THE MYSTERY OF THE CRACKED PHONE.

The Mystery of the Cracked Phone

I’ve always believed that the condition of a person’s phone says more than we think. You see a shattered screen, and it’s not just glass—it’s a reflection of something deeper. A story. A warning. A lesson. I learned that the hard way.

It started with a woman named Shell. She was from Detroit, Michigan, and when I met her, I thought I had finally stumbled upon the blessing I’d been praying for. She was like a breath of fresh air in a world that had grown stale. Her energy, her smile, the way she carried herself—it all felt divine. I remember thinking, Where have you been all my life? I was digging her heavy. I went all in, heart first, no hesitation.

But Shell wasn’t who I thought she was. She turned out to be a gold digger, and I wasn’t the kind of man who could keep up with her expectations. I didn’t have the money, the flash, or the lifestyle she craved. I had heart, loyalty, and dreams—but that wasn’t enough. One day, she looked me in the eye and said, “Guess what? I found the right one.” And I, foolishly, thought she meant me.

I was wrong.

Her “right one” was a man named Steward. That hit me like a punch to the gut. It reminded me of Vesta Williams’ song Congratulations, where the woman sings about loving a man who ends up marrying someone else. That was me—left standing in the shadows of someone else’s celebration.

Now Steward had the finances, no doubt. He could give Shell the material things she wanted. But wisdom? That man was bankrupt in that department. Somewhere down the line, he woke up next to her and couldn’t walk. Just like that. No accident, no illness. Just paralyzed. Some folks might call it coincidence, but I know better. That’s a sign of something darker—witchcraft, manipulation, spiritual warfare. Shell wasn’t just chasing money; she was playing with forces that leave scars you can’t see.

One day, she had a flat tire. I happened to be nearby and offered to help. While I was changing the tire, my phone slipped out of my pocket and hit the pavement. Cracked in several places. I picked it up, brushed it off, and kept using it. I didn’t think much of it at the time. But that phone became symbolic of my connection to Shell—damaged, barely functional, but still holding on.

The screen got worse over time. I had to press down hard just to send a text. Sometimes I’d miss calls because the touch wouldn’t respond. Still, I held onto it. Just like I held onto the hope that maybe Shell would come around. Maybe she’d see me for who I was. Maybe she’d realize that love isn’t measured in dollars.

But eventually, I got tired. Tired of pressing so hard. Tired of pretending everything was okay. Tired of holding onto something that was clearly broken. So I bought a new phone. And in doing so, I let go of her. That cracked screen had become a metaphor for our relationship—fractured, painful, and no longer worth the strain.

Now, whenever I see someone with a cracked phone, I don’t just see a broken device. I see a story. I see someone holding onto something they should’ve released. I see pain, struggle, and maybe even a lesson waiting to be learned. Male or female, it doesn’t matter. That phone tells me everything I need to know.

And speaking of mysteries, there’s another one I’ve been pondering: why is it that so many Black women struggle with hair growth? It’s not just about genetics or products. It’s deeper. It’s cultural. It’s spiritual. It’s tied to identity, trauma, and the way society has taught us to see ourselves. Just like the cracked phone, it’s a symbol—of resilience, of beauty, of battles fought in silence.

But that’s a story for another day.

For now, I’ll leave you with this: pay attention to the little things. The cracked screens. The broken routines. The people who come into your life like a storm and leave behind debris. There’s always a message in the mess. You just have to be willing to read it.