ilovmasi
Dear John,
That day was my death. My PhD in “Never again.” I whispered, “Now I know why your wife never fought to have you back.”
You vanished for months, returned with stories so fragile a toddler’s sneeze could break them. You shrugged at responsibility as though I had asked you to fetch Mount Kilimanjaro. You laughed at gifting & romantic acts like generosity was a software update you refused to install. And when life grew stressful? You beat my peace — not spank in bed, no — beat me until my ancestors whined like backup singers.
And me? I stayed. I stayed after seeing you with other women — not once, not twice, but enough times to earn loyalty points. I stayed like a malfunctioning robot repeating, “Maybe he’s just friendly.” Friendly? You were friendlier than customer service on commission.
Life with you was a master class in emotional cardio — the kind of workout that burns calories, dignity, and brain cells bringing pain & shame simultaneously.
Then came the day of revelation & death. Not from a confession. Not even from a suspicious text. No. I posted you. Just one picture. One soft‑launch. One innocent “Look at my man” moment. And the comments turned into a village meeting I did not summon.
“Oh, that one?”
“Tell him I want my money back.”
“We stopped talking months ago.”
“That’s Jessem not John.”
And one bold prophetess wrote, “Sis, check your inbox. I bring tidings. A wedded wife, 2 other women, all with children, 6 denounced forgotten children.”
My spirit left my body, hovered above the comment section, took notes, and returned. That was the day I typed the longest paragraphs of my life. I wept like a Victorian widow in a thunderstorm. But as the tears dried, so did my tolerance.
”I just have children with them, but I like you. Know your place though, you’re a mistress,” you sighed arrogantly as you let go of my neck after pushing my head on the wall and threatening to shoot me and break my other leg too. I died that day. And vanished to hospital. I wanted to name her Marleen, if she was to be female and Isaiah If he were to be male. As I lay on that bed, I shook with pain and relief. I died that day together with Isaiah or Marleen.
This Valentine’s in a new town, I woke up alone and moisturized. As I brewed my coffee, I danced barefoot like joy had chosen me personally, and walked outside glowing like peace is my skincare routine. Couples are passing with roses and balloons. I pass with cake, life and confidence. That gun in your wardrobe saved me. Rot in there John. And if you don’t, never find me.
Survival & resurrection indeed speak louder than ink, and you are but a chapter I survived. Or at least, hopefully.
Masi
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