Written by Gbemi Trabaye
For those who are new to this series, welcome, and for previous readers – welcome back. The first three articles I wrote unearthed feelings that I had never been brave enough to confront, revealed hidden truths, and exposed buried memories, some intentionally so.
Through this process of writing, I’ve found a certain freedom—an unexpected release that feels safe but also deeply challenging emotionally. As I write this, we’re a few days away from Valentine’s Day, and although I’m often intoxicated by different forms of love, this time of the year seems to spark a greater high. Truthfully speaking, romantic love, through my lens, was always shaped by turbulence – it was rarely expressed, often discouraged amongst young boys, and chaotic, very chaotic. As some of my previous articles revealed, my earliest introduction to romance, like many others, I believe, was through the careful observation of my parents. They weren’t romantic at all. In fact, they were the complete opposite.
Growing up, my mother embodied the characteristics that traditional media and pop culture had defined as a “good wife”. She was the pillar, the nurturer, and the steady and ever-present force that kept the glue of the family together. She listened attentively, always showed up, and constantly sacrificed. Watching her, in particular, has largely shaped how I interpret love and partnership—her gentleness and expression of care.
My father, on the other hand, was very different. He was authoritative, emotionally inaccessible and strict. Similar to traditional depictions in media at the time, he was the provider, leader, and “Head of the House”—as a West African would say. Their relationship was far from romantic, and at certain instances, you’d swear they were enemies.
One memory in particular has remained etched in my brain. It was their anniversary – 31st March – and I was certainly around twelve or thirteen. In my mind, anniversaries demanded romance, so I asked them to kiss. What I noticed was an awkwardness, an odd feeling – it was like observing two teenagers playing “Dad” and “Mom” during lunchtime. This is a feeling that hasn’t quite left me, questions that my immature mind couldn’t quite reconcile.
As I’ve grown older, and made hindsight a close acquaintance, I recognise what it was – two hearts joined together in the eyes of God, seeking to find a way to endure the destructive winds of one-sided infidelity, abuse and disrespect – all masked beneath the outward performance of a functioning marriage.
Externally, we were the ultimate depiction of stability, the African dream. An urban home, two German cars in the driveway, working professionals, respectful children – a traditional middle-class family. However, beneath the surface lived a quiet volcano, ready to erupt. Several years later, this volcano eventually erupted, terribly – but that’s for another article.
Personally, these earlier experiences shaped “true love” as an unattainable reality – it was too rare, mystical, and only reserved for fictitious characters in books and on television. For some reason, that belief changed when I discovered The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. I briefly touched on this earlier in this series, but I reference this as one of the most pivotal moments in my life. Uncle Phil and Aunt Viv, played by James Avery and Janet Hubert, portrayed a warm, playful and deeply affectionate type of love. Although I had seen similar portrayals on television, rarely was this depicted in Black families, and certainly not with the continuity of 148 episodes. Uncle Phil spoke so fondly of his wife – treated her with a unique tenderness and opted for conversation instead of violence when faced with conflict. I knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that I wanted to recreate that, and it’s safe to say, I think I successfully have.
My journey wasn’t smooth at all, by no measure. It has been marked by some experiences I’d prefer to forget, similar to the ones I grew up in – infidelity, toxicity, and violence. The vicious and repetitive nature of life amuses me. A few years ago, I found myself confronted with a situation that I have never shared. During a disagreement in the parking lot of a local nightclub, a lady that I was in a relationship with slapped me because she thought I was flirting with other women, which I can honestly admit wasn’t the case. This was the first time, and only moment, that I ever had to reckon with romantic violence inflicted on me, and that moment has lingered within me since. Later that night, upon returning to campus, matters escalated – a heater and iron were thrown in my direction. This moment is hard to even write about, because the truth is there is a complicated empathy that I carry for her. She had also grown up in an abusive household, witnessing violence inflicted on her mother, and she would often recount the details of a particularly horrific night when her father pointed a gun directly at her mother’s head.
I thought I had outgrown the frightened nine-year-old boy who used to lay awake hearing the violent conflict unfold at home, but that night reminded me of how he still lived within me.
That warm spring evening, I recognised the destructive nature of pain and also understood how easily it could be transferred. This duality of awareness doesn’t justify any violence, but in that moment, it certainly justified my compassion towards her. We would eventually both walk away from the relationship at the end of 2019, with emotional wounds inflicted from both ends. Through all of this, I was able to truly discover what I was in search of – a peaceful love….
In January 2020, I had just turned 21 years old, and that’s when I met her – right before the world changed forever. She was sitting with her best friend on a bench in the front lawn of a campus residence. She had “Milk and Honey” by Rupi Kaur open next to her, flipped upside down – and I noticed her from a distance. I was out recruiting new members for a university society we were starting alongside one of our co-founders, and we had one clear mission in mind.
We approached them; I was terrified, but I had to put on my Denzel Washington demeanour and keep walking. They noticed us coming from a distance away, and that’s a familiar awkwardness that many can probably relate to as well. Her skin was glistening, with that beautiful and innocent smile that I’m sure only angels could possibly have – we greeted them, explained the purpose of the society, and collected their details.
A 5-minute conversation that felt magical. Over the next few weeks, I’d occasionally see her around campus. Whenever I had the urge to say hello, fear overcame me. Unfortunately, just before I could find courage, the COVID-19 lockdown took everything away.
I wouldn’t see her again until a year and a half later, at the mall, with her Mom. She was standing at an ATM, and the recognition was instant. In a split second, we locked eyes and exchanged a shy greeting, and just as quickly as she had reappeared, she was gone again.
I kept thinking about her, reminiscing – dreaming – and I just had to find a way to see her again. Eventually, in the spring of 2021, we found ourselves working on the same film project. Through months of crossing paths and a gentle sprinkle of matchmaking from a mutual friend, what initially seemed like coincidental scenarios turned into intentional pursuit – and in a very sweet and movie-esque way, we found our way to each other.
Almost 4 years later, here we still are – bound by a love that I once doubted could ever exist in real life. She is everything I could have ever imagined. I struggle to find the words to truly encapsulate how blessed I feel. There is a calmness that we’ve cultivated together which supersedes my understanding, a respect and an appreciation, mutually. Old fears have been replaced with trust, gentleness and patience – in ways that only a romantic comedy could
capture. In hindsight, I’ve learnt that peaceful love is not an illusion reserved for just stories – it is tangible, and it takes a lot of inner shadow work. Most importantly, it’s the small choices we make to listen and forgive that make all the difference. The decision to love fully and to never settle for less. Sometimes, great strength lies in gentleness – and not force. Peaceful love.
