Month: February 2025

Author: Mawutor Akosua Ametame

When love finds me again, I hope it comes prepared. Not just with sweet words and butterflies, but with wisdom, patience, and enough money for urgent momo requests. Love is sweet, but have you ever been in love with someone who understands the importance of a good mobile data bundle?

It won’t make a grand entrance with trumpets and angels descending from heaven. No, love will arrive subtly—like that one old song on the radio that suddenly makes sense, or the familiar scent of rain before it starts to pour. Maybe it will show up in the way someone saves me the last piece of meat instead of eating it with boldness and no guilt. Maybe it will be in the way they listen—listen—even when I am just ranting about how ECG has decided to turn off my romantic lighting for the third time this week.

Love will come like sunlight through half-drawn curtains, warming spaces I had long left cold. Not a grand entrance, not a storm, but a steady rain, soft, unrelenting, soaking into the soil of me.

It will not rush me. Love will understand that I have built walls not to keep it out, but to see if it will climb over them, knock, and wait patiently for me to open the door. It will not guilt-trip me into rushing my emotions like a trotro driver honking at a red light. It will stay steady, like the Waakye seller who refuses to hurry even when the line is long because good things take time.

Love will come with humor. It will laugh at my jokes, even the ones that are not funny. It will send me random voice notes saying, “I saw a guy today who was your type—tall, bearded, but unfortunately, his shirt was tucked suspiciously, so I let him go.” It will not be afraid to tease me about how I can never finish a plate of food but will still take extra meat just in case.

It will come with kindness. Not the showy kind that only posts sweet messages on birthdays, but the everyday kind that asks, “Have you eaten?” and listens to the answer. The type will sit in silence with me on bad days and dance with me in the kitchen on good ones.

Love will find me when I am not looking, in the middle of unfinished stories and dreams I’ve yet to chase. It will not demand, it will not rush, it will unfold like a letter long lost and finally read.

And love will be stubborn. It will refuse to leave, even when I try to push it away with my, “I don’t need anyone” speeches. It will see through my toughness, recognize the softness underneath, and remind me that I am not too much to love. It will stay, not just for the grand moments, but for the boring ones too—the lazy Sunday afternoons, the random market runs, the arguments over whether Ghanaian jollof is superior (because it is).

Love will find me when I least expect it—maybe when I’m complaining about the price of pure water or standing in front of my fridge pretending to think about what to eat. It won’t feel forced, it won’t be a guessing game. It will be there, solid, undeniable, like how Ghana’s heat refuses to take a break.

And this time, I will not run.

I will not second-guess it.

I will not check my heart like it’s a bank account with suspicious transactions.

I will let it stay.

And if it ever leaves again, well, I still have fufu and palm nut soup to keep me warm, but I hope love stays this time.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Author: Mawutor Akosua Ametame

Image Credit: An ex-boyfriend and I. Captured by love, archived by pain. The lies we tell.

Love letters have a certain charm, don’t they? They’re delicate yet powerful, filled with words that make the heart do an embarrassing little jig. They sit between pages, hidden in old books or tucked away in memory boxes, carrying emotions too big to say out loud.

But while some people write love letters, others are love letters. Walking, talking, breathing love letters. The kind of people who pour love into every moment, who leave the world a little warmer just by being in it. They remember how you like your tea, send random “just checking on you” messages, and think about you when they hear your favorite song. They don’t just say love; they are love.

And yet, ironically, walking love letters often find themselves unread, lost in transit, or—worst of all—stamped Return to Sender.

The Curse of Being a Walking Love Letter

Here’s the thing: love letters are romantic in theory but tragic in reality. Because while we’re out here being poetry in motion, the people we love are out there… well, being human. Which means they forget to appreciate what’s right in front of them. Or they read us, admire the words, but never write back.

It’s a cruel joke. We were made to be someone’s favorite chapter, yet we often end up in the “books I’ll read later” pile. And later, as we all know, sometimes never comes.

Worse still, being a walking love letter means you get mistaken for a public library. People come to you when they need comfort, want to feel understood when they’re in between books (relationships), and just need something to fill the space. They flip through your pages, underline their favorite parts, and then leave you on the shelf—unborrowed, untouched.

And we? We let them. Because we love too much, too fast, too deeply. Because we are the type to highlight them in bold while they keep us in _footnotes.

The real tragedy, however, is that while we’re out here offering heartfelt love and care, the people we love are out there giving their hearts to people who don’t even use punctuation properly in their text messages.

Imagine writing, “I miss you, hope you’re okay” and getting back a dry “k.” Ah yes, love in the 21st century.

That’s like preparing jollof with all your heart, only for someone to say, “Nice rice.” Nice rice??? My ancestors did not fight in the Jollof wars for this level of disrespect.

What Could Have Been: The Bitter Aftertaste of Almost-Love

Then there’s what could have been—that haunting phrase that sneaks into your thoughts at 2 AM. It’s the love that never fully bloomed, the confession that got stuck in your throat, the moment you should have reached for their hand but didn’t.

Maybe it was bad timing. Maybe it was fear. Maybe the universe has a dark sense of humor. Whatever the reason, these almost-loves leave behind a strange ache. It’s not quite heartbreak, not quite regret—just a quiet, lingering sadness.

And let’s be honest: sometimes, what could have been is more romantic than what was. Real relationships involve laundry, morning breath, and arguing over what to eat. But the love that never happened? That one gets to stay perfect. Untouched. Forever idealized.

It’s the relationship where you never got annoyed with their bad habits, never had to deal with their stubbornness, never had to argue over whose turn it was to wash the dishes. In your mind, it stays as that one magical moment, the one where they smiled at you in a way that made you believe in soulmates—before reality took them away.

And yet, we hold on to these stories. We replay them like old songs, the ones we know by heart but refuse to delete from our playlists. Because even if they didn’t love us the way we loved them, for a moment, they existed in our world, and that was enough.

And if that isn’t the emotional equivalent of holding onto an empty Fan Ice container because it once had your favorite vanilla flavor, I don’t know what is.

Hope, Stamps, and the Right Address

But here’s what I’ve learned: just because someone didn’t read your love letter doesn’t mean it wasn’t beautiful. Maybe it wasn’t meant for them. Maybe it got lost in the wrong mailbox. Maybe the right person just hasn’t opened it yet.

Love, when it is real, never truly disappears. It lingers in the spaces between what we lost and what we’re about to find. It stays in the warmth of our words, in the kindness we give, in the hope that maybe, just maybe, one day, someone will read us fully and think, This is exactly what I’ve been waiting for.

So, if you’re a walking love letter—if you love deeply, if you care too much if you give your heart with no tracking number—don’t stop. Love like a postage stamp: stick to your truth, even if it takes a while to get to where you belong.

Because one day, someone will not only read you but write back. And when they do, it won’t be in pencil. It’ll be in ink. Permanent. Sealed with their love, addressed only to you.

And if they don’t? Well, at least you’ll have enough material to write a bestselling heartbreak album. Or a Nollywood script where the person realizes they loved you all along, but by then, you’ve moved to Canada and married a rich engineer.

As my Kenyan sister, Cynthia would say, Haibo! Love is not for the weak!