Soludo Urges Boys To Reject Quick Wealth, Embrace Hard Work And Integrity

By Angela Chukwuelue

I’ll never forget the night I realised I had no idea what intimacy actually meant. Not in the movies. Not in books. And definitely not in that sweaty, awkward flat I shared with the girl who swore I was "different" right before leaving for another man.

I still remember that that night. A moan in the dark. A hand, trembling, reaches out. Skin against skin. And for a fleeting moment, the world forgets its chaos. But not all touches are the same. Not all moans echo for the same reason. Everything was happening. And yet… nothing was happening.

Her eyes stared at the ceiling like the answers might be there. And me? I was trying to read a room I never learnt the language for.

We had sǝx.

But did we make love?

Not a chance.

You can have sǝx with someone you barely know. You can have it with someone you despise. You can have it because you're lonely, drunk, angry, bored. You can do it and forget it like a cigarette stubbed out on wet pavement. Lovemaking? That’s a different war entirely.

Let’s not pretend. Sex is everywhere. It’s in music videos, in hotel rooms with no clocks, in the nervous sweat of teenagers fumbling with buttons. It’s sold, traded, thrown away. It’s fast, hot, heavy, and sometimes hollow.

But lovemaking? Lovemaking doesn’t whisper sweet nothings. It breathes your name like a vow. It looks into your eyes and doesn’t flinch. It takes its time, not because it's slow but because it matters. It matters deeply.

Funny thing. You can go years thinking you're good at sǝx. You know the tricks, the angles, the gasps. Then one night, you're with someone who sees you. Not your body. You. And suddenly everything changes. Every breath. Every silence. Every inch between you becomes sacred territory.

The Lie We Swallow Whole

We’ve been sold a cheap fantasy that great sǝx is about technique. Positions. Stamina. How many times you can make the bedframe scream. But the most earth-shattering moments aren’t about what you do. They’re about who you’re with.

Think about it:

• Ever had technically perfect sǝx with a stranger and still felt hollow after?

• Ever had clumsy, fumbling sex with someone you adore and still felt whole?

That’s because sǝx takes. Lovemaking gives.

There’s a story I remember, two friends in their thirties. He had flings. She dated guys who disappeared after breakfast. They joked about it over whiskey. Then one day they slept together. It wasn’t fireworks. It was a slow burn. They cried afterward. Not because it hurt. Because something old in them had finally healed. She said later, "I didn't know sex could feel like being found."

And that’s the thing. Sǝx can be thrilling. It can light you up like gasoline on concrete. But it can also leave you colder than before. Ever had that? The emptiness after? Like chewing tinfoil. You got what you wanted but not what you needed.

Lovemaking, real lovemaking, leaves you fuller. Like a house finally filled with music. It’s not about performance. It’s not about proving anything. It’s about showing up. All of you. Even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts.

It matters in relationships because it says: I choose you. Not just your body. Your scars. Your fears. Your silence. Your Sunday morning breath. Your late-night tears. Sǝx is an act. Lovemaking is a language.

Let’s talk science for a second. When you have sǝx, your brain releases dopamine. The feel-good stuff. It hits quick, fades fast. It’s the same high as sugar or scrolling. But when you make love? Oxytocin. Research by Medical News Today indicates that oxytocin, often called the "love hormone," plays a significant role in social behaviors, impacting relaxation, trust, and overall psychological stability. Oxytocin is a bonding hormone. The same thing that floods in childbirth. It's trust. It's glue.

Between sǝx and love making. One leaves you chasing. The other lets you rest.

Bodies Collide, Souls Don’t

Sǝx is physics. Two objects moving in rhythm, chasing friction, chasing release. It’s hunger without taste, a meal swallowed whole without chewing. You walk away full but not fed.

Sǝx is friction. Lovemaking is fusion. Sǝx is a race. Lovemaking is a rhythm. And if you’ve only known one, the other feels like a damn revelation.

Let’s back it up. Ever eaten something that looked like food but tasted like cardboard? That’s what sǝx can feel like when connection’s missing. It checks the box. It hits the beats. But it doesn’t sing.

Lovemaking, real, gut-deep, full-soul lovemaking, isn’t just about bodies. It’s about presence. You’re not counting breaths. You’re losing time. You’re not taking. You’re giving, even when your hands are empty. You know that feeling when someone brushes your hair back and it feels like church? That.

So why does this matter?

Lovemaking? That’s alchemy. The moment skin stops being a boundary and becomes a bridge. When time doesn’t just pass, it dissolves. When a sigh isn’t just noise but a language.

Ever had sǝx that felt like a transaction? Where you were just a warm body filling a role? Yeah. That’s not intimacy. That’s erasure.

You see, real connection doesn't rush. It listens. It notices. It learns your rhythms. It remembers the scar on your knee and the tremble in your voice when you're scared. And in the bedroom, that turns sex into something else entirely. It turns it into home.

Ever notice how silence after lovemaking feels different? It doesn’t demand anything. It doesn’t itch. It holds you. Like a lullaby sung by someone who knows your worst and stays anyway.

Sex says, "I'm here. For now." Lovemaking says, "I'm not going anywhere."

The world is loud with fast pleasures. Swipe right. Click now. Skip intro. We’re trained to chase the next thing. But relationships? They starve in that noise. They need space. Stillness. Intimacy that lingers, even when clothes are back on.

Let me be blunt. If all you share is sǝx, you're replaceable. If what you have is lovemaking, you're unforgettable.

And no, it's not about candles or Marvin Gaye or rose petals on sheets. That’s packaging. Lovemaking happens in truck beds, in cold apartments, under dying stars. It happens when someone kisses your forehead and means it. When they hold your face like a prayer.

It's in the laughter right after. The way your fingers stay intertwined. The way your breathing syncs. The way they don’t look away.

Why does this matter? Because people are lonely. Even in beds with warm bodies. Because deep down, we don’t want sǝx. We want to be seen. Held. Known. We want our bodies to speak a truth our mouths are too afraid to say.

And here’s the brutal truth: if you use sǝx to fill a hole in your chest, it will never be enough. It’ll tease you with fire, then leave you shivering. But when you make love? That fire doesn’t burn you. It warms you. It stays lit.

You can sleep with a hundred people and never be touched. You can make love to one and be changed forever.

So if you're in a relationship, if you're trying to build something that lasts, ask yourself: Are we just having sǝx, or are we making love? Are we escaping each other, or are we meeting each other?

It starts small. The way you listen. The way you kiss like it's not a transaction but a translation. The way you undress each other like peeling back armor.

It grows in trust. In safety. In knowing they won’t leave when the lights come on. When you’re not at your best. When you’re crying for no reason.

That’s why it matters. Because sex is a door. Lovemaking is what happens when you step through.

Don’t settle for echoes. Wait for the thunder.

You deserve to be loved like a song remembers its lyrics. Like a sea holds its salt. Like a fire knows its warmth.

Because here’s the secret: Real intimacy isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t need neon signs. It moves quiet. Sure. Like roots growing underground.

And when it blooms? It changes everything.

So make love. Make it with your hands, your eyes, your silences. Make it like it matters. Because it does.