Was the first person to break your heart the boy next door, your long-term partner? Was it dramatic, surprisingly inconsequential? Did it happen later in life? We want to know…
At 11 my place in the world was clear. I was the nerdy goody-two-shoes daughter of a small town Ohio preacher. I had a tight-knit friend group who planned silly sleepovers and talked about how we’d never be popular and that was okay. I had a boy named Austin from Sunday school whose attention gave me butterflies even though he had buck teeth and messy hair.
Then something happened that had never seemed within the realm of possibility: my dad was asked to resign from his position as church pastor. This meant losing my church community and part of my identity all at once. I raged, I cried, and when my dad accepted a new job a thousand miles away in Florida, I went numb.
We moved somewhere that was 72 degrees in February and no one knew who I was. I missed my home and my friends, and in the quiet of my new unformed life, I realized I had a crush on Austin. Why had I never acted on our ongoing flirtation before? I called my friend Becky and asked her to ask Austin out for me during Sunday school. She said his response was, “Maybe if she still lived here,” and I said “Does that mean yes?” I had my first ever boyfriend!
Elated, I wrote him giddy emails every day for a week. I told him about how Floridians wore parkas when it was 60 degrees out and no one went to the beach in winter even though it was perfectly warm enough for it. I wrote about the M&M McFlurries my mom bought me on the way home from school every day in her guilt about uprooting my life. He never responded.
After seven days of unanswered emails, I wrote him a last email saying this wasn’t working. I had so much energy to put into our long-distance relationship because I wasn’t just trying to hold on to Austin, I was trying to hold on to home. Both were out of my reach now and I would have to forge ahead into the unknown of building a new life.
The first man to break my heart and shake my world was my dad. At 14, my heart and attention was wrapped in the presence of a dark-eyed, olive-skinned Italian boy who rode a motorbike. He came to pick me up and as I was walking to the door, I heard my dad say “Get out of here, you long-haired creep and don’t come back.” The door slammed shut. I didn’t speak to my bald - headed dad for three months.
It happened again, two years later, the tone less abrasive, but the message the same. I was smitten with a gentle artist of Japanese origins. Instead of harsh words my dad conveyed a quiet message I didn’t hear, at the time. He said, “This isn’t going to work for us. Please stop calling.”
His message was clear and he broke my heart again. Maybe he was trying to protect me, his firstborn daughter, but he didn’t realize the rupture he’d caused.
My high school love and I never really dated. But we loved. We came from different sides of the social train tracks. Being a combination of a theatre nerd and an athlete I could float pretty easily between cliques, but Christy was squarely in the popular crowd. Pretty and friendly, with a beautiful smile and a look that could melt. She was voted Biggest Flirt! As the rules in the early 80's went, she was, as they say, a bit out of my league. We met as sophomores doing theatre. Our high school had a big theatre program and it was sometimes seen as somewhat cool. Over the next 3 years Christy and I would hang out and fool around. I was pretty innocent and naive when it came to sex, and things never went beyond the heavy petting stage. The attraction was strong, though, clear to both of us. As was our love. Only social realities kept us from really being together. Well, those realities kept her from committing to a relationship. When it came time for prom, she said yes to my proposal. A week later, we were sitting on the sidewalk steps in front of her house and she explained that she couldn't go with me because she wanted to be with her friends that night, the popular kids. Wasn't prom supposed to be about your love? I was devastated like only a teenage can be.
At the end of our senior year, after I had lost my virginity with one of my best friends and dated and been with one of Christy's popular girl rivals, Christy told she had wished she had been my first. Too late. I actually remember feeling...vindicated? That's not the right word. It's a feeling I can't completely describe, but it kind of broke the spell of the heartbreak. 'Her loss' is maybe what I was feeling.
Twenty years later at a high school reunion Christy apologized for treating me so badly. Really, I thought? So long ago, and we were kids. I remember my first love and passion with her pretty fondly. It became clear that I might have been the recipient of the heartbreak in that moment our senior year, but it was Christy that suffered the real loss.
My first heartbreak was in 1983, after my junior year of high school ended. I got high with the captain of our baseball team, a young man I had the deepest crush on, and he told me he loved me. A few days later, I realized he had a girlfriend at another school and had therefore confessed to a filial love for me, not the amatory kind, the kind of burning passion I had for him. I spent that whole summer hoping he'd change his mind...
Joe Thomas brought back some lovely memories recently. Or his show in Harare, Zimbabwe did. If you don’t know who Joe Thomas is perhaps you too young to read the rest of this post. Hands off Mum’s phone kiddo!
The year was 1990 something. I was young. I was in love. I was foolish and yes trains still moved in Zimbabwe back then. There was a footbridge just above a railway line in Kenilworth just before North End suburb in Bulawayo and a vibrant small shopping centre named after the owner Mr Nyandoro.
I thought I was in love. I mean it can only be love when a guy takes you to the popular railway foot bridge at dusk. His name was ....let’s call him Cooliyo. Because he was cool you know. Baggy jeans, big white tee’s and sneakers, headphones and a bounce in his step. It was that step that first got my attention.
I was walking to ko Nyandoro shops. Pretending to mind my own business even though I was aware of them cool boys standing in the street corner. Everyday just before 10 am I was sent to go buy bread, eggs and some things for the house. I had just finished my A-level’s and thought I was a very intelligent young adult.
“Hie, can I take you halfway?” Cooliyo said in a husky voice. I said “Hie” thinking “oh here comes the trouble maker with a tired line.”
“I am going far,” I lied. Listening to the sound of my own hurried footsteps. It was obvious where I was going. I walked briskly clutching my plastic bag on one hand and money on the other. He followed behind slowly placed his head phones over his ears and started singing out loud.
“Extra, extra! Read all about it. Am looking for that one love whose gonna treat me right!” I froze. This was the love of my love. He knew my favourite song. How foolish I was. The whole street must have known my favourite songs. I turned up the volume of our Mukwa polished wooden speakers to maximum whenever my songs where being played on Radio 3’s top 20. I stopped. I smiled. We chatted. And that my friends was the beginning of another story involving a train, a foot bridge, a boy and a girl madly in lust.
Part 2
I started paying more attention to my body weight. I was neither skinny or fat jus average. But somehow I convinced them at home that I wanted to start an exercise routine. Walking around the neighbourhood. At dusk. Ironically I had to take a long bath around 4pm before exercising, spend few more minutes on hair and make up then take my long walk. Cooliyo would wait patiently in a street corner pacing aimlessly till I arrived. There were no cell phones so we couldn’t text. But we had a landline which he also couldn’t use. It would have alerted everyone at home.
Walks were long going round the neighbourhood or Jacaranda Avenue. Which was the longest street in the hood. In spring it was beautifully lined with lilac petals. Our destination was always the same. Nyandoro shops. At first Cooliyo would use whatever pennies he had to buy me biscuits and a Fanta orange. Yes, it was a treat back then. Then we would head to the footbridge where young lovers would have gathered usually on top of the bridge. Jus sitting waiting for trains to pass by while they chatted. We could never find a spot on top of the bridge or under it.
Cooliyo suggested we walk further up the Railway line towards Tegela or Saurcetown Police station. There was another bridge under a highway. We often stood there. Experimenting.
It was during one intense experiment that the worst happened. My skirt was up, my back against concrete blocks next to the Railway line. And Cooliyo? He was pushing me further into the wall. His back turned away from the railway line. We stood there. Shifting endlessly. It was awkward trying to get nuts and bolts fastened together. During the heat of the moment neither of us heard the oncoming train till it was going past us.
I buried my head in shame in my lovers chest. He hid his face in the darkness against the wall. I didn’t dare open my eyes. Wether it was a goods train or a passenger train I still don’t know. But beneath the shame I head whistles very loud laughs and cheering. Cooliyo’ naked bum bum was completely exposed to the passing train. The ground was vibrating and the train seemed to be moving slowly.
Finally it was all over. I lowered my skirt and hurried home. Cooliyo picked up his baggy jeans and tried to keep track .
“They didn’t see our faces,” he assured me.
“I don’t care am not going back there again.”
And I meant it. That caused a strain in our young love. He called me a kill joy and other names. Nothing worked. I was never going to be caught pants down on the railway again.
Part 3
The relationship ended. I turned to Radio 3 for comfort. The soothing sounds of 90’s RnB. Joe Thomas, Mary J, Brandy, Monica etc.
“I don’t ever wanna see you again” my squeaky voice screamed loudly above Uncle Sam’s melancholic tune. My siblings had had just about enough of sad songs. I replayed the tapes I pirated during Radio 3’s top 20. Going over each sad song multiple times. Teary eyed I scribbled the lyrics in my song book. YES throughout the day!
Cooliyo was nowhere to be seen. Occasionally I volunteered to go to the shops. I didn’t see him and whenever I saw him he acted cool. My longing turned to resentment.
“What did I ever see in him,” I said to my confused young siblings. I dusted myself up. Remembered who I was. A young beautiful woman who lived in a vibrant large city with restaurants and cinemas, Kine 600 and the like. Why cry over a boy who couldn’t even take me to a movie, or pull up his pants when the train came.
As karma would have it. Cooliyo had an early mid life crisis. Suddenly, he started going past our house several times a day. His stretched neck peeping above the wall. He stole his parents phone many times during the day. My siblings told him I wasn’t around. His heartbreak lasted longer than mine which had only lasted for 2 weeks. Well, thanks to the songs. I think Cooliyo didn’t have the right tunes.
Like, Share, Comment which songs did you listen to soothe Ur broken hearts 💕. DM Ur confessions Facebook: Nandi Peach.
i was 13. It was one of those thrilling days in middle school when a whole grade “ presentation” interrupted our usual class schedule. The entire 7th grade smooshed into the gymnasium bleachers. My eyes excitedly shifted around to find my boyfriend of the past year so we could sit together. When i finally found him he was sitting with his friend ,Willie, and actively avoiding my eyes. An instant dread came over me. By the end of the presentation Willie had made his way over to me and unceremoniously broke up with me on behalf of my boyfriend. No explanation. no warning. i had to go to my next class, Home Ec pretending i wasn’t crying. This boyfriend then proceeded to tell every girl any thing i ever said about them. A year’s worth of phone calls where we talked about our friends at school cause what the hell else do 13 year olds talk about but school and friends. . He then told people things i told him in confidence. i could never figure out why? so in the end it was a double heartbreak. lost a boyfriend and my friends. and really kinda a triple heartbreak cause the whole thing shattered my self esteem for years
My first heart break happened when I was 21. My first boyfriend was not the best judge of character but I trusted him. He had graduated from highschool but he never went to his prom. he went with a friend of his cousin. She didn't want to lose the money for the extra ticket so he went. I trusted him to go and not send this girl the wrong message. Unfortunately for me, he went and despite him repeatedly telling this girl no. He ended up in a situation that caused me to lose trust in him. To this day I still don't know if he actually cheated. But the doubt was put in place. His cousin tried to get me to believe nothing happened, but I felt otherwise. I was already mad because I didn't think he'd go. But to trust him and then find out they slept in the same room, after the fact, my heart broke that day. Our relationship was not the same after that.
A new kid showed up on the first day of my sophomore year in high school. He'd moved to our small Chicago suburb from some city out East, maybe Philadelphia, which made him seem exotic and mysterious. And he liked me! We dated for several months. Then one day he said he was really sorry, but he had to break up with me. He was being teased by the other guys for dating a fat girl and it was killing his reputation. Broke my heart and almost broke my spirit. But not quite.
I couldn’t believe he had been interested in me. He was cute and funny and strong. The summer had flown by, and I was head over heels. “Is this what love is?” I wondered. The next morning he told me he didn’t want to be my boyfriend anymore. He didn’t want a serious relationship. “I’ve had that,” he told me, “but I don’t want that with anyone now.”
One weekend, after Tom and I had been dating for three years, we came back to my dorm room after a pleasant afternoon out. As I unlocked my door, I noticed the door across the hall was open, so I strolled over to say a quick hello to Jeff, one of the men who lived there. I wasn't there for two minutes. When I came back, Tom was gone. I checked the bathrooms. I looked up and down the halls. Looked out the window. His car wasn't in the parking lot.
I didn't panic, but I was confused. Where had Tom gone—and why had he left without saying goodbye?
I went across the hall to Jamie's room again.
“Jeff, when I was over here earlier, Tom disappeared. I can't figure out where he went.”
“That's odd. I guess you checked the bathroom and looked to see if his car is still here,” said Jamie.
“I did. His car is gone. He didn't even say goodbye.”
“Did you two argue today?" he said.
"No, we had an excellent visit this weekend. We walked around campus, went to a movie. Everything was perfectly normal."
"Well, try not to worry too much. I'm sure you'll hear from him soon," said Jamie.
I returned to my room and looked around. He hadn’t left anything behind. I was so puzzled.
We were engaged to be married in July.
I decided to take a shower to help me relax, and after that, I put on an oversized T-shirt and climbed into bed. I had reading to do for my psych class. Soon, I was absorbed in my reading and breathing more easily. Tomorrow would be a new day.
“Ring-g-g! Ring-g-g!”
I was on the edge of sleep when the phone on my nightstand rang late that night, jolting me awake. I looked at my alarm clock. It was after midnight.
“Hello?” I said with a yawn.
“Western Union. Telegram for Linda.”
“This is Linda,” I said. "Go ahead."
The Western Union operator read the message: “The wedding is off. STOP. Return the ring. STOP. A letter will follow. STOP.”
Instantly, I broke a sweat. I felt ill with the shock of what I thought I had heard.
“Would… would you please repeat that?” I said.
And he did.
“The wedding is off. STOP. Return the ring. STOP. A letter will follow. STOP.”
I paused for a few seconds to take it all in. There was no mistaking the message. I
mustered the courtesy to thank the Western Union man, who said I would receive a paper copy in the mail.
I hung up the phone, and tears came as soon as I returned the receiver to its cradle. I cried
about two buckets’ worth. At that stage in my life, sobbing and aching with sorrow, I was sure this was equivalent to mourning a death.
Tom was my first love. I thought we had a perfect relationship. After all, we never argued about anything, yet I discovered how wrong I had been. My dreams were dashed.
The following day, I called my mother to tell her the news.
“Mum, this is Linda. Tom has called off the wedding. Would you take care of canceling the reception, the caterer, and the cake?”
“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. “Yes, I'll call them.”
I still had a custom-made, hand-embroidered satin wedding dress, costing $125, hanging in the closet at home. That was a lot of money for the time, and I couldn't return it.
I cried my eyes out all day Sunday until they were red and swollen. I lay on my bed, wondering if there was anything specific that had triggered the unraveling. I vividly remembered Tom stepping out of the elevator on Friday evening with a bouquet of mixed spring flowers, blossoms he knew I loved.
My heart was broken.
That weekend, I went home to return the ring and get that dreaded task out of the way.
I called Tom's parents' house, and it turned out that Tom was still at school. He had not come home that weekend to pick up the ring from me after all. I thought that was cowardly. I left the ring with my mother, and he picked it up another time when I wasn’t there.
When I returned to campus, I made an appointment at The Chopping Block, Amherst's trendiest hair salon. I wanted to cut off my long brown hair, which was almost to my waist. Thankfully, shaved heads and tattoos weren't in style. My haircut was both defiant and celebratory. When I left the salon, I was floating on air with a pixie cut like Liza Minnelli's.
I stuck my thumb out to hitchhike back to the dorm and got picked up immediately. The guy who picked me up said he stopped because I had such a big smile.
A letter from Tom never did follow his telephone telegram.
The boy next door broke my heart the summer of ’66. Blue eyes, hair that swayed, lips ready for a first kiss. He told me he liked my red hair. By fall, he walked past me with a smile for a puppy, holding Shelly’s hand—black hair like Cher, cleavage.
Joe Thomas brought back some lovely memories recently. Or his show in Harare, Zimbabwe did. If you don’t know who Joe Thomas is perhaps you too young to read the rest of this post. Hands off Mum’s phone kiddo!
The year was 1990 something. I was young. I was in love. I was foolish and yes trains still moved in Zimbabwe back then. There was a footbridge just above a railway line in Kenilworth just before North End suburb in Bulawayo. A vibrant small shopping centre koNyandoro.
I thought I was in love. I mean it can only be love when a guy takes you to the popular railway foot bridge at dusk. His name was ....let’s call him Cooliyo. Coz he was cool you know. Baggy jeans, big white tee’s and sneakers, headphones and a bounce in his step. It was that step that first got my attention.
I was walking to ko Nyandoro shops. Pretending to mind my own business even though I was aware of them cool boys standing in the street corner. Everyday just before 10 I was sent to go buy bread, eggs and some things for the house. I had just finished my A-level’s and thought I was a very intelligent young adult.
“Hie, can I take you halfway?” Cooliyo said in a husky voice. I said “Hie” thinking “oh here comes the trouble maker with a tired line.”
“I am going far,” I lied. Listening to the sound of my own hurried footsteps. It was obvious where I was going. I walked briskly clutching my plastic bag on one hand and money on the other. He followed behind slowly placed his head phones over his ears and started singing out loud.
“Extra, extra! Read all about it. Am looking for that one love whose gonna treat me right!” I froze. This was the love of my love. He knew my favourite song. How foolish I was. The whole street must have known my favourite songs. I turned up the volume of them wooden speakers to Maximum whenever my songs where being played on Radio 3’s top 20. I stopped. I smiled. We chatted. And that my friends was the beginning of another story involving a train, a foot bridge, a boy and a girl madly in lust.
Stay tuned for part 2. Like, share and follow for more confessions.
In 1984, U.S. President Regan visited my native Ireland. As part of the presidential tour, Mr. Regan and his entourage stayed in the ornate, 12th-century castle that sits in our neighboring village.
While the White House team presumably dined in the castle's dining room, we locals crowded into a village pub where I spotted Sean (not his real name). Curly hair. A slight overbite. A groovy denim shirt.
Turned out, our younger sisters were school friends, so I knew that he worked in the city, where, a while back, he'd broken up with his long-time girlfriend.
On that boozy presidential night, I was 22 and he was a little older. So there we stood, beers in hand and eyes only for each other. President? What president?
By then, I was two years into my first, post-college job. I had just bought my first car. My job and flat were located in a lonely, backwater town that sat 40 miles from the then-Northern Irish border and two hours away from Sean’s studio flat.
We started dating, and my working weekdays became a tick-the-box countdown toward the weekends when I would pack a bag to drive west to be with him. Yay! Now, with my own car and my own man, I was finally, finally a grown-up.
One night, Sean and I were sitting at his tiny kitchen table when he asked me about my life's dream. Wait! My life's what? Until then, from my college to my career, I had followed my parents' orders. But now, here was a man asking about me and *my* dreams. I asked him back.
One Saturday, just as we had planned, I drove to and parked outside his apartment house and crossed to his apartment door.
He was still in bed. And there, on the side of that bed, sat a woman. A freeze-frame moment when he and I locked eyes over that woman's head. I fled back to my new car to drive and sob my way home. The woman, I later learned, was his not-so-ex girlfriend.
Years later, long after I had moved from Ireland to the United States and had married my husband, I was back in Ireland visiting the family. It was just after Christmas and there was Sean, standing at the bar in our village pub. Older. Hair still curly. No denim shirt.
I knew that he had married that woman and their first child was born shortly thereafter. I also knew that he had pursued that job he had once dreamed of and told me about.
By that pub night, he had lost that dream job and career. He had also lost his marriage and almost lost custody of some of his children. He shuffled through the Christmas-drinking crowd toward me. In a beery voice he said, "I heard you're in America now.” I nodded; even forced a smile. He continued: “But I still remember our chat that night—the one about our dreams. You said that you wanted to be a writer. Did it ever happen for you?"
I nodded, 'Yes.’
He moved in closer and whispered., “I’m glad. Very, very glad.”
My little high school boyfriend asked me in our 30’s whether our break up had psychologically scarred me. The arrogance. And then tried to get back together again after. The nerve. And anyway he aged from his 30’s to 50’s in like five years. Thank God that didn’t work out. But also, he wondered if he had hurt me. Come to think of it though, my husband, he’s never asked me that question.
At 11 my place in the world was clear. I was the nerdy goody-two-shoes daughter of a small town Ohio preacher. I had a tight-knit friend group who planned silly sleepovers and talked about how we’d never be popular and that was okay. I had a boy named Austin from Sunday school whose attention gave me butterflies even though he had buck teeth and messy hair.
Then something happened that had never seemed within the realm of possibility: my dad was asked to resign from his position as church pastor. This meant losing my church community and part of my identity all at once. I raged, I cried, and when my dad accepted a new job a thousand miles away in Florida, I went numb.
We moved somewhere that was 72 degrees in February and no one knew who I was. I missed my home and my friends, and in the quiet of my new unformed life, I realized I had a crush on Austin. Why had I never acted on our ongoing flirtation before? I called my friend Becky and asked her to ask Austin out for me during Sunday school. She said his response was, “Maybe if she still lived here,” and I said “Does that mean yes?” I had my first ever boyfriend!
Elated, I wrote him giddy emails every day for a week. I told him about how Floridians wore parkas when it was 60 degrees out and no one went to the beach in winter even though it was perfectly warm enough for it. I wrote about the M&M McFlurries my mom bought me on the way home from school every day in her guilt about uprooting my life. He never responded.
After seven days of unanswered emails, I wrote him a last email saying this wasn’t working. I had so much energy to put into our long-distance relationship because I wasn’t just trying to hold on to Austin, I was trying to hold on to home. Both were out of my reach now and I would have to forge ahead into the unknown of building a new life.
The first man to break my heart and shake my world was my dad. At 14, my heart and attention was wrapped in the presence of a dark-eyed, olive-skinned Italian boy who rode a motorbike. He came to pick me up and as I was walking to the door, I heard my dad say “Get out of here, you long-haired creep and don’t come back.” The door slammed shut. I didn’t speak to my bald - headed dad for three months.
It happened again, two years later, the tone less abrasive, but the message the same. I was smitten with a gentle artist of Japanese origins. Instead of harsh words my dad conveyed a quiet message I didn’t hear, at the time. He said, “This isn’t going to work for us. Please stop calling.”
His message was clear and he broke my heart again. Maybe he was trying to protect me, his firstborn daughter, but he didn’t realize the rupture he’d caused.
Oof, felt your pain reading this, Kathryn!
My high school love and I never really dated. But we loved. We came from different sides of the social train tracks. Being a combination of a theatre nerd and an athlete I could float pretty easily between cliques, but Christy was squarely in the popular crowd. Pretty and friendly, with a beautiful smile and a look that could melt. She was voted Biggest Flirt! As the rules in the early 80's went, she was, as they say, a bit out of my league. We met as sophomores doing theatre. Our high school had a big theatre program and it was sometimes seen as somewhat cool. Over the next 3 years Christy and I would hang out and fool around. I was pretty innocent and naive when it came to sex, and things never went beyond the heavy petting stage. The attraction was strong, though, clear to both of us. As was our love. Only social realities kept us from really being together. Well, those realities kept her from committing to a relationship. When it came time for prom, she said yes to my proposal. A week later, we were sitting on the sidewalk steps in front of her house and she explained that she couldn't go with me because she wanted to be with her friends that night, the popular kids. Wasn't prom supposed to be about your love? I was devastated like only a teenage can be.
At the end of our senior year, after I had lost my virginity with one of my best friends and dated and been with one of Christy's popular girl rivals, Christy told she had wished she had been my first. Too late. I actually remember feeling...vindicated? That's not the right word. It's a feeling I can't completely describe, but it kind of broke the spell of the heartbreak. 'Her loss' is maybe what I was feeling.
Twenty years later at a high school reunion Christy apologized for treating me so badly. Really, I thought? So long ago, and we were kids. I remember my first love and passion with her pretty fondly. It became clear that I might have been the recipient of the heartbreak in that moment our senior year, but it was Christy that suffered the real loss.
This is giving me Pretty in Pink vibes, Matt. Thanks for sharing. Feelings around this sort of thing are so complicated…and definitely lasting.
My first heartbreak was in 1983, after my junior year of high school ended. I got high with the captain of our baseball team, a young man I had the deepest crush on, and he told me he loved me. A few days later, I realized he had a girlfriend at another school and had therefore confessed to a filial love for me, not the amatory kind, the kind of burning passion I had for him. I spent that whole summer hoping he'd change his mind...
Yes, it was shocking, for sure!
My first heartbreak
Nandi Peach
Joe Thomas brought back some lovely memories recently. Or his show in Harare, Zimbabwe did. If you don’t know who Joe Thomas is perhaps you too young to read the rest of this post. Hands off Mum’s phone kiddo!
The year was 1990 something. I was young. I was in love. I was foolish and yes trains still moved in Zimbabwe back then. There was a footbridge just above a railway line in Kenilworth just before North End suburb in Bulawayo and a vibrant small shopping centre named after the owner Mr Nyandoro.
I thought I was in love. I mean it can only be love when a guy takes you to the popular railway foot bridge at dusk. His name was ....let’s call him Cooliyo. Because he was cool you know. Baggy jeans, big white tee’s and sneakers, headphones and a bounce in his step. It was that step that first got my attention.
I was walking to ko Nyandoro shops. Pretending to mind my own business even though I was aware of them cool boys standing in the street corner. Everyday just before 10 am I was sent to go buy bread, eggs and some things for the house. I had just finished my A-level’s and thought I was a very intelligent young adult.
“Hie, can I take you halfway?” Cooliyo said in a husky voice. I said “Hie” thinking “oh here comes the trouble maker with a tired line.”
“I am going far,” I lied. Listening to the sound of my own hurried footsteps. It was obvious where I was going. I walked briskly clutching my plastic bag on one hand and money on the other. He followed behind slowly placed his head phones over his ears and started singing out loud.
“Extra, extra! Read all about it. Am looking for that one love whose gonna treat me right!” I froze. This was the love of my love. He knew my favourite song. How foolish I was. The whole street must have known my favourite songs. I turned up the volume of our Mukwa polished wooden speakers to maximum whenever my songs where being played on Radio 3’s top 20. I stopped. I smiled. We chatted. And that my friends was the beginning of another story involving a train, a foot bridge, a boy and a girl madly in lust.
Part 2
I started paying more attention to my body weight. I was neither skinny or fat jus average. But somehow I convinced them at home that I wanted to start an exercise routine. Walking around the neighbourhood. At dusk. Ironically I had to take a long bath around 4pm before exercising, spend few more minutes on hair and make up then take my long walk. Cooliyo would wait patiently in a street corner pacing aimlessly till I arrived. There were no cell phones so we couldn’t text. But we had a landline which he also couldn’t use. It would have alerted everyone at home.
Walks were long going round the neighbourhood or Jacaranda Avenue. Which was the longest street in the hood. In spring it was beautifully lined with lilac petals. Our destination was always the same. Nyandoro shops. At first Cooliyo would use whatever pennies he had to buy me biscuits and a Fanta orange. Yes, it was a treat back then. Then we would head to the footbridge where young lovers would have gathered usually on top of the bridge. Jus sitting waiting for trains to pass by while they chatted. We could never find a spot on top of the bridge or under it.
Cooliyo suggested we walk further up the Railway line towards Tegela or Saurcetown Police station. There was another bridge under a highway. We often stood there. Experimenting.
It was during one intense experiment that the worst happened. My skirt was up, my back against concrete blocks next to the Railway line. And Cooliyo? He was pushing me further into the wall. His back turned away from the railway line. We stood there. Shifting endlessly. It was awkward trying to get nuts and bolts fastened together. During the heat of the moment neither of us heard the oncoming train till it was going past us.
I buried my head in shame in my lovers chest. He hid his face in the darkness against the wall. I didn’t dare open my eyes. Wether it was a goods train or a passenger train I still don’t know. But beneath the shame I head whistles very loud laughs and cheering. Cooliyo’ naked bum bum was completely exposed to the passing train. The ground was vibrating and the train seemed to be moving slowly.
Finally it was all over. I lowered my skirt and hurried home. Cooliyo picked up his baggy jeans and tried to keep track .
“They didn’t see our faces,” he assured me.
“I don’t care am not going back there again.”
And I meant it. That caused a strain in our young love. He called me a kill joy and other names. Nothing worked. I was never going to be caught pants down on the railway again.
Part 3
The relationship ended. I turned to Radio 3 for comfort. The soothing sounds of 90’s RnB. Joe Thomas, Mary J, Brandy, Monica etc.
“I don’t ever wanna see you again” my squeaky voice screamed loudly above Uncle Sam’s melancholic tune. My siblings had had just about enough of sad songs. I replayed the tapes I pirated during Radio 3’s top 20. Going over each sad song multiple times. Teary eyed I scribbled the lyrics in my song book. YES throughout the day!
Cooliyo was nowhere to be seen. Occasionally I volunteered to go to the shops. I didn’t see him and whenever I saw him he acted cool. My longing turned to resentment.
“What did I ever see in him,” I said to my confused young siblings. I dusted myself up. Remembered who I was. A young beautiful woman who lived in a vibrant large city with restaurants and cinemas, Kine 600 and the like. Why cry over a boy who couldn’t even take me to a movie, or pull up his pants when the train came.
As karma would have it. Cooliyo had an early mid life crisis. Suddenly, he started going past our house several times a day. His stretched neck peeping above the wall. He stole his parents phone many times during the day. My siblings told him I wasn’t around. His heartbreak lasted longer than mine which had only lasted for 2 weeks. Well, thanks to the songs. I think Cooliyo didn’t have the right tunes.
Like, Share, Comment which songs did you listen to soothe Ur broken hearts 💕. DM Ur confessions Facebook: Nandi Peach.
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i was 13. It was one of those thrilling days in middle school when a whole grade “ presentation” interrupted our usual class schedule. The entire 7th grade smooshed into the gymnasium bleachers. My eyes excitedly shifted around to find my boyfriend of the past year so we could sit together. When i finally found him he was sitting with his friend ,Willie, and actively avoiding my eyes. An instant dread came over me. By the end of the presentation Willie had made his way over to me and unceremoniously broke up with me on behalf of my boyfriend. No explanation. no warning. i had to go to my next class, Home Ec pretending i wasn’t crying. This boyfriend then proceeded to tell every girl any thing i ever said about them. A year’s worth of phone calls where we talked about our friends at school cause what the hell else do 13 year olds talk about but school and friends. . He then told people things i told him in confidence. i could never figure out why? so in the end it was a double heartbreak. lost a boyfriend and my friends. and really kinda a triple heartbreak cause the whole thing shattered my self esteem for years
Ugh. The breakup-by-friend! A brutal middle school classic.
I never met my first crush, it didn’t stop me loving him or believing that I’d marry him.
I drooled over his ringlet hair his dress sense his awesome singing voice. He was a pretty boy, loved the color purple.
I persuaded my parents to paint my bedroom a deep shade of purple in honor of him, to show my love.
I was heartbroken when he died. I’d just perfected writing my married name Mrs. Marc Bolan.
Thankfully Mrs. Les McKeown, although it was harder to spell, sounded ok too.
My first heart break happened when I was 21. My first boyfriend was not the best judge of character but I trusted him. He had graduated from highschool but he never went to his prom. he went with a friend of his cousin. She didn't want to lose the money for the extra ticket so he went. I trusted him to go and not send this girl the wrong message. Unfortunately for me, he went and despite him repeatedly telling this girl no. He ended up in a situation that caused me to lose trust in him. To this day I still don't know if he actually cheated. But the doubt was put in place. His cousin tried to get me to believe nothing happened, but I felt otherwise. I was already mad because I didn't think he'd go. But to trust him and then find out they slept in the same room, after the fact, my heart broke that day. Our relationship was not the same after that.
A new kid showed up on the first day of my sophomore year in high school. He'd moved to our small Chicago suburb from some city out East, maybe Philadelphia, which made him seem exotic and mysterious. And he liked me! We dated for several months. Then one day he said he was really sorry, but he had to break up with me. He was being teased by the other guys for dating a fat girl and it was killing his reputation. Broke my heart and almost broke my spirit. But not quite.
That's brutal, Phyllis. High school kids are the worst! Glad you didn't let it break your spirit. ❤️
I couldn’t believe he had been interested in me. He was cute and funny and strong. The summer had flown by, and I was head over heels. “Is this what love is?” I wondered. The next morning he told me he didn’t want to be my boyfriend anymore. He didn’t want a serious relationship. “I’ve had that,” he told me, “but I don’t want that with anyone now.”
“At least not with me,” I thought.
yup, have had this experience
One weekend, after Tom and I had been dating for three years, we came back to my dorm room after a pleasant afternoon out. As I unlocked my door, I noticed the door across the hall was open, so I strolled over to say a quick hello to Jeff, one of the men who lived there. I wasn't there for two minutes. When I came back, Tom was gone. I checked the bathrooms. I looked up and down the halls. Looked out the window. His car wasn't in the parking lot.
I didn't panic, but I was confused. Where had Tom gone—and why had he left without saying goodbye?
I went across the hall to Jamie's room again.
“Jeff, when I was over here earlier, Tom disappeared. I can't figure out where he went.”
“That's odd. I guess you checked the bathroom and looked to see if his car is still here,” said Jamie.
“I did. His car is gone. He didn't even say goodbye.”
“Did you two argue today?" he said.
"No, we had an excellent visit this weekend. We walked around campus, went to a movie. Everything was perfectly normal."
"Well, try not to worry too much. I'm sure you'll hear from him soon," said Jamie.
I returned to my room and looked around. He hadn’t left anything behind. I was so puzzled.
We were engaged to be married in July.
I decided to take a shower to help me relax, and after that, I put on an oversized T-shirt and climbed into bed. I had reading to do for my psych class. Soon, I was absorbed in my reading and breathing more easily. Tomorrow would be a new day.
“Ring-g-g! Ring-g-g!”
I was on the edge of sleep when the phone on my nightstand rang late that night, jolting me awake. I looked at my alarm clock. It was after midnight.
“Hello?” I said with a yawn.
“Western Union. Telegram for Linda.”
“This is Linda,” I said. "Go ahead."
The Western Union operator read the message: “The wedding is off. STOP. Return the ring. STOP. A letter will follow. STOP.”
Instantly, I broke a sweat. I felt ill with the shock of what I thought I had heard.
“Would… would you please repeat that?” I said.
And he did.
“The wedding is off. STOP. Return the ring. STOP. A letter will follow. STOP.”
I paused for a few seconds to take it all in. There was no mistaking the message. I
mustered the courtesy to thank the Western Union man, who said I would receive a paper copy in the mail.
I hung up the phone, and tears came as soon as I returned the receiver to its cradle. I cried
about two buckets’ worth. At that stage in my life, sobbing and aching with sorrow, I was sure this was equivalent to mourning a death.
Tom was my first love. I thought we had a perfect relationship. After all, we never argued about anything, yet I discovered how wrong I had been. My dreams were dashed.
The following day, I called my mother to tell her the news.
“Mum, this is Linda. Tom has called off the wedding. Would you take care of canceling the reception, the caterer, and the cake?”
“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. “Yes, I'll call them.”
I still had a custom-made, hand-embroidered satin wedding dress, costing $125, hanging in the closet at home. That was a lot of money for the time, and I couldn't return it.
I cried my eyes out all day Sunday until they were red and swollen. I lay on my bed, wondering if there was anything specific that had triggered the unraveling. I vividly remembered Tom stepping out of the elevator on Friday evening with a bouquet of mixed spring flowers, blossoms he knew I loved.
My heart was broken.
That weekend, I went home to return the ring and get that dreaded task out of the way.
I called Tom's parents' house, and it turned out that Tom was still at school. He had not come home that weekend to pick up the ring from me after all. I thought that was cowardly. I left the ring with my mother, and he picked it up another time when I wasn’t there.
When I returned to campus, I made an appointment at The Chopping Block, Amherst's trendiest hair salon. I wanted to cut off my long brown hair, which was almost to my waist. Thankfully, shaved heads and tattoos weren't in style. My haircut was both defiant and celebratory. When I left the salon, I was floating on air with a pixie cut like Liza Minnelli's.
I stuck my thumb out to hitchhike back to the dorm and got picked up immediately. The guy who picked me up said he stopped because I had such a big smile.
A letter from Tom never did follow his telephone telegram.
Oh my gosh. Breaking an engagement via telegram?!? I'm still mad that Tom never sent you a letter!
I just deleted the duplicate content.
Yes- shocking for sure!
The boy next door broke my heart the summer of ’66. Blue eyes, hair that swayed, lips ready for a first kiss. He told me he liked my red hair. By fall, he walked past me with a smile for a puppy, holding Shelly’s hand—black hair like Cher, cleavage.
Joe Thomas brought back some lovely memories recently. Or his show in Harare, Zimbabwe did. If you don’t know who Joe Thomas is perhaps you too young to read the rest of this post. Hands off Mum’s phone kiddo!
The year was 1990 something. I was young. I was in love. I was foolish and yes trains still moved in Zimbabwe back then. There was a footbridge just above a railway line in Kenilworth just before North End suburb in Bulawayo. A vibrant small shopping centre koNyandoro.
I thought I was in love. I mean it can only be love when a guy takes you to the popular railway foot bridge at dusk. His name was ....let’s call him Cooliyo. Coz he was cool you know. Baggy jeans, big white tee’s and sneakers, headphones and a bounce in his step. It was that step that first got my attention.
I was walking to ko Nyandoro shops. Pretending to mind my own business even though I was aware of them cool boys standing in the street corner. Everyday just before 10 I was sent to go buy bread, eggs and some things for the house. I had just finished my A-level’s and thought I was a very intelligent young adult.
“Hie, can I take you halfway?” Cooliyo said in a husky voice. I said “Hie” thinking “oh here comes the trouble maker with a tired line.”
“I am going far,” I lied. Listening to the sound of my own hurried footsteps. It was obvious where I was going. I walked briskly clutching my plastic bag on one hand and money on the other. He followed behind slowly placed his head phones over his ears and started singing out loud.
“Extra, extra! Read all about it. Am looking for that one love whose gonna treat me right!” I froze. This was the love of my love. He knew my favourite song. How foolish I was. The whole street must have known my favourite songs. I turned up the volume of them wooden speakers to Maximum whenever my songs where being played on Radio 3’s top 20. I stopped. I smiled. We chatted. And that my friends was the beginning of another story involving a train, a foot bridge, a boy and a girl madly in lust.
Stay tuned for part 2. Like, share and follow for more confessions.
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In 1984, U.S. President Regan visited my native Ireland. As part of the presidential tour, Mr. Regan and his entourage stayed in the ornate, 12th-century castle that sits in our neighboring village.
While the White House team presumably dined in the castle's dining room, we locals crowded into a village pub where I spotted Sean (not his real name). Curly hair. A slight overbite. A groovy denim shirt.
Turned out, our younger sisters were school friends, so I knew that he worked in the city, where, a while back, he'd broken up with his long-time girlfriend.
On that boozy presidential night, I was 22 and he was a little older. So there we stood, beers in hand and eyes only for each other. President? What president?
By then, I was two years into my first, post-college job. I had just bought my first car. My job and flat were located in a lonely, backwater town that sat 40 miles from the then-Northern Irish border and two hours away from Sean’s studio flat.
We started dating, and my working weekdays became a tick-the-box countdown toward the weekends when I would pack a bag to drive west to be with him. Yay! Now, with my own car and my own man, I was finally, finally a grown-up.
One night, Sean and I were sitting at his tiny kitchen table when he asked me about my life's dream. Wait! My life's what? Until then, from my college to my career, I had followed my parents' orders. But now, here was a man asking about me and *my* dreams. I asked him back.
One Saturday, just as we had planned, I drove to and parked outside his apartment house and crossed to his apartment door.
He was still in bed. And there, on the side of that bed, sat a woman. A freeze-frame moment when he and I locked eyes over that woman's head. I fled back to my new car to drive and sob my way home. The woman, I later learned, was his not-so-ex girlfriend.
Years later, long after I had moved from Ireland to the United States and had married my husband, I was back in Ireland visiting the family. It was just after Christmas and there was Sean, standing at the bar in our village pub. Older. Hair still curly. No denim shirt.
I knew that he had married that woman and their first child was born shortly thereafter. I also knew that he had pursued that job he had once dreamed of and told me about.
By that pub night, he had lost that dream job and career. He had also lost his marriage and almost lost custody of some of his children. He shuffled through the Christmas-drinking crowd toward me. In a beery voice he said, "I heard you're in America now.” I nodded; even forced a smile. He continued: “But I still remember our chat that night—the one about our dreams. You said that you wanted to be a writer. Did it ever happen for you?"
I nodded, 'Yes.’
He moved in closer and whispered., “I’m glad. Very, very glad.”
My little high school boyfriend asked me in our 30’s whether our break up had psychologically scarred me. The arrogance. And then tried to get back together again after. The nerve. And anyway he aged from his 30’s to 50’s in like five years. Thank God that didn’t work out. But also, he wondered if he had hurt me. Come to think of it though, my husband, he’s never asked me that question.