I Refuse to Talk Reckless Anymore
I said what I said.
I refuse to sit around and talk reckless with anyone who thrives on tearing people down.
It wasn’t until I saw her walking with Mustapha that something inside me shifted. Not jealousy. Not rage.
Revelation.
In that instant, I was thrown back to Poetic Justice the constant nagging about my drinking, the moral lectures, the tone of superiority. It’s interesting how some people will obsess over your glass while ignoring the chaos inside their own house.
And I had to ask myself:
Do I harass you about your past? Do I dissect your decisions? Do I question why other people had to step in where you didn’t? Do I bring up the patterns everyone pretends not to see?
No.
Because I don’t build myself up by exposing someone else’s wounds.
But let’s be honest this was never about morality.
I have explained his nature. His patterns. The history. The manipulation. The way he attaches himself for visibility and calls it purpose. The way he has treated women before. The way he performs relevance.
You ignored it.
Because sometimes women don’t want truth. They want the fantasy of being chosen.
Forget that he’s Deja’s father. That’s not even the point anymore.
The point is: delusion will convince you that proximity equals love. That standing next to a man makes you significant. That attention is affection.
It’s not.
I’ve been in rooms where status and image ruled everything. I’ve watched dynamics unfold around women as powerful as Beyoncé and saw firsthand how alliances built on ego eventually collapse.
Money doesn’t make you whole. Visibility doesn’t make you valuable. And access doesn’t make you secure.
What unsettled me wasn’t even the man.
It was the emptiness behind the decision.
How empty must you feel to chase attention like oxygen? How starved must you be to attach yourself to chaos just to feel relevant?
And then God reminded me.
You cannot buy your way into heaven. You cannot purchase peace. You cannot outspend spiritual poverty.
Look at Nicodemus educated, positioned, respected and still spiritually searching. Status did not secure him.
Only transformation did.
And in the Book of Proverbs it says: “A wise woman builds her house, but a foolish one tears it down with her own hands.”
I refuse to tear down what I’ve built mentally, spiritually, emotionally entertaining confusion.
I will not argue with someone who criticizes what they haven’t mastered. I will not debate morality with someone still negotiating with their own identity. I will not compete for a man whose character has already introduced itself.
If there are unresolved feelings, that is not my burden. If there is confusion, that is not my assignment. If there is jealousy, that is not my ministry.
I am done prioritizing anything attached to Mustapha.
I am done revisiting the past to justify my discernment. I am done explaining patterns to grown women who romanticize them.
Some of the most miserable people in the world have everything money, access, image and still perish internally.
Because peace is not purchased. Love is not performed. And relevance is not righteousness.
This isn’t anger.
This is clarity.
Growth looks like silence. Healing looks like distance. Wisdom looks like restraint.
And I am finally there.
