Love is sweet, but madness is faster.
I was walking with my girlfriend, holding hands, whispering sweet things like a romantic movie. Then boom! Out of nowhere, a mad man appeared eyes rolling, legs flying, shouting like thunder.
My brain didn’t think twice. My ancestors shouted: “Boy, this is not romance, this is survival!” And I ran. Not just ran—I broke Olympic records. Even Usain Bolt would clap for me. Dust rose, chickens scattered, and my girlfriend was left behind like yesterday’s homework.
When the danger was gone, she looked at me with fire in her eyes. She said: “It’s over. You ran faster than me.”
Now tell me, is that fair? Should I have slowed down and waited for madness to catch us both? Should I have carried her like a sack of maize while sprinting? Even the village elders would laugh at such foolishness. They would say: “Love is not measured by running speed. Madness is not a marathon partner.”
But still, I stand guilty. My crime? Outrunning danger. My punishment? Losing love. My defense? Biology. My legs are longer, my fear was stronger, and my ancestors told me to survive.
I did not run away from love. I ran away from madness. If she wants a man who jogs politely beside lunatics, then maybe I am not her man.
So the story ends with a savage proverb: “A woman may leave you for running too fast, but madness will never say sorry for catching you too slow.”
And the people laugh, because sometimes relationships don’t break from lies or cheating. They break because one person runs faster than the other.
