The Real Lovers Are Up

A couple of days ago, I went to see “Call of my Life” with some friends.

Now, before I watched it, I had already seen a handful of promotional content. I had seen clips of Uzoamaka Power and Andrew Bunting together, doing interviews, promoting the movie, looking deeply into each other’s eyes like they were auditioning to become Nigeria’s next power couple. And the internet was eating it up. “The real lovers are up”. That was the general consensus.

At first, I thought people were exaggerating. They were certainly just doing their jobs, promoting the movie. Then I watched it.

And if I am being honest…the real lovers might just be up.

Before I continue, I should probably clarify that I LOVE love. I am absolutely seated for a good romance. Give me a slow-burn. Give me longing/yearning. Give me stolen glances. Give me two people falling in love so gradually that they don’t even realize it’s happening until everyone around them does. I love all of it.

So imagine my confusion when I spent a good portion of Call of my Life physically cringing. Not because the movie was bad or the acting was awkward or the romance felt forced but the complete opposite. It felt too real.

There were moments between Sol and Eli that made me feel like I was invading their privacy. Nothing explicit was happening…they were just talking, looking at each other, existing in each other’s space. And yet I kept feeling like I needed to excuse myself from the room. Like, should we give these people some privacy? Should I be watching this? Am I interrupting something? The entire experience was really uncomfortable…in the best way possible.

In the middle of my second hand embarrassment, I realized something. I was cringing because the romance was intimate not because it was unrealistic (there’s a big difference). Most romantic movies show people performing love. This one felt like it was showing people experiencing it. That’s much harder to watch especially when you’ve spent a significant time in your life guarding your heart.

One of the scenes that stayed with me the most was not even a romantic one. It was the way Sol carried the weight of what Kalu (her ex) had told her. That she loved too much, she was too available and not everything had to be about love.

The thing about such comments is that they don’t just hurt in the moment, they linger. They settle somewhere deep inside you and they make you question things that used to come naturally. You start wondering if you’re doing too much or caring too much or reaching out too often. If you’re being too available.

Once that seed is planted, it becomes difficult to show up as yourself. You start holding back to protect yourself. But there’s a very thin line between protecting your heart and hiding it. I think that’s why I understood Soluchi. Not because I have been in a relationship before, I haven’t. it’s because I understand what it is like to care deeply. I understand what it’s like to invest in people and to believe that someone occupies a bigger place in your life than the place you occupy in theirs.

And if we’re being honest, some of the most painful heartbreaks don’t even happen in romantic relationships. Sometimes they happen in friendships.

You think you have found your person, your best friend and sister. Someone you’d go above and beyond for. Only to discover that the relationship doesn’t mean the same thing to both of you.

That realization hurts, not because anyone necessarily did something wrong but because your feelings weren’t mirrored back. Because you cared more.

And after enough experiences like that, you become extra careful. You tell yourself you’re being realistic, smart, and you’re protecting your peace. But beneath it all, it all comes down to the fear: What if I care more than they do? What if I give someone my whole heart, only for them to treat it like it was never that important?…I think that’s why I could really relate with Sol because she wasn’t just learning how to fall in love again, she was learning how to trust it again.

Heartbreak doesn’t just make you afraid of losing people, it also makes you afraid of being fully seen. It teaches you to keep parts of yourself hidden, hold something back…just in case.

Then Eli comes along.

What I loved most about him wasn’t that he convinced Sol to love again. It was that he never asked her to become less. He never asked her to care less, feel less, or shrink herself into someone easier to love. He simply asked her to be vulnerable.

And that was more terrifying than rejection. Because rejection hurts. But allowing someone to know you completely, honestly, without all the protective ‘walls’ you’ve spent years building…that requires a different kind of courage.

One that I’m not entirely sure I have yet.

We’re living in a time where being nonchalant has somehow become cool. Caring too much is embarrassing. Being vulnerable is risky. Everyone wants to seem detached, unaffected, and impossible to read.

But I dont think that is what most of us actually want.

I think we still want people who remember our favorite things. We still want someone who checks if we got home safely. We still want to be chosen, understood, and loved without having to pretend that we don’t care.

In a generation that often treats vulnerability like a weakness, there was something strangely comforting about watching people who cared deeply, loved openly, and risked getting hurt either way.

At the end of the movie, I didn’t leave the cinema suddenly transformed. I didn’t leave wanting to make reckless decisions in the name of love or ready to start following my heart wherever it leads.

If anything, I am still very much a “head first, heart later” kind of person. My heart and I have an agreement. It sits quietly while my brain handles important decisions.

I left feeling a bit understood.

Loving is not easy. Vulnerability IS terrifying. Caring deeply is NOT a character flaw and loving wholeheartedly isn’t “too much.” It’s just the right amount…for the right person.

I guess that’s what I got from the movie, even though I spent half the movie wanting to look away.