Unbeloved Conversations
1285 Words
During an hour lunch break, Mukoma wrote a message to Chiedza, the love of his life.
Mukoma: Hello 😍
Chiedza: Hi
Mukoma: How are you holding up?
Chiedza: Fine
Mukoma: Is there anything wrong? How come you’re giving me one word answers?
Chiedza: I am ok.
Mukoma Gwanz felt a sudden chill crawl down his spine as memories of past heartbreaks slipped back into his consciousness like soap sliding from wet hands. His intuition whispered, it may end soon.
Every effort he made seemed to vanish into silence, yet each time he checked Chiedza’s status or reels, her world was speaking, laughing, alive. Each time he opened the timeline, she was there online: but his messages remained unseen, unreplied and unread. Sometimes she would respond hours later, short and indifferent, as though he were an afterthought. He felt like the last man standing, an option and not a priority.
After work, he tried again.
Mukoma: Hello babe, how was your day? 🤗
Chiedza: Ok.
Mukoma: Alright… do you have anything you want us to talk about? 😊
Chiedza: No, I have nothing to say.
Mukoma felt his energy drain from him. The warmth that once burned between them had turned cold, indifferent. Yet, even as his phone remained silent, he could see her chatting late into the night: 2 a.m., conversations alive, laughter echoing somewhere beyond his reach.
He sat on his bed, his thoughts crumbling under the weight of rejection.
Am I going to fail again?
Am I facing silent rejection or slow ejection?
Do I feel dejected?
What have I done wrong to deserve this?
Am I not human enough to be treated with dignity?
Why is it always me, watching everyone else celebrate while I yearn quietly?
Is there someone up there who hears me? Do they see me? How long must I live like this? How long must my smile pretend to hold? Am I that bad?
Questions asked questions inside Mukoma Gwanz’s mind. What a burden to bear, what a storm to walk through alone. All he could do was watch her slip away. The worst pain was not the end itself, but the ghosting: the absence of reason, the silence without closure.
That evening, he could not recall how he got home. His mind was blank, his body numb. The world blurred as his heart pounded against his chest like distant African drums. A wave of nausea followed, the taste of panic crawling up his throat. From childhood, rejection had been his shadow. And now, it had found him again.
Why me?
Time moved like mist. Mukoma did not eat, did not speak. He fell asleep without knowing, waking up at 2:29 a.m. The first thing he saw was her last seen: 2:00 a.m. Heartbroken, he knew he had been dethroned. There was nothing left to fight for, nothing left to say. He turned to the ceiling, whispering into the darkness, “I am not a man. I am nothing.”
Mukoma Gwanz did not sleep well that night. What a drag.
He woke up late that Saturday morning. The clock struck 9:00 a.m., and for the first time in weeks, there was no rush to get to work. It was his weekend off, yet rest felt foreign: his mind still bruised from the silence that had settled between him and Chiedza.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the phone beside him like a ghost of yesterday’s hope. He reached for his notebook instead. Sometimes words made more sense than people. He wrote quietly, almost whispering the lines to himself.
Have You Noticed?
Have you noticed how people pretend?
They speak loudly but mean nothing.
They smile while hiding storms.
Their words stumble even when their hearts are sure.
Some dress their pride in fine clothes,
But I see through them.
Emotions shake like thunder,
Faces change faster than truth.
Should I speak, or stay quiet?
You are you: by grace, nothing more.
You love noise and confusion,
While I crave peace.
You read so much yet understand so little.
I forgive you, but I am tired.
My love for knowing is fading.
So tell me: where am I in all of this?
He stared at the final line, the ink still wet. It wasn’t just a poem. It was his pulse on paper. Then came a thought, fragile but determined. Maybe love needs one more try.
He picked up his phone and typed slowly.
Mukoma: Hey, Chiedza 😊 How about we go out today? I really miss you and want to be with you.
Minutes passed. His heart thumped against the silence. Then the phone vibrated.
Chiedza: Okay. Where do you want us to meet?
Mukoma smiled faintly, relief washing over him.
Mukoma: There’s a quiet outdoor restaurant called Paradise. Around 2 p.m.
Chiedza: It's ok I will be there.
That statement felt like sunlight breaking through thick clouds.
By afternoon, Paradise lived up to its name: trees swaying gently, a soft breeze threading through the air and birds singing like they’d rehearsed for peace. Mukoma arrived early, heart steady but cautious. He chose a table under a jacaranda tree, the purple petals falling softly like whispered blessings.
Chiedza arrived moments later. She looked calm, radiant even, her presence pulling at every string of memory he had of her laughter.
They sat. Silence first, then polite greetings.
Mukoma: How are you holding up?
Chiedza: I am good.
Mukoma:It's ok my Love.
He smiled, trying to warm the air between them. She smiled back, faintly, the kind that hides more than it reveals.
When the waiter came, they ordered quarter chicken, French fries, Coca-Cola, and Sprite. The simplicity of the meal comforted him; it reminded him of the beginning days when laughter came easily and love didn’t need rescue.
As they ate, Mukoma spoke gently about work, life, small things. Chiedza nodded, replied briefly. Yet her voice carried a softness, a rhythm that deceived him into hope. He watched her quietly, memorizing the way sunlight rested on her face, the curve of her smile: pretend or not, it gave him warmth. The bill came handsome, but he paid without hesitation. For him, this wasn’t about money. It was about meaning. About showing up.
Chiedza thanked him softly. Her tone was polite, distant, but not cold. There was something in it: a careful kindness that felt like closure disguised as comfort.
They walked out together. The sun dipped gently behind the trees, shadows stretching long like silent witnesses. For a moment, Mukoma believed love had blinked again, just once, like a tired flame refusing to die. But deep down, somewhere his heart didn’t want to look, he knew the truth:
the present and the future were dancing in a mirrored loop, what seemed like revival was only reflection.
The day was beautiful. The silence, bearable. Yet inside Mukoma Gwanz, something sacred was quietly breaking. The heart was lighter yet the mind gave him no rest from picking up nuances.
Did you notice? My Love for You.
- Writer
