darling, and it elicits affection, but it would never be beans.

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My waffles is my darling, sweetheart, lover and best friend. She can be anything to anybody else, but she’d always be my waffles. And she sings with reckless abandon, and sleeps off once her back touches her bed. She tells me she loves me more, and I vehemently disagree because I do not have the vocabulary in English to tell her that I’m afraid she’d never know the depth of my love. After all, men were not weird to feel love as immense as this. I can write a million songs, poems, and declarations, yet they would not scratch the surface. But as long as breath remains in my lungs, I’ll do everything humanly possible to paint a picture her mind can conceive.

I have digressed a lot. My initial point is that names should have meaning, and meaning comes with experience—stories. There is a profound philosophical question to be asked about why words crafted to carry emotional burdens fall flat in this digital age, but I do not want to answer that; I want to talk about Waffles. Maybe talk to her, that’s actually the way to put it, but it’s almost midnight; she’s had a stressful day and is peacefully fast asleep. I remember when we started talking, while stealing glances and not hearts, I shared a song, “ Without Your Love“ by Dwin, the Stoic. I didn’t know it then, but it would become the anthem to our love. We’d have numerous car karaoke sessions where we sing our lungs out. I’m always off-key anyway.

Everybody needs a waffles because the world is filled with loves, darlings and sweethearts. The beauty of an endearment is entrenched in its incomprehensibility with the outside world. She fell sick, by the way. After she brought me waffles, she fell sick.

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Can we know for certain what we like without being exposed to it? Or is there an innate inclination that pushes us to experience things that resonate with who we are at our core, even parts we do not know exist? I can tell from looking at certain meals or activities that I would have a hard time enjoying them. I am often correct. I knew I’d never enjoy Indomie from the first day my grandma cooked it for me. The list goes on and on.

But sometimes, something pushes me to go on an experience, pushes me to try; boldness comes upon me like a baptism, and I say things and do things that change the trajectory of my life forever. That might be dramatic, but hear me out.

A calling from within:

Of all the gifts I was not blessed with, not being able to sing probably hurts the most. I love to sing. At any given opportunity, you’d find me humming, singing and losing myself as I drift off-key, but I did not realise how much I love to hear someone sing to me until some time ago. It was a scorching Saturday afternoon, and I was hungry, and decided I wanted ewa agoyin and bread. But I was on a call, a long one, the type that’s often punctuated with silence but never a full stop. I did not want the call to end; the company was good, so I decided to take a walk while we spoke.

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Boarding a keke would have gotten me to my destination faster, but why would I do that? The use of boarding rather than entering really tickles the Nigerian in me, but I digress. Walking and talking to someone over the phone often leads you to uncharted territory. Your tongue loosens, and boldness drapes over you like a coat of many colours, sparking jealousy from the version of yourself that would cower even within the comfort of your room.

I substituted silence with jokes and commentary on everything my eyes had the privilege of witnessing on my journey. She kept giggling, and her laughter made my heart dance, like when palms playing tinko tinko find a rhythm.

So in a fleeting moment, before rational thinking could steal my courage and my jokes lost their power to pull down her walls, I asked her to sing. I do not know what compelled the request. Up until then, that was not the type of request I’d make, not in my right senses, and even while intoxicated, not even then would my mind conjure such a bold request.

But there I was, fueled by hunger and a need to get lost within a voice I had never heard sing. “Can you sing for me?” The words left my mouth, and silence ran back into the pitch without a referee telling him he could not return. I no longer heard the blaring horns from bikes and cars warning pedestrians of their closeness to the street. I heard my heartbeat increase, and wished the road would be one with me.

“So, what do you want me to sing?” Any song would do the trick. I became the woman who told Jesus that even the dogs were allowed to eat from the crumbs that fell from the table. I wanted any crumbs she’d give me. If she sang the national anthem, I’d be utterly satisfied. If the thing she muttered were the lyrics of GTB’s 737, I’d be elated. My response was, “Anything that you know the lyrics to and you’re comfortable with.” Her inner deliberation was audible to the deaf, and after what felt like an eternity, she picked Dressed in Black by Sia. I know Titanium because of Pitch Perfect, but this was the first time I heard the title of the song, and I did not know what to expect. In haste, I pulled out my phone and googled the lyrics. This should be fun, I thought to myself.

The realisation

Hopefully, you have been following my rant up until now, and note that I said earlier that no one had sang for me up until now. I mean, I’ve heard people sing, I’ve been talking to people, and they sing in between conversations, but no one had sung to me. She cleared her throat and chuckled, then she started to sing. In my first book, I was accused of using this phrase liberally, but my heart became melted butter. I read the lyrics as she sang, and a stream of emotions welled up in my heart. Was that the day all my walls came crashing down? I do not know, I cannot remember how, but I knew the road to my heart was not the proverbial food, but melodies from a Nigerian woman with an A in her name. As she sang, I turned back to head home. I had tasted something better than ewa agoyin and bread. She would go on and sing two other songs that day, but I can only remember the first; there is always something about the first and the way it holds you to ransom.

I never knew that being sung to could make my knees buckle, but it was a realisation I wholeheartedly welcomed. I had tasted it, and there was no going back. I returned home, and my coat of many colours was taken away, and I settled into the state I once was. The call ended soon after, and would be the genesis to many nights spent listening to her sing to me and me falling with every note, pitch and lyrics. Like Rapunzel, songs were the trigger to let down my hair so you could climb into my heart.

This is my second essay/piece in the space of a week. I’m meant to be writing my dissertation, but this would serve as a productive distraction. Nini reached out, and I said no piece until October/November, but here I am. Thank you for your patience; it warms my heart. So, to you reading this, what is one thing you tried that completely changed your life?

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It was not a calculated decision to be proficient in the language by any means. I knew my limitations, but I was not going to let that hinder me. I pictured the look on her face when I’d respond to whatever she typed, although sparingly, and that was motivation enough to keep going. It took a painfully long period of time to learn to answer. Still, I kept at it for as long as was necessary simply because I felt like this was something that could be our thing, a web we could weave our lives around, and a pole we could entwine our feelings on until they brought forth the fruits of love. At that point, it did not matter that I was thick in the head with languages, as Maranatha will say, the walls around my heart performed a Jericho. In the sight of love, my weaknesses are like those who wait on the lord.

The entwining of self:

It is no news that curiosity is the greatest form of love, and imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so when I selected Spanish on Duolingo, I made a declaration saying: I want to know why you love this language, and I want to show how deeply I admire you by doing the things you do. In my very short time on earth, it’s getting longer every time I use that phrase, I’ve come to realise that we find ways to entwine our lives with the people we love. People who knew me in those years, when the only thing that came out of my mouth regarding Amala was foul, were quickly taken aback when I wrote a piece about loving it. I said, if I remember correctly, “I had Amala today, and it was nice because I thought of you.”

In love, the incumbent frailty you have towards anything gives way to enthusiasm. Your taste bud morphs and bitter becomes sweet, your tongue twists and turns until you are bilingual, and you listen to Anendlessocean for the first time, and he just makes sense, because the one you love says his songs are nice. To love is to merge. No wonder there is reviling of the mind and the heart when the clock ticks and it’s time for goodbyes, because depending on them has made you self-sufficient. Separation has now become a kind of death.

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Why is learning easy with love?

I will not stand here with a mace and speak on this as if to say I have methodologically mapped it out, but one fateful day, it made sense to me. We were on a group call with a bunch of friends, and we spoke about names of endearment, and while everyone else fooled around and jokingly suggested names like: “alaye”, “boss” and every non-romantic name you can think about, I said, “mi amor.” Now, this is not some profound breakthrough in any way. The guy who collects money from conductors at the bus stop probably knows the meaning of mi amor. From the phone, I could hear her smile as she shouted yessss and repeated the phrase with a ravishing glee. This is why we do it, right? For the joy set before us, we enjoy the pain of conforming to hear a smile-ridden yes.

I had failed French and Yoruba, but at that moment, I had passed the language of love. I was fluent. Taking more lessons from that day was easy; the yes echoed in my head, and all I desired was to elicit that response in whatever form it would take the next time. It is why we learn to make good pancakes, because they love it, and we someday hope that ours becomes the best one they’ve ever tasted.

All joy:

My friend is a theology buff; it gives him great pleasure to discuss and debate matters of faith. His wife signed up for a bible school so that they could have that in common. Cute. I think it’s necessary to say that we do not need to have a hand in every soup our lovers make, but maybe one or two; it’s a way to strum the strings of the heart. I think it’s a thing of joy to do something that reflects to them that you see them and they are worthy of the inconvenience of breaking yourself out of the way you are set in. It would be great for them to look at you, all you do and say, “gracias,” while you, in return, finally have the proficiency to respond with “de nada.”

I have become increasingly aware of my frailties now that I am serious with my faith, far more than when I didn’t care. They say a dead man does not know he is dead, but a man who is alive is aware when his body is dying; my unfaithfulness has become crystal clear to me. It feels like a scene from a movie when you can finally see the ghost that haunts the house. This is not sin consciousness. In all of these reflections, I cannot help but make my thumb and index finger kiss repeatedly when I recall the scripture stating, “The heart of man is desperately wicked.”

I used to think I was a good person, but lately I have been forced to examine not the act of doing good, but the intentions behind it. I repeatedly ask myself why, and in doing so, I’ve unearthed layers of insecurity, pride, and at times, desperation. To my dismay, I have found that an act of love can simultaneously be an act of pride, forgiveness can mask vitriol, and apologies can serve as an act of dismissal. None of these are fruits of the Spirit. But who would have known? This is why morality can never be an anchor for judging the soul.

I’m filthy, and I think every man must come to this conclusion before he can truly surrender his life at the feet of the Lord. And oh, how filthy I am. If Isaiah could shout, “I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips…,” then what can I even say? My lips are unclean for sure. If you have ever driven in Lagos traffic, you will understand this on a deeper level.

So why do I stay? If the consciousness of God highlights my sins, why do I stay in worship? The reality is that either with God or in the world, my sins remain. So why not stay and submit to the cleansing of sanctification? Ignorance is no excuse in the court of law, and God is just. Although I’m more aware of my inadequacies, it doesn’t deter me; truly, what shall separate me from the love of God? It’s my confidence in that love that makes me fall and rise until He comes or calls me home. My insufficiency is made perfect in His sufficiency.

Blessed is the man to whom the Lord will not impute sin. So I’m here in all my wretchedness, at His feet, because there’s nowhere I’d rather be. His sacrifice saved me from the consequences of sin, and while I’m being saved from the nature of sin, I look forward to when He’ll deliver me from its presence. He is my God; in Him will I trust. So when the torch is pointed at my failings, I do not see it as condemnation, but a call to submit to the potter’s wheel.

There is a mirror in my bathroom that I only look at when I have my clothes on.

I hate my body, and I can hardly look at it in the mirror.

I’ve tried dieting and going to the gym, but my will is weak, just like my muscles, and my inability to fight for everything I hold dear. I can count the number of people who have seen me without a shirt in my adult life on both my hands and still have enough fingers to hold a bowl of soup. The flap on my stomach, the rolls on my back and the chubby in my cheeks make me want to puke. I hardly take selfies anymore. I do not hate that I’ve gained weight; I hate that it reminds me of my father, whom I love dearly.

I cannot remember anything between the ages of zero and six. My vault is filled with all but five memories, all of which have my father at the centre. One hot afternoon in 2003, we were changing the oil in his car when he turned on the ignition, and I touched something that cut my hand. He carried me while I cried, applied Gentian violet (GV) on my hand, and a few minutes later, I was patched up. Another memory was sitting between his legs while we both steered the wheel of his car once we got on our street on our way home from any outing.

I clocked five, and he died.

I remember him being my best friend. When I reminisce about my childhood, he is always there; I don’t recall much, but the memories I manage to dust off a shelf present him with a big smile. I do not remember what he sounds like, but I can trace his face and his smile in a mirror because I stole those from him. But I’ve added weight over the years, and the resemblance has started to fade. His jaws were chiselled, mine sit like a ball before kickoff. I look in the mirror, and I see a me that is not him, and I tremble, the only thing of him I can carry everywhere is fading, and I cannot will myself to do something about it.

My father died, and my world lost all its trees. Rain does not fall, so the flowers die. As a young boy, I could not imagine a world where I did not run into his arms. I’m 26 now, it’s been 21 years, and I cannot fathom how I’ve survived this far. The trail of his absence shows in the way I hold people. I cling to their shirt, put my hands in their pocket, lock their fingers in mine, because if you are alive, there is hope. I tether myself to people even when they ask to leave. I take a thousand paper cuts, and my back is filled with stab wounds, but as long as I can see there is breath in your lungs, then there is hope. I know what it means for people to leave and never return, so I have always stayed.

When you lose a parent, everything left in your life has to be permanent. The people inside cannot go out without you constantly watching for their return. The people outside can only come in on the condition that they never leave. So you become willfully blind. You do not see when people want out, and you think you can please everyone enough for them to remain. You crank up the heat when it’s cold, and the AC is always on when it’s hot, regardless of the amount of electricity it consumes. You give away all of yourself to people so they do not walk away. You die slowly because the pain of loss only flames the fire of the one who is not here.

Hi. I’m Seuncaleb, Omo ìfẹ́, and these words are meant to be felt. If you enjoyed this, you can buy a soft copy of my book, “Things I Want to Say to You Before Eternity Comes.”

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“Hey, love.”

“Hi, hi.”

You know when someone smiles, it can be noticed in the way they speak; voice pitched like a bird tweeting on a January morning, ushering us into a new day. But the pictorial representation of your lips curving to a crescent reminds me of days when I look at the sky, beholding all its glory. My heart becomes melted butter at the thought of you. So, I smile too. Because, unlike everything contagious, this one feels like vanilla ice cream after a long day of stress — it’s relaxing.

I want to hear your voice one more time, singing your favourite song. It starts slow; then you get a little comfortable; the lyrics become clearer, your melodies become beautiful, and I stand at the other side of the phone, miles apart, and I listen. You wrap my heart in a beautiful trance, making every worry in the world fade into the background. For a moment, they do not exist; I’m not bothered that the song will end soon. All I care about is that moment, and in that moment, I’m home.

You call my name; your tone is tender, but stern. It’s sweet and sometimes threatening. On some days, I can predict the words that follow, but on most days, you surprise me. Every conversation uncovers something new about me, about you, about us.

Then there’s this silence, not awkward, but calming. It feels safe, I’m not thinking of what to say to entertain, nor am I freaking out about you getting bored and leaving the phone. It feels like being by the beach, far from the water, but close enough to feel its calming effect. Knowing nothing at that moment could go wrong and enjoying your presence while I pay attention to my heartbeat as it beats for you, makes my toes tingle. I want to hold you.

Let’s not forget when you have to do something else while I’m here, preferably on my bed, hearing you talk to other members of your household. You return to say, “I’m here o.” This gives birth to a series of different stories that illuminate what your daily life looks like. We have this argument about food, and I’m convinced your taste needs a little refining because who likes Amala?

MTN interrupts; their stupid machine says I have a minute left. But I recharge a thousand bucks before they end our conversation. I look at the time, only to realise what felt like a minute and a half was an hour. But I ride the last one minute while I try to buy more airtime. The truth is, I could talk to you all day.

An hour and 30 minutes later

We are still laughing and telling stories of old. I’m telling myself I enjoy your company. If it were a drug, I’d love to have some more. If it were a place, I’d make it home. When I’m talking to you, I don’t have to think about what it feels like to be in paradise; I feel it already, in the way you talk, in the way you laugh, and in the way you sing.

Two hours later

Meanwhile, I’m smiling like a young boy, with no care for what people might think. My teeth are out in the open, and my cheeks dim my eyes. My legs rest on the wall while my hands fondle anything they can touch. I pace a little and return to my initial position. My heart is light. It feels like I can reach for the skies; with you by my side, the possibilities seem endless.

“ I have to go now; I’ll talk to you later.”

“Sure, take care.”

*beep*

How can she not tell she has become my muse?

first published 01/13/21

Hi. I’m Seuncaleb, Omo ìfẹ́, and these words are meant to be felt. If you enjoyed this, you can buy a soft copy of my book, “Things I Want to Say to You Before Eternity Comes.”

Click HERE

You woke up one morning, and I was no longer there. I can’t tell if you felt relieved or troubled, but I know you never reached out or bothered to look for me. Your lack of curiosity is what nailed my suspicion to the cross; the link between us has been severed, and the love we once shared? It is finished. I spent the night pondering, trying to decipher why I couldn’t smile and nurse the pain in silence as I had always done. A few years back, I would have accepted any position in your life, but this time is different; this time, I want more.

If I stay with you, I might die because no one would ever be perfect for you in my eyes, and I’d spend forever trying to plug the holes they miss to save you from drowning. I will constantly stand guard over your dreams, and while I do not mind, I always thought we’d build them together. And now that I am not your co-labourer, I cannot stand and watch another make salads for you while you argue about silly things like: the better drink between apple and orange juice.

It’s been a long day, and I’m trying to figure out if there was a way I could have stayed with these feelings buried without resurfacing, but I remember the last time we saw each other. I caught myself looking at you in ways only someone who wants you to dwell in their heart should. You smile, your laugh, the way you sauntered into the room and out made me want to hold you close and not let you go. I took a glance at you and knew I could never hide this body; it would stink up the place and ruin whatever we could have built. You would go on to lead a beautiful life, and I’d constantly be in awe of you. That is not a way to live. I still wonder why I was never enough.

Someone would one day hold you in ways I couldn’t, and they’d occupy your mind when you wake up and go to bed. Some day, someone would share a daughter with you, and you’d buy her colourful scrunchies and kiss her to bed. I tell myself that if I stay, there is no hope for us. You’d believe, even if you know it’s a lie, that I no longer love you, and where does that leave me?

There is no coming back from that. But my absence says one thing: the weight of this love is too great to be an acquaintance. I want to whisper good morning in your ears. I want the preacher to look at us and ask if we want to be together in sickness and in health. I want a daughter with you.

Ever so often, you walk into my dreams, and we talk for a while. I wake up with a smile on my face, but it vanishes once the light hits my eyes. I can’t bring my lips to offer prayers about you because it feels like I’m sealing the tomb where all the things we are meant to be are kept.

One day, I hope we see each other again, and things are different. But even if we never see, and this is actually the end, I want you to know:

You’ll always be beautiful in my eyes.

Hi. I’m Seuncaleb, Omo ìfẹ́, and these words are meant to be felt. If you enjoyed this, you can buy a soft copy of my book, “Things I Want to Say to You Before Eternity Comes.”

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Last week, I spoke to a friend who recently had her heart broken, and after the veil of the bravado of nonchalance wore off, she asked a question:” Seun, when does the pain end?” I am no stranger to heartbreak. I have gone that road one too many times; I know the nooks and crannies of the path a broken heart leaves. So when I told her it depends, her sigh was evidence enough that my response did not scratch the itch in her throat. Allow me to tell you something I know about a bleeding heart.

You do not heal a broken heart; you cannot hasten its steps, and you cannot run away from it. Like John Green says, “ Pain demands to be felt.” You must feel it until you are done. When you have a them sized hole in your heart, you tiptoe around madness. You miss them in a way that makes your favourite food taste like mint, you sleep a lot, because they’re closer to your dreams than your arms. You unravel. Insistently checking social media feeds, looking for some sort of hint, hoping that they miss you too. When you close your eyes, you try to remember the sound of their voice with your name attached to it.

You will catch yourself lost in thoughts and question why time has not brought a wave to erase the trace of their name on the shores of your heart. You’d ask yourself a million what-ifs, and it would still not be enough to convince you that you tried your best. “Do they miss me too?” Am I remembered during silent nights and evening walks? The pain of your time together being an immemorable past time will tug at your chest, and you cannot fight it. You will certainly not win. For all you care, you might not want them to miss you, but you want to know you mattered.

We all want a romance that never ends. We want our first pick to be the league’s MVP, but we often forget that only a few people are ever so lucky. I, too, would want to say, “This is the only person I have ever loved,” but when you do not win the lottery, you do not stake the money in the bank on a blackjack. The potential of running mad is as high as knowing we are never going to make it with Tinubu in the corridors of power. Yet we hope. There is a cruelty in being a ghost in a house you once filled with laughter.

You wake up sometime in April, and you no longer miss them, and you are no longer sure if their birthday is on the 13th or the 21st. You’ve abandoned the playlist you both made, and their interest now feel more like yours. Or perhaps that does not happen, maybe a few years down the line, you still say a silent prayer for a do-over, because now you know better, and you promise to do better. Maybe heaven will smile down on your request, or you hear news of their engagement.

Maybe

Maybe

Maybe

Time will march on, you will heal, you will love again, but I’m sorry, I do not know if the pain ever does. Sometimes it becomes intimate, something that reminds you of them, a scar you massage when you are stressed. Sometimes you find safety in it. I cannot explain how, but since you are on this journey, you might figure that out too. You also might not experience any of this, and all you feel is relief. That too is fine.

Hi. I’m Seuncaleb, Omo ìfẹ́, and these words are meant to be felt. If you enjoyed this, you can buy a soft copy of my book, “Things I Want to Say to You Before Eternity Comes.”

Click HERE

Today in church we had Thanksgiving. Two families rejoicing and celebrating the new cries in their homes. The joy was palpable. To commemorate their happiness, the choir sang a song. At first, it felt good to sing along, but the lyrics started to creep into my thoughts, and all I could think about was how blessed I am to have you occupy the centre of my heart. The lyrics went like this, “God, I’m still counting my blessings…”

And I’m astonished at the number of times I mutter “thank you, lord” after a conversation with you.

For the longest time, I did not think I had it in me to be delicate again, to love the way I knew I was capable of loving. I thought the scars of love dimmed the light in my eyes forever, and all I had left were dying embers. Then you came in, unexpectedly, without warning, you tendered the dying flame until it became a roaring inferno of affection, burning down every wall I built. I was fine with leading a quiet life, but then you stepped in, and all I want to do is start a band and sing about how much my heart folds like origami at the sound of your voice.

So I bless the Lord for our paths crossing; I sing to Him with gratitude for the day your parents conceived you. I’m sure the heavens rejoiced when you came to earth, because the best of us now walks amongst us. The song is true, on this side of heaven I’m sure I’d run out of time, and I’ve wasted 26 years without you, so I intend to spend the rest of my limited days loving you — that too is worship. I bless the lord by loving you. I show my gratitude by holding you ever so close to my heart. I reflect salvation by staying by your side regardless of how the tides of life turn.

Dear God, I’m in constant awe of you, and I know you’ve been ever gracious to me, and from the multitude of goodness you’ve given to me, I look at this one and I’m rendered speechless, cause who am I to be deserving of a love that buckles my knees. I know you died for me, but you did not stop there; you added this as a bonus track to an already great album. Lord, all these are for me? Nothing I’ve done in this life has brought me to a point where I think I deserve this even in the slightest way. Once again, you shine your light on me. When I count this blessing, I count it twice, but then it feels inadequate, so I do it again while standing, while kneeling, and on my way to work, it’s on my lips. This gratitude is eternal.

I lifted my hands, and I felt really light. Tears ran down my face, and I continued to sing along. The picture of your face was all I could see as the words left my mouth like incense because, truly, “… for all that you’ve done in my life. The more that I look in the details, the more of your goodness I find.” The emphatic Semitic triplet is one in which a word or phrase is repeated three times for emphasis. I love love love you.

Hi. I’m Seuncaleb, Omo ìfẹ́, and these words are meant to be felt. If you enjoyed this, you can buy a soft copy of my book, “Things I Want to Say to You Before Eternity Comes.”

Click HERE

As a writer one of the greatest questions you’ll ever have to answer is, “Who are you writing about?” This is one of the things I battled with when writing “Things I Want To Say To You Before Eternity Comes.” Because of the themes of the pieces within, I feared someone or people would send messages asking, “Is this about me?” While I usually do not care if people ascribe the details in my work to themselves, I found myself trying to be politically correct when coming up with ideas to write on. Immortalizing someone with your words is a big deal, I did not want anyone to pick a message that did not belong to them as theirs.

I have completed this book (stories) since the first week in February and I keep asking if anyone would get offended by the things I have to say. But what makes creativity bloom is a copious amount of vulnerability and most times your personal life bleeds into these stories to make them beautiful. My pain becomes your joy and we are all happy at the end of the day. It’s interesting how readers try to find hints about your life between the kerning of the letters you write.

While I agree that I draw from within to put upon, I try to remove my reality from fiction, which can be a problem cause why are you writing about heartbreak when you are in a beautiful relationship? Sometimes experiences keep bleeding inspiration, and you must write until the well is empty. How many pieces would you write until there is nothing left to say? How long would that one person be your muse? When does it end? I can’t say. But when I started writing publicly, I wrote about death a lot, because my mind kept running to my father; I couldn’t remember what he sounded like.

Writers are liars, and you will do well to take their work in fragments cause you’ll have a thousand words, and what might belong to you would be a sentence or a word.

For “Things I want to say to you before eternity comes,” I leaned into everything. Love, heartbreak, rejection, hate, anger, and patriotism (in a sense) hence the name. I’m here trying to preempt apologies and explanations but where else do creatives draw from if not from the well of experiences they’ve been bestowed; here is the dedication for the book:

Still wondering how the reception would be, but also excited about the possibilities. You can preorder a copy today here (it’s a physical book) https://paystack.com/buy/things-i-want-to-say-to-you-before-eternoty-comes-mqpcac

Preorder ends 31/03/2025

PREORDER

Hi, I’m Seuncaleb Omo ìfẹ́. How are you doing? I have gifts in my hands. But before we get into that, let me tell you something. On one beautiful evening in February 2022, I wrote my second book, 7 Letters to Ruby. I guess everyone loved it so much, that the question I got more often than not was, “When is your next one?” I didn’t have the next one in mind, but since then I’ve tried to write three different books, but each one has been a total failure. “That was it,” I told myself because I was divinely uninspired to a hellish extent.

After Hearts and Ink, my mind was still enough to have an idea. I conceived this new book I’m about to introduce to you. The journey to this book is not free from obstacles but laced in every piece are words unsaid, stories untold, and secrets unearthed. It’s a freeing, a becoming, and an acceptance. This book is a collection of “Things I Want to Say to You Before Eternity Comes.”

I want to take you on this journey with me, so I’ll come here to rant, and tell you stories of how publishing this book is going while juggling a 9-5. Are you on board? Also, I’ll break down what inspired each piece, and we can have fun with it, right? I’ve been told I have an affinity for having long titles, but why do things the regular way when you can be a goat? This will be exciting. Sit tight, and buckle up, you are in for a ride.

I’ll see you soon.

Valentine is coming, where is your boyfriend/girlfriend? (I had to, sorrrrryyyyy)

Before I take my leave, you can preorder the book here

With all my love,

SC

If you’ve written anything in this life, you know what it means when someone asks, “Who did you write this for?” Sometimes we lie, other times we confess, but most times we hide.  In a bid to bring you into my mind, HEARTS AND INK was born.

Fighting demons and refusing to turn back

I wanted to quit this project every step of the way until my first event in Glasgow. With every clog in the wheel, my first reaction was to run, tell everyone the event was not holding anymore and sleep. When things go haywire, sleep is your best companion. Then I remembered, that no one who did anything worthwhile did it without a few stumbling blocks along the way. 

My first fear, the greatest one, was attendance.  It’s one thing for people to say they love your work, but it’s different when you make them leave the comfort of their couch or bed (I prefer the couch) to come to your event. I spent nights pondering if all the publicity, talking, and standing over people while they registered would total an attendance of maybe 7 people.

When people  I thought were sure attendees sent a text saying “I’m sorry Seun, I will not be able to make it,” I thought the event was imploding on me.  But I kept going, I told myself if it was 5 people in attendance, the event would hold and we would have a great time. 

This next part might sound silly, but picking the right outfit was another pain in my backside. I’m usually a put anything on your back and move guy, but this stressed me. I’m talking about sitting in the changing room with your Pinterest mood board and being over it. 

I had a colour scheme, but it was an unmitigated disaster when I tried what I had on. The only thing I had sorted about my appearance on the eve of the event was my hair. “This will be over this time tomorrow,” I repeated. Fear has a way of making your brightest aspiration feel like a fever dream. 

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The day came, the hall was ready, and I waited for my guests. Apart from my flatmates, no one was in the hall for the first 10 minutes. My heart was in my mouth, but I kept smiling outwardly while my insides were screaming.

My soul went to the corner of my heart with its head bowed between its knees and wept. One person walked in, then two, then three, and before I could take a sip of water, it was everybody all at once. 

It turned out to be a surreal time. I had fun. I left the venue thinking, “Bro, I’m posting to my people in Lagos that I’m not bringing this event to them again.” Fear carries a knife, a gun and a grenade. He has gators on his jeans and wears pink to an all-black party.  Fear uses everything and anything to get your attention, so it can annihilate you, but pay it no mind. Fear is a toothless dog. 

ROUND 2, FIGHT?

So I am crazy again, doing this in Lagos and this time is more daunting than the last. I guess I will tell you about it when it’s done, or you can come and find out yourself. 

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It’s 11:37 pm, and the sun finally decided to rest.  I thought I’d skip this week's newsletter because of a lack of inspiration, but I’m happy to announce sleep deprivation has its perks, so here we go.  You’re probably reading this on Monday, and that is because my girlfriend insists on reading every letter before it goes out. I find it cute. Plus, she didn’t read last week’s before I published. Sorry for the delay, but I still love my good morning texts and calls. Today's conversation revolves ironically around silence. There is something inherently beautiful about enjoying silence together.

 When I was a young boy between the age of 6 to 10, I’d play with friends from dawn to dusk during holidays. There was always something to do. We’d play police and thief, freeze, suwe, and  I call on, to name a few. The ability to find something to do, watch or talk about signalled that everything was good with our relationship. As we transitioned into adulthood, the dynamics of our interactions began to shift, and silence took on a new significance.  Apart from the occasional Saturday football, we spend most of our time within the four walls of an apartment. You can call it a club, a bar, a restaurant or anything. 

A lot of our interactions as adults revolve around gist and silence. While gisting could be easy to navigate, silence can be a tsunami. To sit in silence and enjoy one's company can be awkward, especially when familiarising yourself with someone. I remember going to my friend's house after school and being in the room, quiet, doing our thing but enjoying our company. There is a bond you establish with someone or a group of people where you can find peace in silence. You don’t need to talk to be heard or move for them to see you. 

In between gist and silence, you build something special. I love it when I can just have the people around me existing in the background. For me, the one sure way to test how much comfortable you are with someone is how much you can stay in the same room in silence before it gets awkward. I wrote all this to say I like sitting silently with my babe while she does random things in the background, and I probably scroll on Twitter. No pressure to find something to talk about. Although, she often threatens to return to her Korean movie if I don’t have what to say.

On a serious note, I don’t know if it’s a me thing, but I don’t enjoy silence with many people. I’m usually awkward when interacting with people for the first time, and I try to make up for it so they don’t think I’m boring. So, finding people with whom I can be myself around is a breath of fresh air. It’s 00:14 noon, and I’m about to send this to Madam to read before I send it to you. Hopefully, you have people you can enjoy silence with. The world is noisy enough. 

I hope you enjoyed reading this, I’m wishing you a wonderful week ahead.

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I haven’t been home in a while. Chasing a degree and trying to figure out life has put an ocean distance between the people I love the most and me. Fortunately for me, I went home last month. Although I didn’t stay for as long as I loved to and didn’t see as many people as I’d planned to, it was the best two weeks of my life in recent years. I wanted to live every second a million times over. Home is truly where the heart is, and I have fragments of my heart between Lagos and Asaba.  I was home, and life had colours again.

Trying to hide my arrival from my mother was tricky because she knew I was coming, but she didn’t know when I’d arrive. So when I walked in on her talking with my Aunty, she jumped up and did a twirl. She danced for a good five minutes or so. That was beautiful to witness. Seeing the joy your presence brings to someone is heartwarming. It didn’t take long for news to reach my brothers, and we had a brief video call. I hadn’t spent up to 30 minutes, and she had asked me what I’d like to eat more times than I can remember. Home is sweet.

I linked up with my best friend, Wilson, and we headed towards the airport in the evening. I was going to pick my BABY. Her flight which Airpeace scheduled to land by 8 pm, took an extra hour, so we were chilling in Chicken Republic while we waited. Sitting with Wilson, talking, and it didn’t feel like we’d been apart for that long. He still laughs with all his teeth and eats like the food is running away. The phone vibrated, and I got a message, “Where are you?”

The next day was my cousin's wedding, and somehow I got the entire crew to the venue apart from AY. He just had surgery, and he couldn’t make it. Seeing my cousins, friends, family and love together under the same roof made my heart swell. My heart was leaping for joy, and my eyes were almost teary from reuniting with everyone. I sat at the table insulting Tomiwa and eating puff-puff while forcing my babe to eat her food. That night, we headed to Bolu's house, where we watched City win the champions league and reminisced. 

The beautiful thing about going home was seeing so many people for the first time. I got to see Temi, Sharon, Simi and Treasure. We’ve been friends for a while, and seeing them for the first time after creating such a bond was ecstatic. Although we couldn’t spend adequate time together, it was a merry meeting. Also, going to church physically made my soul dance with infinite thrill. I’ve been an online warrior for a while, but there’s joy in the presence of the lord. I was walking on sunshine throughout; not even subsidy removal could dull my shine. 

Two weeks went by in a breeze, and the day before I left, I looked at my mum and my girlfriend together talking, and I wanted to cancel my flight to stay. I still had people to see, places to visit, and memories to create, but reality came knocking. On the 26th, I was back in Edinburgh. I miss home dearly.  When I said goodbye to my babe, I left the car and didn’t look back. When I hugged my mum goodbye, I walked away without looking back. If I had seen their face again, I might be typing this from my room in Ajah. 

I’m in my house now in Edinburgh, back to work, and my graduation is on Tuesday; I guess that’s something to look towards. 

Happy new month, and have a lovely week ahead. See you next week

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“You’ve been staring at that picture for a long time. Who is the fine young man?”

“Firstly, why are you looking at my phone, and secondly, you should mind your business. Kilo feel?”

“I would mind my business if we weren’t out here celebrating our friend Jessica, and you were interacting with everyone. I would mind my business if everyone did not ask me about you and why you look so gloomy. Several people have stopped to say hi, and you seem not to notice.”

“Is it that bad?”

“It is terrible. You look like you need a drink or two.”

“If I do have a drink, I fear what my mouth would speak.”

“Your face already tells half the story. You might as well spill.”

Silence.

“I’ll get you a gin and tonic.”

“That is so basic.”

“It gets the work done.”

Silence

“Here you go, and I brought a croissant for you too.  I don’t think Alcohol and fancy bread go hand in hand, but you look like you’ve not eaten, so eat first before you drink.”

“Look at you looking out for me.”

“I don’t want you to faint before you give me the complete story. Again, who is the guy in the picture you are looking at?”

“Someone I used to know.”

“Is he dead? Oh, I’m so sorry for being so insensitive. Shit, I’m such a terrible person…”

“Relax, breathe, before you nail yourself to a cross. He is not dead; he’s very  alive and someone I used to talk to.”

“Why are you looking at a picture of someone you used to talk to?”

“Because I’m in love with him.”

Chuckles 

“You? In love? This year has had its fair share of pleasant and unpleasant surprises, but nothing could ever prepare me to hear those words from your mouth. Why is your leg shaking? Look at how your body rejects the words coming out of your mouth.”

“I’m serious. Stop laughing.”

“I bet you are. But why do you think so?”

“You mean I should tell you how he makes me feel?”

“Made you feel. Can you get to the point and stop asking me questions you know the answers to?”

“Sorry, Professor English. You’re lucky …”

“To the point, ma.”

“Well, he makes me feel seen.  I know I can be a pain in the ass on most days, but he does not make me feel like a burden.  He listens to me. I can rant about my latest obsession for days, and he stays there listening and smiling.  He does this thing where he raises one brow and smiles.  It melts my heart. And I’m using present tense because I still feel this way, so behave.”

“You sound smitten, and it's like you’ve been reading too many romance novels. Again.”

“Are you listening, or should I shut up?”

“Continue.”

“He remembers any little thing I tell him, and he checks up on those things later. I think he is genuinely thoughtful. I can be myself around him with reckless abandon. Most importantly, he buys me food.” 

“Does he know?”

“KNOW WHAT?”

“Why is your voice going up? Does he know you feel this way about him? Like, have you told him?”

“I’d rather chew jeans.”

“Does he feel the same way?”

“Why do you think we stopped talking?”

“You’re so silly. You stopped talking to him because you both had feelings for one another. My friend, call him and apologise. Sort this out.”

“I did not tell you, so you’ll judge me. Is this not a safe space again? He has a girlfriend now.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit, is correct.”

silence

It’s been a minute since I wrote a story. Hopefully, I’m not too rusty, and you enjoyed this. I’ll catch you next week and do have a lovely week ahead of you.

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Life as we know it is one big yarn of mess. I do not have any ounce of strength to motivate you because motivation is a temporary high. It’s here today and gone tomorrow. Fuck motivation; this life is war. Every day you wake up, in front of you are two choices: fight for your life or allow life to show you who is boss. Trust me - you do not want to be on the losing end of this fistfight. Left hook, right hook and an excellent uppercut would have you begging for it to end. To live is to fight. 

The cruelty of existence does not care about your age. The younger you are, the easier it is for life to knock you down. Life is a coward, and it does not fight fair. I remember in JSS2 when I missed lunch because I was late to the dining hall. I also missed breakfast for the same reason. I was famished that day with nothing but Golden Morn in my box. I tried looking for milk and sugar, but people either did not have them or were unwilling to give me. That day I ate my cereal with water and cried till my bowl was empty.  The hatred in my heart for the people at my table that day grew. Life will turn you into a monster if you let it. 

Life is beautiful too. Waking up every morning to your lover's voice or walking with nothing but your favourite song playing in your ears is soothing. The beach is a magical place to be, except it is ELEGUSHI. That place is terrible if you’re looking to pretend you’re in a movie. One of the best experiences is sitting with friends, having drinks, and eating with endless banter. Life worries fade into the background, and everything seems whole. 

You’ll find joy in life within companionship. The person who said a man isn’t an island was in his bag. In 2021, I went to Olamides’ listening party with some friends. At the gate, we realised the tickets were fake. We stood outside and laughed. If I were alone, I’d have been boiling mad with the metaphoric smoke leaving my head. We found an empty lounge and had the best night with music, food, drinks, and bottomless jokes. The night was young, and the burden of life was light. Companionship is essential; it doesn’t matter the name you give it. 

Life is what my literature teacher calls an oxymoron. It’s bitter sweet, and clearly confused.  Like the popular meme, sometimes it may be good, and sometimes it may be shit.

But you have to fight for what you want from it. I spoke to a friend yesterday, and they said, “ If it was meant to be, it would have been. If it is meant to be, it will be.” But leaving life to luck is such a gamble. You have to go out there and take what you want. Nothing is free. Something always has to give. 

I leave you with the words of a great Nigerian philosopher,

“Life go teach you pass professor on the road.”

…Zinoleesky

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Out of all my mother's children, I took her height. On the other hand, I stole my father's face without an apology. I’m living, breathing proof that even in death, a testament of a union can live on. Usually, I write to you on Saturdays, but having a title that says, my mother’s birthday is Monday, does not slap. 

When my father flew to be with the Angels, it was not easy for anyone, but whatever pain anyone thought they felt, she had it ten times worse and more. A promise was broken, however unintentional. A story of forever was lived within five years. He stayed long enough to see and name my brother, but that’s where their story ended. It was her and three boys against the world. Years will pass, and tears will flow, but when tomorrow comes, she’ll stand solid, celebrating another year. 

I always say one day I’ll tell her story from my point of view. The pain, the sacrifices, finding yourself in the means of grief, and clinging to faith to see you through the darkness. It would also be a story littered with love, joy, morning devotions learning songs she sang in secondary school, and learning to enjoy beans and macaroni. My mother’s life reflects what it means to be truly selfless, to give yourself to someone or something. 

My mother would say, “Whatever someone with both parents can do and enjoy, you’ll enjoy it. You’ll not say it’s because I don’t have a father; I can’t do this or that.” So every day, she showed up and showed out. I remember one of the songs she taught us goes like this:

Tomorrow is my Mothers birthday, and I know people say they have the world's best mum, but mine trumps it all. I wouldn’t be where I am today without her. She taught me to love, extend grace, look out for the next guy, and always believe I can achieve anything. Her story is more like, “If life gives you beans, make moi-moi, fry akara, make beans porridge. Make sure you find joy in whatever phase you find yourself.” My mum’s smile is like all the heavenly bodies, beautiful to look at. It captivates you and leaves you mesmerised. 

My deepest desire is to be blessed to bless her. I want to make every night she spent worrying a distant memory, one she can hardly remember. I want her heart full, and I want her to rest. So, this is a happy birthday to my mother, my rock, my first love. I can’t wait to see you again and buy yoghurt and all the sweet things you like to indulge in. Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday, and it’s only fitting it remains a public holiday worldwideish. It is perfect.

It’s the last day of the month, so permit me to wish you a happy new month. Enjoy your public holiday because you deserve it. I hope you enjoyed this conversation with SeunCaleb. If you did, don’t forget to subscribe and share.

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I’m a loner by nature. I thrive off silence and can go a week without proper interaction. Going outside is a chore, and making new friends drains me.  Even with all these indications of enjoying solitude, leaving home to a city where I knew a total of one person almost made me run mad. The banana takes forever to get ripe, the sweet potatoes are red, and there’s no Fresh Yo. These might seem trivial, but it adds up.  One day you’re a little bit mad about not finding a good barber, and the next, your friend is celebrating a milestone, and all you can do is send congratulations. 

It’s 3 pm in November; the sun has said its’ goodbyes, and the moon is out to play. You’re 7 hours away from home if you’re rich enough to afford a straight flight. If you fall on the other side of the coin, you’re at least 20 hours away from the family you’ve known all your life. The weather is cold; even when it’s warm, it’s cold.  The loneliness soon creeps in, and the yearning for familiar faces makes you appreciate people who have overcome addictions. It eats you whole. Note, if you live this life, you cannot complain. People would say, the gods have smiled on you, be grateful. 

There are so many versions of what the Nigerian dream is. Some people would tell you it’s to love Nigeria from a distance. To put the National flag on your bio while you distance yourself from the day-to-day struggle of those living in its chaos. Others would tell you the dream is to earn in foreign currency and insulate yourself from the troubles that lurk. I write for the former. While the possibilities are endless when you travel, people often omit the mental toll it can have on you. After all, you’re abroad and “chopping life.”

My flatmate and I joke a lot about moving back home if push comes to shove. But I’d admit this comes from a place of privilege. I do not come from money, but I know an entire generation of family members do not look up to me for food.  People travel and cannot go back home on a whim because to leave is to die a little inside. There is nothing to go back to. Your family back home depend on you for survival. So you sacrifice your body and soul to put a smile on their faces. 

I wouldn’t lie and paint a picture of doom and gloom. Moving solves a lot of problems, especially monetary ones. It opens career paths for a lot of people. Travelling will always be an exquisite experience; I just wish, for many Nigerians, it wasn’t so final. I want people to say, “Look, this isn’t working out for me. It’s more than I can handle, and I want to go home,” without feeling like they are letting the world down. There is a place for fortitude and perseverance, and then there is suffering. I don’t want us to suffer.