Waiting on Myself.


Maybe I am wishful in my thinking.
Maybe I am naive. Maybe I still haven’t learnt much from previous encounters and maybe I am afraid of all that comes with heartache and heartbreak.

Perhaps I haven’t quite figured out what it means to wait yet, although, I know that it doesn’t matter how long one waits, falling in love does not land you on two feet, nevertheless, it’s a chance we all take. This is what brave hearts are known for, risking it all to feel once more what it felt like to be ripped apart not because of the addiction to the pain but rather to the ecstasy; to choose love even when love doesn’t choose us in the way that we’d like it to – a choice that only true soldiers know of – that sometimes things are as they are.

Alas, being aware that I may be ready for a deeper kind of love which isn’t available to me, I realize that I may still be waiting on myself, silently watching from afar, waiting to hug myself, waiting to move right along as history can be a treacherous and devious place to dwell, a mere illusion of what we think we can attain, a whirlwind of memories and nothing more; and even when we know that the past is not unattainable it still manages to repeat itself unapologetically, giving us false hope when faith feels hardest to cling on to. So maybe something’s got to give, maybe prayers do really go up and blessings manifest themselves into each rising day.

Maybe one day, if ever I do receive what I wasn’t careful to wish for, that it might not turn out the way I had imagined. For even if it is so, I know that whatever outcome life throws at me it would be of my best interest.

By Aziza Femi (Angela Nimah)