By Glory Anurika Onyemelam
(08038465069/07053846499/Gloryfrancis430@gmail.com/gforreal28@yahoo.com)
Let’s talk about love—not the one that comes dressed in designer suits or arrives in the backseat of a luxury car—but the real kind. The kind no money can buy.
There’s this thing they call love, and some believe that with their wealth, with their money, they can purchase it, collect it effortlessly, like it’s served on a platter of gold.
But no! There are things your money will never reach. And no matter the amount, it might bring joy for a moment, but when the truth shows up, it will slip away like water in your hands.
Let me tell you a story.
I had a friend, a bride, on her wedding day, who looked ravishing and radiant. She danced like she was in a dream. She laughed like she had conquered the world.
The bride was surrounded by family and friends as they sprayed money, money fell like raindrops. She danced alone, on her special day.
The groom was nowhere to be seen.
He was as restless as a hive of bees during a thunderstorm. Always outside the reception hall. Gone now and then, difficult to pin down in the hall like a wind.
I stepped outside and there he was, tending with utmost love and care to another lady. The lady sat in a secluded corner.
I caught him wiping her face with such tenderness. He smiled at her as if she were his bride, instead of the bride in the reception hall.
Everyone knew she was his side chic, but the bride did not know her. This side chic stole his time, the time he ought to have given to his new bride.
His heart had always belonged to her, wondered why the heck he bothered to walk down the aisle with his bride.
Oh, right! He married her for her money. She paid all his bills, even paying for the air he breathed. He, in turn, used money she lavished on him to fetes his side chic.
Oh, by the way, did I remember to tell you guys that the marriage had produced a child? They were having that wedding to formalise or legalise things, choose the grammar you prefer.
Years later, guess what? The side chic before his bride, while his wife because the outside.
Son of a gun divorced his wife for his side chic!
But the handwriting on the wall was already seen and understood by many guests at that fateful wedding, and truth be told, even blind Bartimaeus knew what the writing was saying.
Moral of the story? You can pay his bills. You can dress him in gold. But you can’t change where his soul belongs.
This thing we call love—it doesn’t listen to money. It doesn’t bow to comfort. It finds peace in unexpected corners, even in people others might label “low-key” or “unfunny.” Because what matters most? Is where your spirit finds calm. Where words spoken ease your chaos.
And I’ll say this for the record—I’ve been there.
In a triangle I didn’t sign up for. He had someone else buying expensive gifts, but kept returning. Threats came my way—I laughed. Because I knew: love isn’t war. Love doesn’t need jazz, juju or manipulation.
If it’s real, it doesn’t force itself.
He left the country—only told me. Not his family. They came to find me when they couldn’t find him. And yes, people judged. But love is not what you show—it’s what the heart knows.
So hear this loud: Don’t beg for love. Don’t buy your way into someone’s heart, and don’t fake happiness just because someone is footing the bill.
Because one day, they’ll walk back to the person who gives them peace, not things. Happiness, love, feelings—those are invisible. They are natural flows, not purchased luxuries.
Love is where you can breathe. Where you can be seen. Where your name brings a smile, not tension.
Let it happen naturally.
