Love hard

Whoever – or whatever – the object of your love is; love it to optimal levels. For love is the greatest gift the guy up there bestowed upon us. It has never ceased to amaze us how we are willing to walk naked in the park so that the Gunners (or whatever team you feel you wanna put here), or the DeNgoz’ get that champions league trophy on their coffers.

Or how we will gladly give up our own lives so that those of the dear wife with a kidney failure can be revived. All the hope we have – even when evidence on the ground proves a scenario contrarie. The spontaneous anger and anguish that engulfs us, the tears negotiating their way out of our unbelieving eyes when the apple of our eyes betrays us. Ever wondered why you tear your clothes in disgust or pull your hair when Linda (or Maggie, or Maidei, or Madea, or Megan) does that things that boils your heart to the point of burning it? It’s not anger damn it!

You feel all that ‘cause you love ‘em. That child who absconds lessons, gets coked out behind your back, jumps out the window to go partying and whoring in the dead of the night – that child is a gift from God. A gift of love. Yes, it makes you puke during its hatchling days. And makes you scream in pain when you spit it out. That child that gives you more headaches and a shorter path into old age – but it is still a gift, see. Just think about the day when you were about to lose it – only then you will know how much you love it.

So. I love my pen. Recently it has come in many forms; a laptop, a desk top, a palm top; but still the freedom that it releases in me whenever I feel like a bomb is like giving birth to a child. I love my sport – my Dynamos, my Gunners, my cricket. My rugby. My beer. My friends, those on Fb, and those who have no idea what a computer is, and whose first thought of a laptop or a RAM has nothing to do with compu-tronics.

And I love my girl.

Believe me, I love them all the same, and for me, being whole means I have all these gifts that God was so kind to bless me with. Nothing is better than the other, and lasses past who wanted me to choose made me feel like I was tearing myself into several pieces. It was Hobson’s Choice.

But that’s only me; if you feel you wanna love love some things better than you love others, hey, that’s up to you. But love hard. Passion is not something that comes everyday like the sun. it is privilege that we must cherish; that when we are gathered in the terraces with folks, we beat out chests and vaunt that during our lifetime, we loved, and that our love made the world a better place.