Elizabeth Akinsehinwa’s Filtered Love immediately prompts the reader to ask: what sort of love is meant here? It could be any of the four categories the Greeks offered us—Eros (romantic), Philia (friendship), Agape (divine), or even Storge (familial) as discussed in C. S. Lewis’ The Four Loves —but the ambiguity is resolved by the cover art: soft pink, rose petals with hands in giving and receiving – a blooming simplicity that suggests not just romantic love, but the daily labour of tenderness.
From the opening verses, the reader understands that this is a journey—not a celebration of flawless romance, but a tracing of love’s arcs: its promises, its silences, its imbalances, and its redemption. The tone is personal, but not exclusive. Akinsehinwa manages to write out of her own reflections while still inviting readers to locate themselves in the narrative. That is no easy feat.
Themes of divine timing and spiritual grounding recur throughout the collection. Love is not just an emotional or physical union—it is often portrayed as a divine dispatch, something one receives by grace rather than earns by merit. Prayer, silence, and trust form the scaffolding of this love. One gets the sense that for the speaker, the ultimate source of love is not the partner, but God. This gives the chapbook its theological spine.
But Akinsehinwa is not content to dwell in the abstract. Her poems dip into the real and the raw—episodes of longing, silence, disagreement, and self-discovery. There is a quiet wisdom in how she describes the reality that love sometimes costs. The chapbook pushes back against popular slogans like “love is free” or “love conquers all” without critical reflection. Instead, we are told—gently but firmly—that love demands: time, trust, courage, and the willingness to walk through discomfort. Love, here, is not transactional but transformational. It doesn’t just give; it changes the lover.
The poet also touches on the often-neglected aspect of self-love. Before one can love another, one must know how to love oneself. This message is delivered not as a pop-psychology cliché, but as a hard-won truth. Loving oneself is not instinctual; it is a discipline, especially in a world that constantly demands performance and compliance.
What is particularly refreshing in Filtered Love is its unashamed embrace of imperfection. Many poems reflect on the flaws of both the speaker and
the beloved, and yet this is not a lament. Instead, the flaws become the crucible where deeper intimacy is forged. Vulnerability is not a weakness, but a necessary path to authenticity. In this way, the chapbook becomes not only a chronicle of romantic experience but a philosophy of emotional maturity.
Another thread running through the work is memory. There are poems that read like personal recollections: moments of joy, arguments, reconciliations, quiet realizations. These fragments of experience accumulate into something cohesive—a portrait of love that is lived, not imagined. The reader is reminded that love is not made in grand gestures alone, but in small, sometimes painful recognitions.
Language throughout the collection is simple but lyrical, accessible but meaningful. Akinsehinwa does not reach for ornate metaphors or obscure allusions. Instead, she relies on a restrained beauty, choosing clarity over cleverness. The strength of her poetry lies in its intimacy and conviction, not in its complexity. That, in itself, is a statement about the kind of love she celebrates.
The chapbook’s Christian undercurrent is strong but not preachy. It informs the tone and values of the poems without becoming doctrinal. It is clear that faith is not just background but integral to how the speaker understands and lives out love. For readers of faith, this will feel like a natural and necessary lens. For others, it offers insight into a worldview where romantic and spiritual lives are not at odds, but in harmony.
Stylistically, the poems range in structure—some fragmentary, others narrative. But across the board, the language is honest, sparse, and carefully measured. There are no overreaching metaphors here, no ornamentation for ornamentation’s sake. The poet trusts the weight of her experience—and her restraint becomes part of the power. It’s what isn’t said that often reverberates the loudest.
Filtered Love is a beautiful body of work. Love remains an inexhaustible issue. Here it comes with its manifold filters—faith, pain, memory, discipline—something deep to ponder. And to borrow the title of Umar Turaki’s delectable novel: it is something beautiful to behold.
By Izang Alexander Haruna
– Author, In a Man’s Body
