The colourful year called 2025 (1)

You can accuse this year of all the sins under the sun, but 2025 is not guilty of being boring. It arrived quietly, but with excitement in its wings. It was a year “to gbe wa de be,” as they say on the streets of Lagos—that is, a year that showed us different styles and crowned it all with an earth-shattering climax. You know what I’m describing, so don’t play the holy man.

Is this not the year we are ending with explicit details of “after all the s3x, you are leaving me for who?” A man of God was taken to the cleaners on social media for preaching what he is not practising, practising what he cannot preach while tilling land that was not declared fallow. Indeed, the land was pre-owned. As the narrator insisted, the owner of the land was pushed away so the man of the altar could thoroughly own it, use it, and dig it to his heart’s content. Disheartening and heartbreaking. We might have likened this pastor to David stealing Bathsheba in the Bible, but this man, according to the story, wanted to put “Bathsheba” away and marry another—not this Bathsheba. She screamed. “You are leaving me for who, after all the sex, after everything?” She wept so hard, cursed so colorfully, the man on the altar heard and responded, leading to more mud on the golden altar and the purple cassock.

My quick take? Nobody is above mistakes, but coming to social media to wash your G-string and boxers only worsens things. When you are in pain, do not turn on your ring light. Stay far away from it. Dig a little hole in the wall of your bedroom and howl your story. That hole belongs to you. Social media—the internet—does not forget. What if one day our dear sister becomes a successful relationship coach or a bishop? The internet will regurgitate this nonsense “after all the s3x” video. Video evidence is harder to argue with in the court of law, least of all in the court of public opinion.

So much for the pastor and the almost-Pastor-Mrs.

2025—the year that conspired to break my heart by doing all kinds of things to my sweet TuFace Idibia. First, his marriage of 13 years to Annie Idibia ended after months of drama I do not care to recollect or recount. Why? I wanted Annie to be TuFace’s last bus stop.

The young man—he’s old now, I think—had travelled long and hard. He had also broken hearts. I really wanted him to grow old with one wife. But it was not meant to be, not with Annie. TuFace found, or was found by, another woman. People cheered. Many warned. I was not excited by the excitement of those who were excited. Something just did not ring true about my guy’s newfound love. He and his new beau are from two different worlds. The clashes soon started—loudly. I am still wondering who recorded the clash. Bad people. That was another colour of 2025. This year found a way to darken what would have been a bright Valentine red, ringed with supple blue and baby pink.

My quick take: rebound s3x is okay. Rebound marriage? No. When a relationship bites the dust, get on all fours and bawl and wail. Cry. Lock yourself in your room and refuse to shower for a whole week. Watch Netflix, Prime, Kava, and YouTube while you eat straight from the can. Curse and cry some more. Let the pain take its course. Heal slowly. Mourn your loss, because heartbreak is a big deal.

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