Memoir To My Exes
Pt 1
Exes? What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear that word, huh? A lot. A lot especially if you’re a brokenhearted writer like me.
You could come up with words like:
- Ex husband.
- Ex military.
- Ex boyfriend.
- Ex girlfriend.
- Executives.
- Existentialism.
- Exit.
A lot of words can bear a significant or an insignificant reference to that word. But for me, the word that comes to mind is ex girlfriend. Whew! This might be difficult to write, but it has to be said, right? Yeah, it has to. It frees the spirit, mind, body and soul from everything!
My name is Chukuwuemeka James Emordi.
I am 24years old— May 2nd, I’ll be 25. Sheesh! I can feel time phasing through me. Which is kinda ironic, because getting old is one of my biggest phobias. I am scared of old age. Albeit— while old age comes with its perks, there’s also a lot of demerits.
I wish Paul Rudd or Tom Cruise would tell me the secret location of the elixir of life, or the fountain of youth, I’d be happy. Very happy. Ha! Anyways, where was I? Yes! My name and age.
Chukuwuemeka James Emordi.
Or Emeka.
James.
Or Tristan.
Tristan is a nickname. A nickname more popular than my actual name. How I got that name? That’s an adventure for another day. Right. I am 25years old, and in all that time, I have fallen in love three times, with three people. Surprising? Maybe. Expected? Nope! I uhh, I don’t fall in love with people easily. And when I do? I do with all my heart it makes me vulnerable, stupid and dumb. Although, over the years, I have been with uhh, "people" but like I said, the love wasn’t felt from the heart. I don’t want to call it unctuous, because that might seem offensive, but— the love just wasn’t there.
The first girl I fell in love with her name was Elizabeth. Elizabeth like the queen.
Beautiful light skinned girl with deep, mysterious mystical eyes.
Petite, symmetrical body, with angles and arcs that accentuated her entirety.
She was the first girl I ever fell genuinely in love with. But my Mom? Well, we’ll talk about that later. Elizabeth and I were together for a year and the half before we broke up. I miss her so much, but—I don’t think that feeling is requited. It’s reversed.
She’s lived close to my street, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her because I was scared of her. She hardly smiled. Rarely spoke. Ipso facto; I assumed she was a witch.
Ha!
So how did I get her phone number? From a year book my brother brought back home. Apparently, she was graduating her school, so. . . I am sure you know the rest. I stole her number from the year book, and messaged her.
The epic: Hi, and hello response.
Those words stirred a lot in our little universe. We started having social media conversations, awkward phone calls, and then— physical conversations.
Convergence of energy!
Synergy!
Ain’t nothing as beautiful as two people freshly in love.
The phone calls.
Text messages.
The poems.
The awkward and unexpected smiles when you think about them.
It’s so beautiful.
She was my first everything.
My first intimate hug.
(I don’t like hugs, or any form of intimacy)
My first kiss.
Well, I wouldn’t say like a full kiss, more of a uhh, a brief collide with the lips.
Friction.
I was too shy to hold a kiss with her.
I don’t know— maybe I still am.
My first— how do I put this? She was the reason I almost fought a guy in school then. He said something explicit about her, and I lost my shit. I was ready to engage in a fisticuff with the young fella, but to what gain, right? It ended as quickly as it started. But deep inside of me, that wasn’t the only darkness I fought in school.
Nights in school were torturous. My innervations were more vulnerable at night. At night when I am alone to myself, I stare at the stars, thinking— I wish she was here. Because the gloomy abyss of my bed was devouring me into this lonely pit of forlornness. But a mere thought of Elizabeth shone brighter than quasars. That was how powerful her love felt. She was the thread that kept me from falling. Falling deep into a yonder I can’t climb out from.
At nights, I sneaked out to see her. I liked how her perfume stuck on my shirt and skin like covalent bonds. I spend the whole night sniffing my shirt like a search dog, thinking she was there with me.
Staring deep into each other’s eyes.
Giggling in the dark like we were inebriated.
We explored the dark like pilgrims. Love our conquest.
I really miss her.
A lot.
I miss what we had.
Love is magical.
Love is beautiful.
Love is unique.
Poems.
I have a lot of poems written about her.
Written to honor our shared memories.
I wish we didn’t break-up the way we did. I wish we stayed a little bit more.
I wish.
But you don’t always get what you wish for. No matter how hard you rub the genie bottle.
That blue magical being on steroids can’t always help.
As the days slowly aged on, the magical feeling started to deteriorate. But was that love leaving us, or was that a test in our commitment? Eheh. If we knew then what we knew now.
We broke up.
Two entangled souls finally apart.
The calls stopped.
The texts messages stopped.
The poems stopped.
The thoughts stopped.
It was as if she didn’t exist.
I swore I wouldn’t fall in love again, but— future had other plans for me.
What is love? An undefined moment in human life.
#Memoir to my exes
