photo source: getty images

I’ve started thinking again, and that’s good for me and my writing.

I lost a friend to depression, a young man close to my heart. Over these few years I’ve learnt some mourning etiquette, and now I know the zero tolerance I have for human stupidity, especially on social media.

The thing with this brand of feeling is that I don’t feel major things that people feel. I mean I feel good ol’ love, I feel intense melancholy and sadness, but you’d find me floating in the face of death. Maybe it’s my evasive nature, or maybe I’m yet to learn how to weather down like these feelings and when not to. It bothers me, this, especially when I write poetry.

True Akachi’s death made me feel sad, but I’d rather remember him as the happy boy I trekked the whole of UNN with, munching bananas like two GOATS. Every time I try to picture him as he was found wriggling on the floor, or looking so helpless on life support, my tear glands whelp this image to a stop. Even a line from “Ode to Melancholy” which I was teaching in class the day he died got me oozing tears. I tried calling his number afterwards.

I still don’t know how to mourn. I don’t want to forget too fast neither do I want to linger in sad thoughts. A petty part of me entertains the idea that the dead might be watching, to pick out fake friends and cross them out in the afterlife friends’ list, or do a shady song for them.

A part of me is not worried about forgetting Akachi too fast, I mean I am blessed with such photographic memory it’s almost a curse. I’m only worried of putting up an act and being consumed by it, and convincing my body that I am actually mourning someone who touched my heart.

People text me to say “sorry for your loss”, but i don’t know what to say to that so i give them the thumbs up emoji.

He understood me, and all of my scribbles. Maybe that’s where this impulse to mourn him right comes from then.

I have so many questions to ask; so many things to ask.

But first of all, why did you make yourself an easy target?

Have you seen the fucktards cumming stupidly on your wall?

He promised to give them something to talk about, I never knew it would be this sticky-goodness-in-the-middle-ish.

I wish I can do a door-to-door assassination, but he wouldn’t want that I know. Their stupidity would choke them soon enough.

I wish he was here though, so we’d laugh at the inbox messages.

Wherever he is, I hope he finds peace. Really.

I still remember the last joke I shared with him, the one about those pot-bellied men that waste their time playing football after downing bottles of beer.

Thank you for giving me my mojo back. Like if our love could bring you back you’d be a fvcking cat with nine lives.

Rest on, “Neil”.




Queer. Angry feminist. Sports enthusiast. Fatherfucker.

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One-Eyed Sunday

One-Eyed Sunday

Queer. Angry feminist. Sports enthusiast. Fatherfucker.

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