I remember the first time I had a heartbreak, I got home, and made myself a large bowl of chocolate cereals with a generous quantity of milk, then sat before a mirror and watch myself gag on each spoon or the bile that lay knotted in my throat, I can’t quite recall. I caught him pants-down with my dearest girlfriend (probably that’s why I have very awkward girlfriend relationships). I was a virgin and that experience left a bitter taste in my mouth. Of course, I didn’t cry. It was too much self-pity to cry. A girl cries for no man, so I swallowed it, yes all of it: cereal, milk and bile. Pains too.
Soldier come, soldier go, barrack still dey.
Someone once said I have the wrongest choice of men. I took his advice, not that I stopped dating –no, I love men that much– and since my Bi- cravings were as experimental and as ephemeral as a rainbow, I couldn’t let them be, I loved the companionship they supplied — men.
However, I took those words to heart, oh yes, I did. It was no hypothesis, it was as true as daylight; although I did not, at least in avoiding that which harmed me, because, like ants to sugar, I was drawn to them.
Howbeit, I devised a means to swim with the sharks and not become a meal: I stopped giving all my eggs, just an egg at a time, the plastic one it was. They always left, so what was the point? Survival first; soldier come, soldier go, barrack still dey.
My therapist said it’s such an awful way to live, like a hula hoop, it’s going around a vicious circle. She said something about being open — being vulnerable she meant; something about a Yoruba proverb of eyes and missing out on good things; ills of staying strong for too long and not forgetting, and the importance of exhuming bodies long after funerals for mourning, and how it embodies healing.
I told her I care less about maxims, clichés, anything, and everything. No, a girl finds no healing, not in that way. A girl mourns no dead things. They stay buried.
Soldier come, soldier go, barrack still dey.
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