Have you ever seen two dancers on an ice-shark floor? I haven’t. But I imagine they’d have to lean into each other — depend on each other’s grace and timing — to avoid cracking the surface and plunging into the freezing waters below. In that kind of dance, it wouldn’t matter how well they knew each other; what would matter is how well they balanced, communicated, and moved in sync to stay afloat — quite literally.
I imagine that’s what love is.
Of course, modern love tricks us into believing we know each other enough to start the dance. But can anyone ever truly know another human being? Humans aren’t stone relics — we evolve almost as fast as we breathe. Honestly, you’d have better luck redefining the course of the Nile than achieving complete comprehension of another person.
Earlier this year, I joined a few friends for dinner on a warm Nairobi night. Four countries were represented — Namibia, Congo, Nigeria, and Kenya — a full African summit of heartbreaks and survival. Between bites and bursts of laughter, we swapped stories about love’s turbulence, mystery, and the stubborn resilience that keeps us trying again.
Because let’s be honest — stable love never makes for a good dinner story. “We met, we’re happy, no drama,” doesn’t quite have the same flavour as “Girl, you won’t believe what he did next.”
I told my friend Fel that the modern woman might be addicted to man-made tragedy. Not by choice — by conditioning. We came of age watching Sex and the City, Friends, Girlfriends, and One Tree Hill — shows that glorified chaos and told us dysfunction was romantic if it came with a witty soundtrack.
As I listened to my friends, I realised it’s the same tragic love story everywhere — just told in different accents. I’d bet my right toenail (not the whole toe, I’m not reckless) that if I gathered people from Asia, Europe, and even Antarctica, they’d share the same plot. Though, in Antarctica, the heartbreak probably comes with frostbite and a polar bear cameo. Honestly, let’s spare a moment of silence for them — it’s hard enough to date in Nairobi’s October chill; imagine ghosting and hypothermia.
Anyway, I’m exhausted — maybe even temporarily retired from the topic. Not from love itself (I’m a romantic to the core), but from the endless noise about it. It’s everywhere — on morning radio, in podcasts, all over social media, at the pulpit, and stacked in bookstores under “Relationships: For the Desperate and Hopeful.”
We’re all recycling the same tired script: boy meets girl, logic exits, they wed in pastel hues, and somehow “happily ever after” is a given. Honestly, someone should find the author of that template — where they live, who their parents are (accomplices), and whether they’re still out there wreaking havoc. Because this global wild-goose chase for the perfect love story has gone on long enough.
It’s 2025. Get on that dating app. You’re not Rapunzel, your prince isn’t galloping through traffic to find you, and let’s be real — our hairlines were not built to hoist grown men up balconies.
Also, in the spirit of empowerment and minimal delusion, I refuse to read any book titled How to Keep a Man or How to Love a Man Right. For every 30 of those, there’s maybe half a pamphlet on how to keep a woman. And let’s face it — nobody’s keeping anybody. In this economy, you’ll be lucky to keep a plant alive. If your cat realises, you’re serving full-fat milk while the neighbour’s cat gets oat milk in a crystal bowl, that diva’s gone.
There’s no scientific evidence of a human being ever successfully “kept.” Governments aren’t even funding research into it. Maybe take that as a cue — prioritise staying alive instead.
When you do decide to love, do it your way. Better yet, do it with someone equally committed to stepping outside the algorithms — because you can’t emancipate a relationship from the clutches of useless influence, alone. Didn’t they say it takes two to tango? Once you’ve found your rhythm in that dance, stop craving hurricanes. Embrace the calm — hurricane love is for teenagers. You can’t fight in the rain, chase each other through city streets, and still keep a job (or avoid pneumonia).
Even as we update love to fit our times, remember this: you can’t Google your way to a golden jubilee. Love isn’t a downloadable skill or a five-step thread on X. Maybe, just maybe, this whole hullabaloo about love isn’t that complicated after all — it’s just two people trying not to slip on the same ice floor.
Because love doesn’t have to be tragic or theatrical. There’s a quiet, gorgeous kind of magic in the ordinary — in knowing someone chose you, out of eight billion people, and keeps choosing you without fireworks or fanfare. Maybe if we stopped making decisions like we’re in a soap opera, we’d actually have a shot at peace.
If you decide that companionship — at least the romantic kind — isn’t for you, that’s fine too. Not everyone needs a plus-one to make the story whole.
After all, I’ve never once seen a tombstone that read:
“Here lies Adam, who despite paying taxes, being kind to strangers, and eating his vegetables, perished from lack of a companion.”
As one of my professors used to say about everything in life:
“This isn’t a matter of life and death. It’s just a matter.”
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