@Blogs

Language of Love - Bikozulu

3 months ago, 17 Apr 11:21

By: Bikozulu

It had been over for months. The credits had been rolling for a while even without viewers. There were those last days when you suspected it was over and they suspected it was over but nobody wanted to look at the hard wrinkled face of the end. It was over when they started returning your calls three hours later, with little or frail apology. Your whatsapp remained blue like the cloudless Turkana skies. On your birthday they sent you a meme. And not even a funny one. It was over when you last met at the lobby of the bank and their laughter was dry and dishonest and they were ready to bolt, sitting there at the edge of their seat like they had mumps on their ass. You just knew the two of you were drowning in this phoney geniality when they asked you, “Did you change your spectacles?” You hadn’t changed your specs in four years. Truth is, you didn’t know them anymore. They knew you even less. You could have shaved and gotten a tattoo of a vulture on your bald scalp and they wouldn’t have noticed because you were looking at each other in past tense. Everything had changed. Time had chipped away at the two of you turning you into an amateurish sculpture of unrequited love. It was over when you went for weeks without really speaking, because they were busy and you were busy and you all let that relationship sink further in that murk of indifference. The last time you saw them you were at the bar and you had stepped outside to smoke. It had rained; one of those moonless nights so dark that even the breeze seems to be coloured black. Standing there under the awning, cigarette burning between your fingers, you lazily watched a girl in a dress that looked like a parachute that had deployed prematurely painfully clomp up the staircase in her impossible wooden wedges. As she got closer, you realised that the person she was hanging onto for support was them. You don’t recall the awkward conversation that ensued but you remember that their teeth looked whiter than usual. “Maybe you should stop smoking, we don’t want to lose you,” they said lightly. Well, they had a smoke of their own and they were blowing it up your ass. And so when it was finally over it ended without any spark; like a dead battery. And it was both a relief and a surprise; at how you simply accepted it without investigating its consequence. It had run its course – a year and two months, but who was counting? The night you were deleting their old messages from your phone you went through the text messages they had sent and they were all “Will call you right back.” That made you chuckle. It was a clean break. There were no long speeches of “I wish you well, I hope you find happiness and we will always be ...
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Category: blogs bikozulu

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@Blogs

Language of Love - Bikozulu

3 months ago, 17 Apr 11:21

By: Bikozulu
It had been over for months. The credits had been rolling for a while even without viewers. There were those last days when you suspected it was over and they suspected it was over but nobody wanted to look at the hard wrinkled face of the end. It was over when they started returning your calls three hours later, with little or frail apology. Your whatsapp remained blue like the cloudless Turkana skies. On your birthday they sent you a meme. And not even a funny one. It was over when you last met at the lobby of the bank and their laughter was dry and dishonest and they were ready to bolt, sitting there at the edge of their seat like they had mumps on their ass. You just knew the two of you were drowning in this phoney geniality when they asked you, “Did you change your spectacles?” You hadn’t changed your specs in four years. Truth is, you didn’t know them anymore. They knew you even less. You could have shaved and gotten a tattoo of a vulture on your bald scalp and they wouldn’t have noticed because you were looking at each other in past tense. Everything had changed. Time had chipped away at the two of you turning you into an amateurish sculpture of unrequited love. It was over when you went for weeks without really speaking, because they were busy and you were busy and you all let that relationship sink further in that murk of indifference. The last time you saw them you were at the bar and you had stepped outside to smoke. It had rained; one of those moonless nights so dark that even the breeze seems to be coloured black. Standing there under the awning, cigarette burning between your fingers, you lazily watched a girl in a dress that looked like a parachute that had deployed prematurely painfully clomp up the staircase in her impossible wooden wedges. As she got closer, you realised that the person she was hanging onto for support was them. You don’t recall the awkward conversation that ensued but you remember that their teeth looked whiter than usual. “Maybe you should stop smoking, we don’t want to lose you,” they said lightly. Well, they had a smoke of their own and they were blowing it up your ass. And so when it was finally over it ended without any spark; like a dead battery. And it was both a relief and a surprise; at how you simply accepted it without investigating its consequence. It had run its course – a year and two months, but who was counting? The night you were deleting their old messages from your phone you went through the text messages they had sent and they were all “Will call you right back.” That made you chuckle. It was a clean break. There were no long speeches of “I wish you well, I hope you find happiness and we will always be ...
Read More

Category: blogs bikozulu

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