But when you're deprived of it for a lengthy period then you

Host: The night hung over the city like a thick velvet curtain, pierced only by the dim amber glow of a streetlamp outside the window. Inside the apartment, the air was still, broken only by the slow hum of a refrigerator and the faint crackle of rain against glass. Jack sat by the table, his hands wrapped around a half-empty glass of whiskey, his eyes lost in the reflection of the streetlight. Across from him, Jeeny sat curled on the sofa, her knees drawn close, her gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight that trembled between them.

The room felt like a memory — quiet, enclosed, yet alive with the ghost of words unspoken.

Jeeny: “You know what Wole Soyinka said once? ‘But when you’re deprived of it for a lengthy period then you value human companionship. But you have to survive and so you devise all kinds of mental exercises and it’s amazing.’”

Jack: “Yeah. The man spent years in solitary confinement. I suppose he’d know the cost of loneliness better than most.”

Host: The flame of the candle danced, casting shadows across their faces — Jack’s sharp, tired, worn by reason; Jeeny’s soft, luminous, alive with feeling.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we never truly value companionship until it’s taken from us. Until the voices stop, and the walls start to answer back.”

Jack: “Or maybe we just romanticize it when it’s gone. Humans have a habit of turning absence into meaning. You take away noise, and suddenly the silence becomes sacred.”

Jeeny: “You think it’s just romanticism? Soyinka wasn’t being poetic — he was describing survival. When you’re alone long enough, you start creating worlds in your head. It’s not illusion, it’s the mind’s rebellion against emptiness.”

Jack: “A rebellion, or a delusion? We invent companions, rituals, mental games — all just to trick ourselves that we’re not alone. It’s psychological adaptation, not some spiritual awakening.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, pressing its rhythm against the windowpane, as if echoing their voices. The room filled with a kind of tension, neither cold nor warm — something in between, something human.

Jeeny: “Adaptation is what keeps us human, Jack. Even madness, in that kind of isolation, is a form of sanity. Don’t you see? To imagine is to resist.”

Jack: “No. To imagine is to escape. And escaping doesn’t make you stronger. It just means you can’t face the truth — that in the end, you’re utterly alone.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem with you. You treat solitude like a prison. I see it as a mirror. When everything else is gone, what’s left is yourself — the raw, stripped-down truth of who you are.”

Jack: “And that’s exactly what terrifies people. You think they’d spend their lives scrolling through screens, drowning in chatter, if they weren’t running from that mirror?”

Host: Jack’s voice cut through the dim light, low and rough, like gravel underfoot. Jeeny’s eyes shimmered with a quiet defiance. The silence between them swelled — not empty, but heavy with the weight of two different truths colliding.

Jeeny: “When Soyinka talked about being deprived, he didn’t mean only solitary confinement. He meant the kind of loneliness that exists even among people. That’s the kind of privation we all live with now. We’re surrounded, yet unseen.”

Jack: “Maybe because we’ve made companionship into currency. Likes, followers, messages — the illusion of connection. People think proximity equals intimacy. It doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “So what, you’d rather live without it? Without touch, without warmth?”

Jack: “I’d rather live with truth. Companionship is valuable, yes — but only when it’s real. Most of what we call connection is just mutual distraction.”

Host: The candle flame flickered, a sudden gust from the window almost extinguishing it. Jeeny reached out, cupping her hands around it, the light trembling against her skin.

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, even a false flame gives light in the dark. You talk about truth like it’s enough to keep you warm. But the soul starves in silence.”

Jack: “Maybe. But the mind sharpens there. You learn to think without echo. You learn to stand without applause. Soyinka’s mental exercises — that was his training. To survive without needing anyone.”

Jeeny: “To survive, yes. But he never said to live without anyone. There’s a difference.”

Host: A pause. The rain softened, the sound of distant thunder fading into silence. Jack leaned back, eyes closed, his brow furrowed, as if the memory of something long buried stirred beneath his calm exterior.

Jack: “You talk about warmth… Do you know what it’s like to be cut off from it? I spent two years working on an oil rig off the coast — forty men, steel walls, no land, no women, no laughter that wasn’t forced. You start talking to yourself. You stop being sure if your thoughts are yours anymore. After that, silence isn’t just emptiness — it’s weight. It presses.”

Jeeny: “And yet you survived.”

Jack: “Barely. You start playing games with your mind. Counting the number of bolts on the wall, repeating songs from memory, making imaginary conversations. It’s not enlightenment — it’s desperation.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the beauty of it, Jack! The mind’s will to create, even from nothing. That’s what Soyinka meant — that amazement at human resilience. When stripped of the world, we invent one.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice grew softer, almost reverent, as though she were speaking not to Jack, but to the darkness itself — to all those unseen souls who had once battled the void.

Jeeny: “Anne Frank wrote her diary to an imaginary friend, ‘Kitty.’ Viktor Frankl found meaning in Auschwitz by imagining he was lecturing to future students. Even prisoners in solitary sing to walls just to remember they still have a voice. Isn’t that… amazing?”

Jack: “Or tragic. Because it proves we can’t handle reality without illusions.”

Jeeny: “No. It proves that we create reality through them.”

Host: The rain ceased. The air grew still, filled with the faint buzz of a city recovering its breath. Jack opened his eyes, and for the first time, his gaze met hers — steady, tired, but softened by something human.

Jack: “So you’re saying even delusion can be sacred?”

Jeeny: “If it keeps you alive — yes. If it helps you love — even more so.”

Jack: “And what happens when the delusion fades?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve built something real enough to stay.”

Host: A faint smile flickered at the corner of Jack’s mouth, the kind that hides both pain and understanding. He poured the last of the whiskey into two glasses, slid one toward Jeeny.

Jack: “To human companionship — real or imagined.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “To survival — and the amazing things we do to find it.”

Host: They clinked glasses, the sound small but clear in the quiet room. Outside, the first break of moonlight slipped through the clouds, brushing the walls in pale silver. For a moment, everything — the rain, the loneliness, the silence, the hope — merged into something whole, something quietly beautiful.

And in that stillness, as if echoing Soyinka’s words, the truth lingered — that when all else is stripped away, what remains — even in isolation — is the astonishing strength of the human mind to keep company with itself, and not be lost.