Love Was Never Meant to Save Me

I once thought love was a saviour.

Not Jesus, but close.
Because when love finally came, it didn’t look like anything I’d been sold.
It didn’t come in scented letters or late-night texts that made my stomach do backflips.
It came quietly — without shoes.
And sometimes, it didn’t even knock. It just stood in the corridor of my life waiting for me to stop pretending.
My folks weren’t monsters. They did their best.
But love was like a matatu with no music — it took you where you needed to go, but the ride was awkward.
school fees paid on time.
food on the table.
a roof that didn’t leak — unless it was raining too hard, in which case it was your attitude that needed fixing, not the mabati.
We did chores.
We didn’t say “I love you.”
We said, “Uko sawa?”
If I got an A, I’d be asked if the teacher was being generous.
So eventually, I stopped trying to be brilliant and started trying to be invisible.
Because in that house, being invisible meant peace.
Carried it into people.
Into women who smiled like home but treated me like a layover.
Into friends who laughed with me but never really heard me.
Into situationships that had all the emotional depth of a basin of dishwater.
You become the kind of person who offers too much too soon.
The one who texts first.
The one who stays when you should’ve left.
The one who confuses breadcrumbs for banquets.
Spoiler: They don’t.
And sometimes, they choose themselves — and honestly, good for them.
But there I was, left holding my own silence, wondering why I always ended up being the guy who helped people “heal” before they went off and loved someone else.
The in-between.
The safe space before the next love story.
It’s exhausting.
I had to ask: Bro, what are you really looking for?
Maybe it was just meant to see me.
To sit beside me when I’m tired.
To witness the mess and not hand me a mop.
To say, “Yeah, you’re cracked… but you’re also enough.”
It didn’t ask for perfection.
It didn’t flinch at my silence.
It didn’t treat my past like a cautionary tale.
sat down,
poured tea,
and stayed.
No fireworks.
Just a quiet: “I’m here.”
It’s the ordinary presence.
It’s someone knowing your favorite cup, the way you like your eggs, the fact that you shut down when you’re overwhelmed.
It’s not the “I’ll die for you” kind of love.
It’s the “I’ll sit with you through this boring Wednesday when life feels beige and pointless” kind.
I honour it.
I welcome it.
And when it doesn’t come, I don’t panic.
I pour my own tea.
Put on some E-Sir.
Call a friend.
Or sit with the ache like it’s an old roommate who hasn’t found his own place yet.
It was meant to walk beside me.
To nod quietly and say,
“You’re doing alright.”

I thought love would come galloping on a white horse like in those cheap Nigerian movies — you know the ones, with not so good lighting and dramatic music that starts too early. I thought love would show up with a strong jawline, a kind voice, and a well-developed understanding of my wounded inner child.

I waited for it the way Nairobi waits for rain in January — expectant and foolish.

It wasn’t loud.

See, I grew up in a house where love was present, but not loud.

They showed love through things:

We didn’t do hugs.

If I got a B+, I’d be told I could do better.

Naturally, I carried that into adulthood.

But here’s the thing about chasing love like it’s a cure — it keeps slipping through your fingers.

You think, If I’m soft enough, patient enough, selfless enough, they’ll choose me.

They choose who they want.

You ever been that guy?

Eventually, I had to sit myself down — like a stern uncle with bad knees and a thermos of tea.

Because maybe love was never meant to save me.

Funny enough, real love finally came when I stopped performing.

It came in quietly, like Sunday,

No flowers.

And I realised love isn’t the dramatic rescue.

Now I don’t chase love.

Because love was never meant to save me.