Ate, my bestie, my brother
who have scared me out of the dating scene. And you are hurt. So I quietly wrestle with the label you have resentfully given women like me and your ex. You call us “Rupi Kaur's daughters" or “bana ba Rupi". You think the way the women think about relationships is based on Rupi’s poems and not their own views. I bite my tongue before I remind you of your fragile masculinity.
Has it always been like this? Women like me against men like you?
With no answer I nervously revert to thumb-sucking and patting your back with my free hand while we gather the courage to move this talk forward.
We slowly stroll through the rest of our conversation as if to avoid landmines. You tell me how women like me have hurt you. I tell you how men like you have scared me.
“I don't know what all this means. I know that the two of you aren't bad people even though you both claim to be hurt by the other," I say to assure us both.
We quietly try to believe what I say. You usher me out of the feeling by reminding me that it's Monday and I have a deadline. We get our laptops and sit cross-legged on the rug of what should be our living area. You quietly watch Rick and Morty while I finish writing my story. Once it’s sent, I offer you a simple prayer of strength that we seal with a high five before retreating to our respective rooms to marinate in the residue of the awkward talk.
I have experienced and witnessed too many break-ups not to know the Tinder hand motions. It's the only app that requires you to swipe left, left, left, left, pause, and only then hesitantly swipe right. Every now and then you could fool other people into thinking you’re texting friends on WhatsApp but not me, so I caught you early.
“Wetsang mo Tinder?" I inquire and you ignore.
“Tlesa phone, I'm not letting you do that fam," I laugh before grabbing your phone and uninstalling the app.
You're irritated. But I assure you that you can get it back after we have a chat. You make coffee for me and tea for yourself. I get my bag and take out a journal with leather binding and a matching pen.
“This is the grave for your pain. Write it down, draw a comic, scribble until it makes a hole in the paper. I don't care."
You throw my gift aside and take your phone from my hands. We get loud arguing about how you think I think I have the answers to everything. I steadily remind you that, as much as I don't have them, neither do you. No one backs down. We get louder. I cry, you walk away and we reinforce our tainted ideas about each other.
I leave the journal at your door with a note: “This fighting is kak. You're my best friend and I want us to get better the right way. I don't know how to do that, but I know it doesn't involve planting our pain in other people. Promise to try the journal. If you do, I promise not to publicly trash any more apologies that I get from men."
You knock on my door and enter with the journal in your hand. “It's not working, dude," you mumble with a frustration that humours me.
“Let's cry about it then," I propose and you respond with a contesting face even though you sit.
I open several YouTube tabs and search for the following songs: Seven Seconds Away by Youssou N’Dour, Shape of my Heart by Sting, Leave Right Now by Will Young, 4:44 by Jay Z, Sambolera by Khadja Nin, Get Here if You Can by Oleta Adams, and I Can’t Write Left-handed by Bill Withers. These are songs I know get us both teary-eyed.
“Let's make it a game. Think of something about this break-up that hurts, write it down and think about it while we play a song. I'll play too. If tears come, let them. If you want to talk about what you wrote down, we do it once the song ends. We have seven songs," I explain as I walk down the passage to get tissues.
We sit cross-legged on the floor and, before I press play, I ask you to consider a new way of looking at break-ups, something more sustainable. Maybe break-ups shouldn’t be about getting back at someone who no longer has the capacity to love you in the way you have become accustomed to. Just maybe you uprooting your pain doesn’t have to involve planting it in someone else’s heart.
About three songs in, I see you lift your wrist up to your face to wipe your eyes. I decide to give you some space to cry it all out and promise to be back after I defrost some chicken to make your favourite dish: chutney marinated chicken, yellow rice and chakalaka.
God, I love you.