To All the Romcoms I’ve Watched, and Read, Before.
As the eldest daughter of a Nigerian household, it became abundantly clear that the only romance I could experience during my school years was the sexual tension between me and getting straight A’s. So I obediently buried my head in my textbooks, nervously scuttling away from the many secondary school crushes I had. Still, my imagination made sure that I did not miss out completely. Inspired by the YA fiction books I used to smuggle into my Maths class, I conjured up a world where cheesy romance tropes were the lingua franca.
The love I received in my world shone ardently, in hues of blazing orange and sweltering amber. I bathed in its warm embrace on bus journeys when I daydreamed about the love of my life taking the vacant seat next to me and striking up a conversation with his future wife (me. I was his future wife). Goodness, not a comma in sight and how apt. I want to convey that I did not pause to breathe, in this world. I just basked and basked. My skin soaked up love’s radiance during 5-hour church services, as I imagined my science class crush professing his undying love for me; confessions sandwiched between congregational cries of “amen” and “hallelujah”. My fantasies grew with each book I read. I continued to build a universe where I became the embodiment of love itself.
Do you see it? Unlike the playground (which turned into the sixth-form canteen in later years), I didn’t feel rejected or undesirable in my world. Re-imaging myself as the beloved protagonist in the books I adored provided a means to temporarily escape my cloak of invisibility at school and my overwhelming responsibility at home. Between those two places, my love story began and ended with(in) me. So while everyone around me was experiencing their first kisses, first romances and first heartbreaks, I was busy bumping into guys, dropping my books and locking eyes as we both went down to pick them up. All in my head, of course.
Looking back, I realise that I loved romcoms because they allowed me to become familiar with unfamiliar notions of love. At 16, I saw my painfully introverted self in Issa Rae’s Awkward Black Girl; I watched as she navigated romantic situations with relatable and endearing unease. At 18, when I began to come to terms with the trauma that permeated my upbringing, I found comfort in the beautiful intergenerational intimacy that Jane the Virgin depicted. And at 21, when I (finally) experienced the romantic turmoil and distress that shattered the hearts of my favourite protagonists, I cried. I cried until I found the strength to pick myself up and keep going, just like my heroines.
I think a lot of people appreciate romcoms because they teach us that whatever happens, love is inevitable. It’s there, even when your sister accidentally sends letters to your childhood crushes, or when you wake up the next day as the princess of Genovia. It’s there in the friendships you make, in the prayers you whisper at night, in the discovery and growth of self. Love is everything, and everything is love.
So as I spend this year’s Valentine’s Day single, in the middle of a global pandemic, and with a Netflix marathon awaiting me, I fill up my glass with Echo Falls, and I raise it. To all the romcoms I have watched, and read, before.
