On April 4, Omoni Oboli TV unveiled a drama titled ‘While This Heart Beats’. At its core, the theatrical piece tells the story of Ifunnaya, played with haunting depth by the remarkable Omowunmi Dada. A single word lingers in the wake of her pain—’never’.
Ifunaya’s world is shattered by tragedy. Her father, the anchor of her existence, is wrenched from her in a cruel accident. In the throes of grief, she clenches her heart around a vow: she will never have anything to do with the man she holds responsible for her father’s death. That word—never—falls from her lips more than once, each utterance a wall she builds, brick by brick, around her wounded soul.
But as I watched, that word took root in my own mind, refusing to let go. ‘Never’—so final, so resolute. A word of locked doors and severed ties, of fates written in stone. It proclaims the impossible, the unchangeable, the immovable. Yet, as I turn it over in my thoughts, I realise it’s deception.
My situation wasn’t helped by the fact that news filtered in as I was watching the movie that Tunde Oladunjoye, my course mate at the Nigerian Institute of Journalism (NIJ), was dead. He had been earlier declared dead, but it turned out he was still battling with death. But now the finality of his end, like the word ‘never’, seemed no longer in doubt.
Oladunjoye, though older, was a friend. Memories of our years at NIJ came flooding back: our hangouts at the café inside LTV 8, his meticulous editing of a poetry collection in which I was featured, our collective struggle to get NIJ’s certificate accredited by the National Board for Technical Education… and so much more filled my mind.
I was tempted to feel that, because he is dead, we will never see him again. But is that really true? His works will continue to speak for him. So can we truly say we’ll never see him again? Even religious texts suggest the possibility of reunion in the hereafter. So—never say never, right?
In the main, the world does not abide by ‘never’. It knows only the shifting of tides, the slow crumble of mountains, the soft insistence of dawn breaking through even the longest night. What we call ‘never’ is but a fragile dam against the flood of time, an illusion of permanence in a universe that thrives on change.
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So I wonder—when Ifunnaya spoke that word, does she truly believe it? Or is she, like all of us, simply reaching for control in a world where certainty is but a fleeting shadow?
Philosophically, ‘never’ implies a timeless certainty about what cannot be. But can we ever possess such certainty? Consider history: the impossible becomes possible, the unthinkable is realised. The earth was once thought to be the center of the universe, flight an unattainable dream, and instantaneous global communication mere fantasy. All through our years in secondary school, we were told the earth was spherical; we were also told beans were proteinous. Then they could never have been seen otherwise. But, now, we know better. To say something will “never” happen assumes knowledge beyond our grasp. It is a declaration that denies the unpredictable nature of existence.
God, the one who creates us, hasn’t given us the power of finality, the power of ‘never’, so it is not surprising that many a time our ‘never’ has become ‘ever’.
Nietzsche might argue that “never” is a tool of human limitation, a construct of fear that binds us to rigid expectations. To say “I will never change” is to resist the flow of life, to deny growth. Yet, we change despite ourselves.
To say, “I will never marry him again,” or “I’ll never forgive him,” is to shut a door that perhaps should remain ajar, if only slightly. It is to draw a hard, uncompromising line in the sand—one that can easily become a prison rather than a boundary. Such declarations often echo with the sharpness of finality, sounding more like emotional ultimatums than reasoned convictions. In truth, ‘never’ is a kind of fanaticism—an extreme posture that seldom reflects the complex, yet tender reality of human relationships.
Granted, there are rare instances where such finality is not only justified but necessary—for safety, for dignity, for peace of mind. Yet, more often than not, the doors we bolt shut in the heat of hurt were never meant to be sealed forever. We speak of ‘never’ as if it were a badge of strength, when it may in fact be a symptom of unresolved pain.
Especially in matters of the heart, ‘never’ is a dangerous word. In relationships, forgiveness is less a gift to the other than it is a balm for ourselves. There is, truly, no such thing as the unforgivable—only what we choose not to revisit, not to understand, not to release. And time, with its gentle yet relentless hand, has shown again and again that the reasons we cling to irrevocable decisions are often rooted in emotion rather than fact. Pride, betrayal, disappointment—these are felt deeply, yes, but they are not immovable forces. They shift under the weight of reflection, perspective, and grace.
Emotion is unreliable. Emotion fluctuates; it is, by nature, contingent and temporal. Thus, to swear off forgiveness or reconciliation purely out of personal injury is to fail the test of the categorical imperative.
I’m reminded of an interview Omoni Oboli once granted on the subject of marriage. Her words stayed with me. She spoke of how the person who wounds us most deeply is often the one who never intended to do so. Often, the pain we carry is rarely premeditated. We hurt, not because someone aimed to harm, but because they too are flawed, fallible, and human and at times because they don’t know how their actions or inactions will affect the other.
Rigidity—the kind that ‘never’ implies—is the silent destroyer of love. It denies the necessary ebb and flow that relationships require to survive. Flexibility, not firmness, is what sustains. The willingness to bend, to reconsider, to speak after the silence—that is what keeps hearts from breaking beyond repair.
In love, as in life, perhaps the wiser posture is not ‘never’—but ‘not yet’. Not yet ready. Not yet healed. Not yet able to forgive. Because unlike ‘never’, ‘not yet’ leaves space for growth. For change. For grace.
Ironically, if change is the only constant, then “never” itself is an impossibility. That which we deem impossible today may unfold tomorrow. Even the laws of physics, which seem immutable, remain subject to deeper discovery. If nothing is eternal, then even “never” is not forever.
My final take: Perhaps the wisest approach to “never” is caution. We may use it to mark our moral boundaries, but we must also leave space for revision, for new understanding, for the unforeseen. To say “never” too absolutely is to close the door on life’s infinite potential. Thus, we end with a paradox: “Never say never”—for even “never” may not last forever.
