I returned from my shenanigans in Lagos a month and a half ago, and I needed time to decompress and think before sharing my not-so-short stories. What I experienced in the old country left me inspired yet soured at the same time. I wanted to share the things I saw—not because they can be fixed, but because they felt integral to the shared human experience.

MM2

Mumsy, my younger sister Sunshine (22), and I left for Lagos on December 7th and arrived the following evening at about 6:30. Seeing shege (pronounced “shay-gay”), or encountering stress, starts as soon as you get off the plane. The terminal and passport check lines at Murtala Muhammed were relatively orderly this time around. Then came the delays at baggage claim. It took us an hour and a half to get all the bags, six 50-pound suitcases. Stepdad met up with us at the front. It was comforting to see a warm, familiar face. He had organized two cars to pick us up at the entrance. Absolute chaos ensued. Hundreds of people were coming and going, shouting and shoving past each other. Cars lurched into the crowd with impunity.

Taxi men asked “Madam, where you dey go?”, gesturing to take your luggage with them and deliver you at your destination.

Malams, or money-changers, shouted “Buy dolla! Buy dolla!” to ensnare you with their exchange rates.

“Excizz please” as those with trollies full of bags tried, but failed, to gently shift around you.

Arguments in different tongues, some of which I could understand. But even for the ones I couldn’t, it was clear that frustrations were high and there was no time to waste, for another international flight was set to land soon, creating even more disarray. This took another hour at the least, an interesting genesis to our trip. Thankfully, we got out of there before the next flight arrived. In a functional society, where an airport is considered a nation’s “face in front of the world”, things would be organized, no?

Nights Out

My nights out in Lag taught me what scarcity causes some to do, and how survival looks different for everyone.

We started off getting drinks at a lounge on a Thursday night. Relatively chill. Sunshine and I went to the restroom and found three girls undressing in front of the mirror. One of the girls’ breasts became exposed, and there was no element of shock to her face. No awkward “oops” or anything. Not even briefly. She didn’t care that I saw. Undressing outside the stalls seemed normal to them. As we used the facilities, I could hear them speaking among themselves. It sounded blank and routine. Just another Thursday night. “Wear this”, “fix that”. Not an atom of rebellion or fun. As we washed our hands, I saw that they had changed into their club clothes and started fixing their hair and makeup. There was no sense of ease, only urgency. Like they were in a rush to go back out. There was something different about these girls. Sunshine and I felt it, but couldn’t voice it. This was not your standard unconcerned girls night out.

The next night, Sunshine and I opted for the proper Detty December experience. We planned to stay on the mainland, not far from the hotel. The first location was not special. Men moved about with their women to and fro. Girls stood aimlessly outside in wait. The second was down the street and around the corner. As we entered, the bouncer saw a bundle of cash in my purse, perhaps around 60,000 naira. He stylishly asked for money, to which I obliged. When we got settled inside, I observed different varieties of women. Light, dark, slim, curvy, BBLs, natural, and everything in between. Surely, it would be unwise to assume that these were working girls, but there is an underlying tone in Lagos: it is expected for women to commodify sexuality in order to get by. “Getting by” can be as simple as a night out handled exclusively by the men in your party, or as weighty as your survival and maintaining your lifestyle. Although I say this from a place of objective privilege and the Lagosian hotties would probably think I’m doing too much, I truly see something insidious in that. It feels parasitic in both directions.

We left the second venue forty-five minutes in. At the entrance, we passed a group of at least eight men at the gate, sitting in wait for passersby and gisting among themselves. I mistakenly let my eyes linger for a split-second too long. One of them was a middle-aged man, bound to a wheelchair.

“Mama, anything for us?” They were older than me, yet calling me “mama”, so I knew what it was.

I opened my bag and struggled to remove some bills from the cash that I had. It was still in bands. I was only interested in giving some to the man in the wheelchair, but I was starting to bring unnecessary attention to myself with the struggle, so I walked away. Not because I wanted to, but because the men made me anxious. And for good reason. In an instant, the men rushed us as we walked to the car, wheeling the man over. I pulled out a small wad and handed it to him. I didn’t get to count it, but it was something.

“God bless you.”

“Thank you. It’s ok.”

The voices of the others echoed as they begged. They didn’t impede us from entering the car, but they didn’t make it easy to leave either. I simply couldn’t help everyone. We pulled off and headed to Victoria Island next although we promised Stepdad we would remain on the mainland. That wasn’t my fault. I sat in the car reliving what just happened. Men of various ages, some able-bodied and some infirm, waited outside the clubs at 2 AM to beg for money. Is this the state we’ve reached? Nigerians are a proud people and aren’t averse to hard work. Seeing these men this way was pitiful.

On VI at 3 AM, we could see all manners of people. Top boys and girls in Bentleys, G-Wagons, Maseratis, among other brands. In between these machines, little heads bobbed in and out of traffic. Children following their mothers to beg. Some mothers had babies with them. The disparity was glaring. Here we all were, trying to live it up and Detty December while women and children lay in wait hoping to get the dregs of our intoxicated goodwill. It felt like sin. When the night reached its close, it was a quarter past 5.

I caught sight of a little boy of about ten or eleven years. He caught sight of me, too.

“God bless you ma. Will you do Christmas for me?”

I knew I was going to give him something, but I walked quietly. He followed and kept asking. I entered the car and rolled down the window.

“Shhh.” I handed him around 10K.

I didn’t shush him because I felt he wasn’t important. I was nervous about another swarm of people coming over that I couldn’t take care of.

“Thank you. God bless you.”, and he gleefully ran off.

I knew it wouldn’t change his life, but seeing a kid be a kid soothed something in me.

I was always aware that things weren’t as pretty as they seemed in Lagos, but the nights out showed me that scarcity is the greatest humbler and that everyone is getting used to “get by” in one way or another.

Where everything is cheap, even life itself.

Definitions of what “normal” looks like vary widely from place to place. Back home, disorganization and the danger that it causes was all too commonplace.

During a day trip in Abeokuta, we navigated bustling streets where four lanes turned into seven and bodies wove in and out like a coordinated game of double-dutch. I observed these bodies as they moved. I saw a beautiful woman on an okada—a motorcycle used for paid transportation— with her children. It was the okada-man, a child, I believe a second, and then herself. She had a moon face, and a rounded, womanly figure. Reminiscent of a favored artist of mine, Nelly Uchendu. Dark, soft curls that bellowed in the wind as they sped by. Dramatic jet black eyeliner. And red lipstick. I hope she and her children make it. I later saw two young boys, no more than nine or ten, running through several lanes of whizzing traffic, laughing to themselves. Carefree. Finding joy in the sporadic and almost fearless. I hope they make it, too. As much as we want to wag our fingers at mothers putting children in unsafe positions or children playing in traffic, this all stems from scarcity. It’s easy to say “it could never be me”, but we haven’t stopped to ask what each of us would do to survive.

The Friday evening before leaving Lagos, we journeyed on a tight Ikeja roadway— a supposed shortcut. On the left, a small crowd of about 15 to 20 men gathered on worn, woven mats of varied hues. They kneeled, they bowed, and they stood towards the east, softly clutching their beads in prayer. A charter bus cut into the street, almost hitting them. Followed by another truck. Then a woman in a sedan. Their lackadaisical attitude towards safety prevailed. They didn’t care for others or even themselves. They just had to be the first. “If they get theirs, then I can’t get mine. So fuck them,” is the underlying thought process here. Countless lives have been needlessly lost over the years due to the “me first” and “I’m more important” attitude. I can’t fully blame people for behaving this way when their corrupt government has shown them that they are disposable and insignificant, failing to provide reliable systems and infrastructure since the nation’s birth. So yea, on a human level, I get it.

But fuck, do we have to make it worse?

Survival isn’t a pretty exercise anywhere you go.

The day started simple. I woke up late on a Saturday. My usual. I haphazardly got ready and went to Elizabeth. I hadn’t been there in sometime. It was cold, rainy, and of course, I had forgotten my umbrella. I attended a congregation I had heard about. But towards the end of that meeting, I felt the impetus to go somewhere I had never been before. At least not fully. I Google Mapped it. Seven short minutes. Just around the way. Would I stay or would I go?

After the amens, many greeted me warmly. They wanted me to come back sometime soon. One of them, an Igbo man, recognized my last name.

“Where exactly are you from?”

“Imo State”, I state plainly.

“But where in Imo?”

“Umuariam.”, I tried to keep the conversation moving, but I knew where it was heading.

“Which local government is that?”, he prodded.

“Obowo.”

“Ahh, are you related to X?”

It’s not that I wanted to hide who I was, or that I was ashamed of my family. I just wanted to build my own life and connections organically. But in a crowd of Nigerians, especially Igbos, someone is bound to know you in one way or another. The world is very small that way. Such was the case with his uncle. He went on about his family’s closeness to mine. How he knew my grandparents. My uncle. My father. How genuinely happy he was to see me once he knew who I belonged to. He asked to exchange contacts, to which I obliged. I don’t foresee myself reaching out anytime soon, though.

That conversation solidified that I would need to go the seven minutes. It was planned years in advance, but would finally be attempted on a random Saturday. I called a car there. Walked a block in the rain to the office. My black leather jacket acted as a makeshift umbrella hanging on my head. There was a screen door, and within it a wooden one with a glass window peering inside. I knocked gently and saw a woman.

“Oh shit!”, I saw her shout. She jumped back slightly, breathing heavy.

“Oh my God I’m sorry!”

She opens the door. “You looked like some monster or demon standing out there with that jacket over your head. I didn’t even hear you knock!”

I guess I fit the part. I was wearing all black by happenstance, after all.

“Why didn’t you just use the back door?”, a man in the room asked.

“I didn’t know. I’ve never been here.”

We shared a good laugh before getting to business. I welcomed it. It eased some tension for me. I had lied to them. Partially. Telling them I had never been there before. There was just no room to explain in a way that would make sense.

“I’m not sure I’m in the right place but do you have a directory of people that have been buried here over the last twenty to twenty-five years?”

“Yes we do. That would be in the older system.” She made her way to a computer and sat down, typing away. “Do you know what year they were buried?”

“I’m pretty sure 2005, but you can search 2004 just in case, too.”

“What was their name?”

I gave her the spelling.

“Hmm, I can’t find it.” *type type type* “Are you sure?”

My heart began to sink. Had I forgotten everything about dad? Down to where he was buried? I had done all this research years ago all for this moment, and for what?

“Can you give me his last name?” *type type type*

I gave it to her.

“There it is. Found it.”

We walked over to an old bookshelf where she pulled out a black binder. Its papers were browned and weathered by time, yet still neatly labeled and tagged. She found him. His plot number. His resting place. She wrote these on a map along with the names of three buried nearby for reference and highlighted the section of the cemetery that he’d be found in.

“How will you get there?”, the man asked. He was a tall, black gentleman somewhere in his fifties. Charismatic. We’ll name him Greg*.

“I planned on walking till I found it.”

“In heels? In the rain?”

Greg offered to take me in the funeral van to find my dad.

“There’s a stretcher back there, but that’s all. It may smell a bit funky. This is the funeral director’s car, so there are bodies in the back from time to time. My car is out of commission right now, so I had to borrow hers.”

“That’s ok.”

He was right. It was, in fact, funky in there. We rode around in the corpse car for a few minutes until we found the section. I stepped out with my jacket on my head again, and so did he, which I wasn’t expecting. He was going to help me find my father.

“I’ll play cops and robbers with you. Tell me his name again?”

I told him, and we both got to walking through the grass, careful not to step on any graves, reading each one keenly. I removed my shoes. I didn’t want my heels digging into the grass, making things unkempt. The cold, wet grass startled me. And the twigs impaled my feet.

“Do you remember what it looked like?”

“No.”

That was another partial lie. My memory was murky. It was twenty-one years ago, and a white man visited the house soon after dad passed. I know his race means nothing in this context, but that had been the first white man to ever come to the house that I could remember. So it was significant in my six year old brain. He had a large white sheet of paper, and on it, a design for the gravestone. It had flowers. I believe the white man paid his respects at dad’s viewing as well. He kneeled next to the casket for a moment, perhaps praying. The day of the funeral itself, mom kept us in the car at the gravesite. She didn’t want us to see that. Now that I’m an adult, I think of that time. I don’t know what I would’ve done, but I get it. I had never seen it for myself. I didn’t want my memory to fail me and tell Greg the wrong thing, so I lied.

It had been several minutes. In my mind, I prayed to God that I’d find the gravestone first. I’m okay that He didn’t answer. It allowed me time to gather myself. I heard Greg shout for me. I ran over, terrified at the state I would find it in.

“Is this it?” he asked.

I saw it. Humble, clean, and respected.

The flowers. Dad’s name, sharply engraved beneath BELOVED HUSBAND & FATHER LOVED BY FAMILY & FRIENDS.

It was beautiful.

“Yes.”

It was immediate. I didn’t know I would weep the way I did. I didn’t know his death impacted me this harshly even now. I was just so afraid that it would look like no one had ever cared for him. Because that wasn’t true.

I would pause in between to breathe and examine it. Cool rain continued to trickle onto my jacket and head. My map became damp.

I felt a need to pray and offer thanks multiple times. I told God I was thankful that I was alive to come back finally. That I could have this moment. I was thankful for life and love and those that are still with me. And I was sorry for all the times I was ungrateful. Which was often. I said I was so happy over and over again.

“I have to go now.”, I whimpered to myself. I struggled with regaining my composure.

I prayed again. I said that although I knew my father wasn’t a perfect man, he made an impact on people. They remember him dearly, with a special warmth. I prayed to reach alignment in my own life so others remember me fondly, too. Because it’s bad to die bad. That’s something Mumsy and I have talked about over the years. Live in a way that doesn’t leave others bitter when you go.

“I have to go now.”

And this time, I left. I turned around from the grave to see Greg standing thirty or so feet away. He stood out in the rain for me.

We silently walked back to the corpse car and returned to the office. I wiped what I could of my tears, and I called my ride home. As I waited, I saw a few somber-faced people dressed in black for the next funeral. When my car arrived, I walked past one of them, an older black gentleman. He nodded to me, and I to him. We understood everything in that moment. That we were both there for the same dark reason. Without a single word needing to be uttered. Greg saw me to the car and opened the door.

“Thank you for everything, sir. It meant a lot to me.” I felt myself nearly crying again.

“My name’s not sir,” he said with a slight grin. “It’s Greg.”

I left with a smile as he shut the door.

On the way home, I meditated. I always knew it was necessary to go, but didn’t know just how much. How necessary it was to cry again. How cathartic it would be. Something in me feels like it’s healing, but I can’t put a name on it just yet. Like a genuine breakthrough occurred.

Perhaps I’d be farther along if I’d seen my daddy sooner—but better late than never.

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Also, Gen said more dialogue, so here goes.

“I actually feel bad for you, baby. Because look at what scarcity is about to make you choose. Look at what you’re considering…”

I pulled Future* for a chat during work a week or so ago. I needed him. An individual from season 5 of my life, Naija*, tried to revisit in my current season 7. This post just goes to show that scarcity is a demon I am in a struggle with, and she nearly wins at times. She has been forcing my hand lately (especially since I turned 27, because literally WTF is going on??), and causing me to make costly considerations and waste critical time.

It started with a random call from Naija on a Saturday evening. I genuinely thought it was a mistake. It only rang once or twice. “Flashing the phone” is what Nigerians called it. At least back then. To say, “I want to alert you but it’s not urgent. Call me back. I don’t want to use my minutes.” And so I texted. We don’t hate each other of course. He’d reached out from time to time over the last three years, so I wasn’t opposed to a message:

“Hey, did you accidentally call me?”

No answer.

My anxiety deepens for some reason after fifteen or twenty minutes. I call and still nothing. He eventually messages me he’d call back as the place he was at was noisy. Strange but ok. He called about an hour later. There was the initial small talk. How my family was doing, how his family was doing, work, etcetera etcetera. He told me that he finally moved to the UK in 2022. I was happy for him. Within, I grew anxious because I knew something was up with this conversation. I just wasn’t sure what it was.

Thirteen minutes in, he asks if I have vacation plans, to which I say:

“I was actually thinking of taking a sabbatical off work next summer for a month or two and going back to London to chill. I haven’t made any plans yet, though.”

“Would you make plans to see me intentionally?”, he asks.

I don’t know why, but my heart sank with the question. Me and him didn’t talk often enough for him to ask that. I tried to play dumb. It usually works, but not in this case.

“What do you mean by seeing you intentionally? I mean if I do end up taking the trip, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to see you. If I book it, I’ll keep you posted.”

“You know what I mean. Come on. We’ve known each other a long time.”

He further remarked about how he wanted things to go all the way this time around. “Forever till death” are distinct words I remember him saying. It stressed me out. Where was this coming from? There was not nearly enough groundwork for us to talk about this after three years.

“My parents have been married over forty years. I don’t want a relationship that lasts 4, 5, 6, 7 years, or even a decade, then falls apart. I don’t want that shit.”, he continued.

Was this supposed to arouse flames of passion inside me? I felt like I was reliving 2021 and that inauspicious Lagos trip. There were so many details I didn’t give y’all out of respect to him, but trust, it wasn’t for me. He asked me about what went wrong back then. He descried how it started in 2018. Then I again explained myself for all of 2021. How I felt pressured.

“C’mon, I wasn’t pressuring you. If I really wanted to put up an act, I know what I could do. I was honest with you the whole time.”

How he compared me to other people. Namely the wives of his friend and another contemporary of his.

“I said that?”

I held the line this time around. I stuck up for myself. Gave examples of things he said and did. I also took accountability for my own shortcomings.

“You were not nice to me.”, he said.

I was upfront about how we should have been clearer in communication of expectations. How I briefly interacted with another man at the time. (Sidenote: Scandalous of me, I know. The insane thing is that this guy and Naija have the same name. Different story for a different day. May or may never tell it.) How I would’ve ended things sooner to prevent the nuclear fallout that occurred.

“Thank you. I appreciate your maturity.”, he replied.

In my opinion, this conversation was about burning me at the stake. Holding my feet to the fire and making me repent for the ways I seemingly “wronged” him. But thus far, he hadn’t owned up to anything he did wrong. My concerns were being trivialized. He wanted to rekindle things and start talking again in hopes of continuing where we left off, but when you start in such a deficit, where do you expect to pick up from? I told him that things felt inorganic with him.

Although I was in the hot seat for a good minute, rehashing my side of the story, I put the spotlight back on him:

“Whenever we have these conversations, everyone tries to paint me like I’m an unserious person. That I don’t know what I want. I’m being pressed, and now I’m pressing you. Since you feel so strongly about things, what is it about [INSERT MY FULL GOVERNMENT HERE] that you like or love so much?”

The moment was so intense that I literally had to stop my evening walk and put my foot up on someone’s stoop. Random passersby saw me going head-to-head with my phone. I know I looked crazy, but I was tired of being made to feel like I was.

“C’mon.”

I shit you not, I asked him what he “loves” about me at least four times, and that’s a conservative count. He responded with “c’mon” each time as if he couldn’t fathom why I’d ask such a silly question in the first place. All he was able to muster up initially was “personality” and “vibes”.

“That’s not a solid answer. People that say they love each other and want to marry them literally cannot shut up about their person.”

He went on to explain how he appreciated a time when I supported a talk of his and when I took the initiative to buy the ticket to Lagos. It made him feel seen and valued. While I’m glad he appreciated the sacrifices I made, both of these occasions benefitted him. Nothing concrete about what he likes about me and me alone, separate from others. We got off the phone shortly after. I felt unwell.

Like a fucking idiot, I called my mom and told her about it immediately. She saw it as a good thing, especially after a recent conversation I’d had with her earlier that week, bitching and moaning over having to let a man named Cycling Bae* go. To her, Naija’s return could be taken as a sign of divine providence.

I told mumsy about my reservations. Things he said and did back then that I couldn’t overlook. How he once said women depreciate over time or when they have children. Something along those lines. I couldn’t shake it. The idea of willingly partnering with a chauvinist.

“You’re only saying that because he told you. What about what other men think but don’t say?” was mom’s response.

True, but yikes. “Yikes” is the only appropriate mental response for that. He wasn’t a child when he said this. I feel like once you know things, you’re responsible for all your actions going forward with said knowledge. That’s why they say “ignorance is bliss”, because once you know shit, you have to do something about it. So if your nigga talks crazy, you can’t magically “un-know” that. It is imperative you move accordingly as you will be held liable in the future.

“One of you should marry to open the door for the others.”, she said of me and my sisters.

In that chat with mommy, I toyed with the idea of Naija again. I mean, he has proven himself by moving to the UK like he planned, finishing school, and working. He is establishing himself well. I was almost tempted to agree with mumsy, but I couldn’t fully. My spirit wasn’t in agreement with him. Inside myself, I knew he wanted to restart things and hopefully marry just to tick the box. Especially now that he was even older (him being 36 and myself 27). It is so common in our culture. Stereotypically, a Nigerian man, after arranging himself financially, will go on to claim that he is “ready” for marriage. The emotional depth goes out the window. Any women he fucked and ducked along the way are no longer relevant because now, he is ready to run off into the sunset with a “clean”, “decent” girl. (Sidenote: Well, perhaps this isn’t solely a Nigerian man thing, but men in general. What do I know?🤷🏾‍♀️) Similar to Sex and the City’s “cab light theory”, he will marry who is available that fits his vision for his family. He’ll proceed to do the kids and the white picket fence thing.

Trust, I want the family, mortgage, and the fence. Perhaps even the dog, too. But I don’t think it should be as arbitrary.

I reached out to him again, telling him he needed a solid answer to my question when next we spoke. (Sidenote: Being strict with men is so fun. It feels empowering.) In the next call, he finally said he liked my sense of humor, my energy, my intellect, the way I carry myself, and my looks. Good, but even to come up with these took time. He said he was very drained that day, hence the difficulty with answering the question on the first go. How he should’ve waited to initiate that discussion at a different time. He went on to tell me about his ex, and how he had to let things go because she wasn’t spiritual enough for him. The phone call was shorter that evening.

I needed someone outside of the echo chamber of my family. A true friend. A less-biased third party. Which brought me to my call with Future. I recounted the entire story from the top in 2018 till now. We shared hearty laughs regarding the shenanigans, from my family’s marriage pressure, to the blood tests (I never told y’all this, but perhaps one day if I write a book), to the “proposal” and how it was my fault he let certain dreams pass him, among other things. Future couldn’t understand why I entertained these discussions that long despite the glaring red flags. Or why mom would encourage it. Scarcity was the culprit.

“You need to free this guy as soon as possible. Yes, he wants to marry, but I can assure you you’ll regret it. He’ll marry you because you’re a Christian fine girl, and keep you in the house. It could’ve been you or anyone.”

Future said men don’t tend to spin the block all that much. Especially because there are many more available women than men. That Naija’s return was more of a test of my desperation to marry.

“If he could go three years and still not get married, and he is apparently such a catch, there is something wrong somewhere.”

I left the talk with Future feeling weightless and seen. Validated. I aimed to speak with Naija a couple days after. To avoid dragging things. It was a Friday. By the time I had called, he’d fallen asleep. I felt bad for waking him.

“Hey, if now isn’t a great time, we can talk later. Sorry for waking you.”

“No, I can talk.”

We exchanged a couple of ‘how was your day’s and other niceties. Then, I got to the meat of it:

“I’ve been thinking about our recent conversations, and I wanted to be upfront about things. Given the history of things, I feel it’s best for us to remain friends.”

If I told you his response shocked me, I’d be lying.

“I wasn’t trying to really trying to rekindle anything. We were just having a conversation.”, he said flatly.

I smiled to myself, sensing his annoyance and ego bruise. Not from “haha, you big mad” place, but because simply witnessing the lack of maturity was comical. I put on my best serious voice, trying to sound taken aback.

“Oh wow, I’m sorry, I must have misread things.”, I poked.

“Yes, you misread. You definitely did. You definitely did.”

As it stood, I had been “corrected”. I was the one making a grand deal of things apparently. My bad. But truly, I was relieved as this interaction was the confirmation I needed. The minimization of my thoughts, the big ego, the everything.

Could I have started things over with him and possibly run down the aisle in six months to a year? Yes, but I am sure something within me would die. I want the partnership, but at what cost? Deadening vital parts of my being for acceptance and for fear that nothing and no one else is coming for me? Shall I play a numbers game in the name of “settling down”? “Take what you can get” economics? Is it that bad? Truly, honestly, honestly, truly, it can’t be that deep.

I know 27 isn’t old by any stretch, but I’m coming to terms with the fact that my journey may be longer (but not arduous) if I refuse to sacrifice authenticity. And contrary to popular belief, I’m not a beggar. I will struggle, but I will eventually make peace with that. There really is no conclusion to this post. Just something I have to sit with for a while…

I know I said I’m taking a break from talking about niggas, but please bear with me. I can sense your exasperated sighs already. This will be a longer read, but I promise I’m making a point. Just follow me.

No seriously, follow me if you haven’t already FR..

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I do a great deal of people watching and observing, and sometimes I see things I wish I hadn’t. This was one of those times. I nearly found myself crying in the back of a Nissan a few Fridays ago—not really, but I did sit in silence when I got home—and that is unacceptable. I also discovered how much of a hypocrite I can be. My first substantial Nun Lyf failure happened earlier than expected, and I am here to tell both stories. This just goes to show that growth is not linear and introspection is constant.

That day started with a jolt. I woke up late for work. My usual. Barbie sent a text regarding an event that night. When the time came, my fingers moved swiftly to claim my tickets. No notes there. Work was slow and boring as I looked forward to the evening. I logged off and dilly-dallied on the phone a while before putting my new bike together. I went for a ride, listening to Drake, Odeal, and their likes. It was a soft, breezy ride. The perfect start to fall. (Sidenote: Cycling is going really well! I was in a state of decision paralysis for just over a month, pondering if I should get a bike, and if so, what kind. When I enter these states, nothing gets done for months or even years. I say all this to admonish you to just do it. Whatever that “it” is, just do it. There’s no such thing as a perfect time or perfect circumstances in which you will have all the necessary details before taking an action. So don’t waste time. Just do it and see how things fall into place!)

I got home and rushed to get ready. All black because I wanted to give Blade. Big curly hair with my 4C, unmatching leaveout. Baby claw clips. And lashes. Very Y2K—my favorite aesthetic. While this wasn’t my favorite fit and the majority of my summer wardrobe had been unfortunately exhausted, it worked. We’d be in a dark room, anyway. Barbie and her Ken picked me up. Then off to Michael’s. Not the artsy-fartsy store we know and love, but Michael’s building. (Sidenote: If you’re unfamiliar with Michael, I spoke briefly about him in “Nun Lyf”. Basically, he’s a feeling I’m trying hard to shake, a humiliation ritual. But it’s not so easy given my circumstances and connections. Still a standup guy though.)

Before I get into the meat and potatoes of this story, I’ll set the scene with some context. I’ve known Michael a few years, and we share mutuals. I told him I liked him dramatically around Christmas last year (won’t go into detail there) and I’ve resided in the deepest, darkest, and dingiest part of the trenches since. I’m not sure I should’ve said anything at all. But we live and we learn. In recent months, I’ve fought myself against employing my standard coping mechanism: the scorched earth policy.

Scorched Earth:

1. relating to or being a military policy involving deliberate and usually widespread destruction of property and resources (such as housing and factories) so that an invading enemy cannot use them

2. directed toward victory or supremacy at all costs; ruthless

I lean towards the latter definition. As a war strategy, yes, this is tragic and detrimental to innocent parties. Yes, it destroys everything worth saving in its path. And yes, it is bad business. However, in the context of our emotional wellbeing where we must be selfish at times —because at the end of the day everyone always looks out for themselves— is it really that bad? Cutting someone off? Removing them on socials? Blocking them? I tend to think not. What lengths do we go to to protect our peace? I personally don’t think I’d stop at anything. I valiantly defend it without shame or fear. But in this case with Michael, it’s not so black-and-white anymore.

We transferred to his car. I remember smearing eyeliner on the ceiling by accident on MLK Day. The stain never went away. A solemn reminder of the sin. On the way to the venue, I felt antsy. Was my hair ok? Did I look too whore-ish? Pudgy? The men spoke amongst themselves as men do. Michael remarked about the fine shyt we were bound to encounter and joked about potentially ending up on the other side of morality. I sat silent, brooding over what would become of the evening.

We parked a block over from the venue. Michael tried on two shirts. The first, a dark blue cuffed short sleeve, with buttons down the middle. He wasn’t a fan. He decided on a tan suede jacket, with a white wife-beater underneath. Impractical for the heat but a good look nonetheless. I made it to the entry line with Barb and Ken before he did. As we waited, I saw him taking in the scene, and the people within it. He looked at a woman as she got out of a car, and other ladies that walked by. From what I can remember, they were beautiful. Rich complexions, smooth baby hair, curvy (but slim), in flowy date night attire. On theme for the evening. While he wasn’t gawking at them, I saw his double takes as they walked by, so as not to meet their glance or make them uncomfortable. And it made me tense. Barbie noticed my all too common withdrawn face and asked if I was ok, to which I lied and said I was. I wasn’t about to dampen the mood with the same shit I whined to her about for months at this point. I had to put on a brave-ish face. Michael joined the line.

A few minutes later, I entered the venue first, and the others followed close by. Barbie and I went upstairs to the restroom. We had a brief check-in.

“You sure you’re ok?”

“Yea. I’m just trying to keep in mind some things my therapist told me in our last session. About not making negative comparisons to others. Instead of thinking, ‘They’re more this or that than me,’ think of it like ‘If they can do that, why can’t I?’”

“She’s right.”

“Yea.”

“But did I say or do anything to make you compare?”

“Oh no, not at all. It’s just me in my head. As per usual.”

She proceeded with the hotgirl encouragement. Then we went back down to the bar with the guys. Everyone needs a Barb.

Eventually the drinks came through. Slow but steady. We even caught up with other friends, one of them being “49” (a young man who is in fact not 49, and a recently former interest of mine). I saw Ken, Michael, and 49 do their regular catch up while Barb and I tipsily danced to some 2000s R&B. At a point I looked over to Michael, and I saw him looking at a girl as she walked away from the bar. When she passed, he looked again at her backside and smirked at 49. Sick to my fucking stomach is an understatement of what I felt. It’s gross seeing a man be a man, and I had to see that. But I kept pushing. Barb, Ken, and I made our way back to the dancefloor in the center. I’ve third-wheeled them before, so it was always a good vibe, but I just couldn’t shake how I was feeling.

Out of the blue, I excused myself to the restroom. I got in a stall, locked it, and just stood there, leaning my forearm against the door. Grounding myself in a pissy ladies restroom. Drunk girls calling out to their friends in the background. Forcing myself to remember the things Ms. Carpenter said. I’ve been seeing Ms. Carpenter, my therapist, for a couple months now. I call her a carpenter because she’s helping me pick up the pieces to build something worthwhile. Something beautiful. The day prior, she told me to work on negative comparisons and reality checking. What is really going on versus whatever narrative I’m stringing together. In that stall, I repeated that I needed to drop the comparison, and that I’m valuable regardless. Still, leaving the bathroom after my inebriated pep talk, the only reality I fully came to terms with that night was that I could never be what Michael needs.

The rest of that night I kept to myself until I was dropped off. When I got to my couch, I sat in my dimly lit living room, reminiscing over the night, and began writing this piece. A few hours later, I was off to see mumsy and my sisters out of town. A needed mental break. In the two weeks I was there, I decompressed and came to a shocking conclusion while on one of my long, music-less, “touch grass” walks: I’m an utter hypocrite.

This jarring experience —me witnessing Michael being a normal man— reminded me of Labor Day Weekend just a few days before that night out. In the weeks leading up to Labor Day, I came into contact with a man, Lu*, on Instagram. The dreamy start of all modern romances, of course. We exchanged messages and a single call. He wanted to meet me that weekend as we were attending the same backyard function and boat party in Jersey. He then asked me out to lunch for the following day, to which I agreed. He was nice and a decent conversationalist, but I was anxious about seeing him in person.

Day 1 of the weekend was the barbecue. We communicated throughout the day, and were to meet at the party. When I arrived, I saw him before he saw me. I got scared and decided to chill out to the side for a bit. I wasn’t attracted to him. I promise I’m not trying to sound shallow. Soon enough, I went up to him and we spoke throughout the evening. From time to time, I checked in with Barb and Ken, mingled with others. Among these “others” was Grey*. His accent was distinct. Very Drake. He was attractive and charismatic in a dorky way. Which I liked. He was unsure if he would make it to the boat party as he didn’t have a ticket, but said he’d go to the afters following it.

The next evening, I saw him from afar lining up to get on the boat. I quickly met up with Lu, though. I felt like I needed to. Looking back on that, in a talk with the carpenter, it was an unnecessary pressure I placed on myself. Deeper into the evening, Grey and I caught up at the bar, talking about ourselves, the evening, and general light banter. Lu rejoined me later and Grey stepped away.

“Do you know those guys?” he asked, referencing Grey and his friends.

“No, I met them yesterday at the backyard thing, actually.”

I felt bad. Like I wasn’t giving him enough time and attention. We talked on a quieter floor for the rest of the evening. I stepped away on my own at the end. Grey and I passed each other, and he said he was going to ask me for a dance but couldn’t find me. By then it was too late and we docked soon thereafter.

Lu and I exited the vessel together and dissected our evening before going to the afterparty. He said I seemed distant. Closed off. He wasn’t wrong. I said we were still new to each other and how some of his questions were fast-paced for me. But I knew what my true issue was. He left not long after we arrived at the afterparty venue. The weight of the self-inflicted responsibility was lifted for the rest of the evening.

Grey asked for that dance finally. I handed Barb and a random girl my things. Women supporting women. It was konpa. Close. Sensual. His hand on my hips and the small of my back. A casual sway. Intermittent spins. I can’t put my finger on how long we danced, but it must have been a while. Then again, I was three drinks in by now, so who knows? What I do know is that we talked about a number of things: where we’re from, what we do, even a little about our families. It was nice.

When the party came to an end, he asked for my Insta. He played it too safe in my opinion, but alright. We’ve remained in contact since. I still went to lunch with Lu the following afternoon. I was quiet within myself, thinking about how I didn’t want to lead him on after that.

Looking back on Labor Day Weekend and that evening with Michael, it dawned on me that we were in a similar boat. He was my likee (pronounced “like-E”), and I his liker. Just as I was Lu’s likee, and he my liker. Am I a bad person for entertaining fine shyt all weekend knowing Lu liked me? No, I am a normal heterosexual woman. Conversely, is Michael a bad person for also looking at fine shyt that night at the club? No, he is a normal heterosexual man. Would I compare myself to Lu exactly? Not necessarily. While I do not believe I’m Michael’s type, I do not think he thinks I am unattractive. But the comparison and the point still stands: one person, the liker, likes the likee, and the likee does not feel the same for one reason or another. Is the likee beholden to the liker? Is the likee responsible for the liker’s hurt feelings? Does the liker have a right to be upset at the likee for appreciating fine shyt? Although I am mature enough to answer no to all of the above, asking these questions made it evident that, as it stands now, I am not capable of being Michael’s friend in the purest sense of the word. I have given him much more power than he deserves. Power he never asked for.

In moments like these, I acknowledge my disingenuous nature. I used to think men were strange for falling back coolly after unrequited feelings, but I get it now. Yes, it’s imperfect, unfair, and people that we consider friends are not disposable. All I’m saying is that I get it. I scorched the earth many times before, but as you can tell by the bulk of my writing, it hasn’t helped. So I am taking a more sustainable approach. I won’t be hitting any unfollow buttons, failing to respond to group chats, or letting invites go unanswered. I’m confronting the discomforts head on, and ultimately, I will be OK. This too shall pass.

TL;DR - For now, it’s ultimately fuck these niggas although I do, in fact, want to fuck (and be monogamously partnered with) some of these niggas. But I won’t. Because a nun wouldn’t do that….

Last month, I made a third attempt to write about a man named Michael*. The first was an old draft that will never see the light of day, the second a poem that will never be finished or published, and the third a deep-dive into how my situation—or lack thereof in this case—was eerily reminiscent to that of Tyler the Creator and his dear friend, Jerrod Carmichael. I want to claw my eyes out just thinking about that third post. But I won’t. For now. These works of longing will never be released as I refuse to give niggas ego strokes for free. At least not anymore. They simply haven’t done enough to deserve it.

When I initially started these pieces, I was unsure what direction I wanted to take:

(A) another pity-party story time about a man,

(B) a poem on yearning for said man, or

(C) introspection on what my experiences and patterns are teaching me.

I’m going for option C.

I recognized that all of them centered the individual—his looks, personality, and behaviors—as an idol of adulation. But what I truly needed to center was my thought process and the growth I am still yet to make. It was never supposed to be about him, but about me. (Also, sidenote: While I’ll still have my sad girl, Erykah Badu “Bag Lady” blues about men, I don’t want the brand I’m building (slowly but surely) to solely be about what men are and aren’t doing. There’s much more to life and I shouldn’t pigeonhole myself.)

An audio I sent Future* once tells it plainly:

These were my sentiments months ago in May, but I’m only now putting them into action. I needed a hard reset in the opposite direction. Isn’t that one of Newton’s laws?

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

With this reset in mind, I decided to become a nun on July 26, 2025. Am I a new devotee of the Catholic faith? No. Am I selling off all my worldly possessions and moving onto a commune in the countryside with other women? No, but I can’t lie, that does sound fun in theory. What I am doing is decentering men and romance. For the last 7 or so years (is 7 years of bad luck a thing?), I have given so much of my power away to others. Even to those I care about that haven’t abused it yet. I was left questioning if I truly am who I think I am. I still hadn’t fully acknowledged my autonomy in my own life. Therefore, I am resolving to take all my shit back. So no— no more Aaliyah love letters to dudes when I should’ve written them to myself instead.

Nun Lyf is all about doing the work that often goes unseen and unappreciated until the results are made manifest. Bettering my mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical wellbeing. Finding peace. Then balancing a social life on top of that. “Locking in” is what the kids call it these days.

On the basest, most intrinsic level, another goal is to wean myself off of the crack cocaine that is external validation, especially coming from the opposite sex. I need to confidently “witness” and “exposure therapy” myself and my beauty in different ways without hungering for their approval. Questions such as, “Will they like what I did to my hair?”, “Am I pretty enough?”, “Am I this or that enough?”, “Am I being too boring?”, or “Am I doing too much?” should no longer be the order of the day. I am not meant to perform for you for a pat on the head. I’m meant to give my best everyday, however that may look or act. If you like it, great. And if you don’t, that’s your business. At the end of the day, it’s still my life to live authentically.

Oh and I started therapy as audio me predicted. I am three sessions deep. And I like the lady. I’m paying an arm and a leg for it currently—because America and insurance is just so grand—but I’ll keep on keeping on. Because I feel it may be worth it. I also started engaging in different aspects of fitness. While I am no gym rat fitness influencer type, I’ve come to enjoy the challenge and consistency. The discipline to make sure I get things done. I even went on a few runs recently. The quintessential late-20s-early-30s-quarter-life-crisis cry for help, but in a good way. When everyone you care about starts training for 5Ks, 10Ks, marathons, etc. But hey, at least it’s not drugs, so there’s that. I'm seeing the cup half full on this one.

My induction into nunnery and “lock in” culture is teaching me a lot about myself. Namely, the importance of being self-assured and less needy. That I’m strong and capable of doing hard things. That I have much to offer the world. And that selling yourself short is a great sin. Continue following me on this journey of mine, and do keep your head up. It’s better that way.

“Can I be brutally honest with you? I feel I’ve been really honest with you lately, and I don’t want to overdo it.”

I had an enlightening conversation with my friend, Future*. Future is your classic bad boy persona, the mini-devil on my shoulder at times. Showing me patterns in the world I don’t wish to see. I have had many spirited discussions with “The International Bad Man Killa” ⸺as he calls himself⸺ about the male psyche, the nuanced science behind bad bitching, and my feelings on the pursuit of sex appeal.

“You’re already here⸺you might as well say it.”, I told him, resigned and dry.

“You need more ashewo clothes.”

Ashewo. Olosho. Akwuna-akwuna. Different words in different Nigerian tongues that all mean the same thing: “prostitute”. I am not one to judge those who make their living in alternative ways, but it’s not my style in the literal sense. I didn’t have sexy clothing, and I wasn’t sure if that’s how I wanted to be perceived. To be or not to be an object? That is the question. I suppose I will always be objectified in some way as a woman⸺so I might as well play the game, even if acting as the “meat” for the male gaze doesn’t ensure my happy ending. So yes, I want to be sexy. Yes, I want to be lusted after. But only to a certain point. I think that’s normal as a woman desiring partnership.

Leading up to this recent talk, Future drilled me on my fashion faux pas over the previous weeks. He didn’t like the outfit I wore to the Kendrick concert.

“Oh my God, my baby went and wore this to ‘they not like us’!” in his dramatic, disappointed African father accent.

We heartily laughed about his reaction, but to an extent, it cut a bit although I understood what he meant.

“You make these stylistic choices, but they don’t translate. They don’t give what you think they give. You dress how my mother or elder sister would dress.”

(Sidenote: Mind you, this is a 36 year old man we’re talking about. Him saying this horrified me.) While I always had an idea of how I envisioned my looks, the final execution of said looks rarely matched the images I created in my head. It was a stark “expectation” versus “reality” scenario most times. I had to admit it to myself. I don’t have sex appeal in the traditional sense. I am the quintessential awkward, quirky black girl. (Obnoxiously long sidenote: My thoughts on sexiness and sex appeal in general are complex. I can’t cover them all here. Ultimately, attractiveness and sex appeal are independent of each other. One can be attractive, and you can want to sleep with them, but through and through are not sexy. Then, there are those that don’t fit the mold of societal standards of beauty, that have sex appeal. It’s in the “how” not the “what”. I will probably make a different post about this eventually.)

Despite the fact that my style had improved over the years when comparing to high school and college me, there was still much work to do. Do I lean into what I already am or overhaul on my rebrand? How do I try something new without looking too forced and rehearsed? That would ultimately defeat the purpose of naturalness and flow, the essence of bad bitching, would it not? Not caring too much or trying too hard. That is the point.

I decided to try something new for a girls night out with Barbie* on a recent Saturday. To stick my toe in the bad bitch kiddie pool as a social experiment, so to speak. I wore something out of my comfort zone. A tight red crop top and some coochie cutter denim shorts. White heels. I did my hair big. Makeup with cat eyes. Not inherently brazen, but more fun, daring, and showy for me. I liked how I looked and felt more alive. We went out a couple towns over.

First location isn’t worth discussing. It was dull. The second location is where this sociology lesson takes shape. OG Wizkid and Burna, among various other African musicians I grew up on, blared in the background. The energy was sky high already. We entered and got to the bar. A man spoke to me. He ogled me intently, looking stressed for some reason. He asked where I’m from. Why I am so beautiful. His words not mine. Where Barbie and I came from that evening. Where I live. That’s where I let that conversation die. I became short with him. I already gave him my fake name and backstory. A city of residence was unnecessary at this point. He left shortly after.

An older gentleman, Big Poppa*, also approached me. I helped him order his drink as the bar was quite busy. He got one for my friend and I and flirted, asking me about myself. I gave him my standard ditsy “I’m just a girl” response to shake his advance. “Girls drink whiskey?” was his witty comeback. He went away to the other side of the room soon after. While I relished in the attention, I admitted to Barb that I felt out of place. This wasn’t something I was used to.

“This shouldn’t be a surprise. All this means is that you should go out more.” is what she said.

And I’m inclined to believe her. Who wouldn’t believe a Barbie?

I genuinely enjoyed myself that night. Every song was “my song” as I knew the lyrics to most. Even had a bar for bar rap battle with two men across the room, who sent drinks over. (Sidenote: I wasn’t planning on another drink this evening, but I went ahead anyway. I shouldn’t have. This is important to the story.) They were good vibes and never came over to make things awkward. Love that.

Towards the end of the night is when things started to get “sticky” for lack of better words. Big Poppa circled back asking for my number, saying we could do dinner. I tried the “you can have my Instagram” runaround but this was a 50-something year old man. He wasn't going for it. I wasn’t expecting this, so I had to set some boundaries in a respectful yet fun way, if at all possible.

“I’m turning 27 soon, and I need to make good decisions.”

“Are you saying I’d be a bad one?”

“No. You seem to be a nice man, but I just can’t.” He nodded at my response and left quietly. I felt like I was mean to him, but I was only being truthful. What would that man want from me, if not sex? This was the first time I encountered one of those obscure sugar baby situations you only ever hear about on Tiktok or quietly judge (and potentially envy) when seen in public.

Then, the lights came on. I stood up to head to the exit, and I recognized I didn’t feel as steady as I thought I was. I went to the restroom. I hated the way the men gawked at me. When I came out, I hated their sly smiles and how they tried to pull me towards them. How comfortable they were invading my space. How they ignored boundaries and decency. They didn’t care because they just saw my body. They were vultures, and I was the feeble animal they were patiently waiting on to die. They were like wolves that linger on the edge of the treeline, waiting for the weakest of the sheep to fuck up. Although nothing happened that night, and my friend ensured I got home safe and sound, I still feel gross thinking about them.

Essentially, my mini science experiment proved what I already knew (minus the pushy, touchy, assaulty-vibes, of course): bad bitching would require a complete overhaul. Like Future said. And Barbie. A rebrand would be necessary. Not for the enjoyment of others, but to help me fall in love with myself. (Sidenote: I see self-love like trickle-down economics now. The more self-love one has repels misaligned people and ultimately benefits attracts those that share that love as well.) I am making it a small skirt, short shorts, cropped blouse, and tasteful cleavage type of summer. Oh, and RED all over. Which is unheard of for me. “Good” girls weren’t supposed to show off like that. Weren’t supposed to purposefully soak up attention. But if there’s anything I’ve learned from shrinking myself and trying to be the “good” girl it’s this: it has not paid. Not in the way I want it to. At least not yet. So let’s do something different and see how it plays out.

While I am excited to discover new parts of myself and finally feel “hot” and not just “cute”, I want to maintain a balanced head. Bad bitching is both a physical and mental game. It is a state of mind. If you “feel” yourself regardless of being perfectly done-up at all times, and you unapologetically present yourself on the world stage, the right people will “feel” you, too. And that’s what truly matters. Not that all people feel you, but that the right one(s) do.

How do I feel towards myself? It is nice to get validation from external sources, yes. In fact, it is necessary for proper human development to a degree. However, what takes precedence is how and why I am doing all this. I want to look good so that I can feel good. How we feel is reflected, at least in part, in how we decorate ourselves. There isn’t a clear distinction between them as they’re each connected. I just don’t want to slip into a life of constant performance or expectations that I can’t always meet. Perhaps there’s something like a part-time hottie option out there. I know there’s a middle ground somewhere in the mix. It’s just up to me to find it.

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It’s been a long time coming, but this post marks the conclusion of this series, and it won’t be as grand as you may think. I gave voice to the genesis of my problems and the different archetypes of men I met along the way. While this exercise may have taught you more about me, I hope it taught you about yourself and the kinds of things you’ve been saying “yes” to that you probably shouldn’t have. And I hope you gained the same lessons I did without all the extra theatrics. Let’s dive in.

I understand the need to stop idolizing marriage. I thought idolatry meant worshiping celebrities or an insatiable lust for wealth, and since I never pledged allegiance to any effigy or monument, I thought it couldn’t pertain to me. However, we idolize institutions everyday, be it money, power, fame, or even romance. This hyper-fixation on the romantic was particularly trying in 2022 and 2023. I had been living in Jersey for 2 years, and I had nothing to show for it. (Sidenote: My mindset of what winning looked like was so limited then. I was 24/25 living on my own in a quaint little apartment. Life really was good.) I was anxious for every invite to every social occasion, big or small. The thought of "What if I meet someone?" plagued my mind. It was unnatural to make each interaction with the opposing sex so intense. So high stakes. And frankly, it was draining. All this just to "check the marriage box"?

What I’ve come to appreciate ⸺both from relationships I admire and those that I don’t⸺ is that marriages are all made up of flawed people working to manage the idiosyncrasies of their loved ones. While it can be a beautiful thing when done with the right person, it is by no means as glamorous as I fantasize it to be. So although I have my hiccups from time to time, I have come to put my desire for romantic love in its proper place. This is not an earth-shattering discovery, so please hold on to your sarcastic slow claps. I know this is common sense, but for me at that time, it was not common whatsoever.

Another message of import: no one is coming to save us. There is no perfect man or woman swooping in to save the day. A daunting yet empowering finding I’ve made over the last few months. No one, not even my future lover, is responsible for rescuing me from all the internal struggles I face or the dull life I lead at times. It is left to us to make this life shit happen on our own. We constantly wait on others. We hold off on going to certain outings because we’d rather go with someone else. We won’t take that trip or go to that concert because friends aren’t going or we aren’t “boo’d up” yet. Even watching a movie alone could be an issue for some. It is in these moments, big and small, that life happens, and we can’t wait on anyone to start living. Life itself is fleeting and precious, so don’t waste too much time.

Nowadays, I’m fighting the spirit of people-pleasing. I don’t need to over-explain myself for every little thing or bend to everyone. At times, I will make decisions others disagree with to live authentically, and I must be confident in those choices. Moreover, I don’t have to fit in. I have much to offer, and if anyone fails to see that, that is their loss. I am not to kill myself “selling” myself to them romantically, socially, or professionally. I am not alive to be a commodity consumed by others. I am not alive to make myself pretty so a man somewhere will pick me from a shelf full of dolls and “animate” me, then put me back down once he’s bored. I am not alive to pimp myself out to the highest corporate bidder. And I am certainly not alive to claw my way up a corporate ladder, fattening the pockets of a company that would make more money off me than I’d ever see. I don't intend to sound militant as I write this. This isn’t coming from a “I-hate-men”, “rah-rah-burn-the-bra”, or “fuck-you-pay-me” place. That’s too simplistic. (Sidenote: Ok maybe only the last point applies if I’m being honest. Please put the money in my hand.) I’m just a woman with pointed views, and I’m learning that many of the things we toil over ⸺which I am not immune to⸺ are vain pursuits. We must think critically about why we want them.

Although I’m on a much-needed timeout from my huntress activities and it seems I won’t be wearing matching PJs with somebody’s son anytime soon, I have gained a great deal over the past few years. I am trusting my process more. Taking more chances on myself. Like this blog. And gradually finding that it is ok to be me. Reclaiming confidence and acknowledging my agency is not easy, and I often second-guess myself. I no longer want to be paralyzed by fear. If fear conquers all, that is where life itself begins to end, even if one continues inhabiting their fleshly form. We must extend grace to ourselves, and have realistic expectations. We are allowed to take calculated risks, make mistakes, and learn from them⸺but we must march onward. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.

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28  For example, who of you wanting to build a tower does not first sit down and calculate the expense to see if he has enough to complete it?

Throughout 2021, the question rang in my mind as I nearly built a tower I was ill-equipped to manage due to internal and external pressures. The tower inevitably crumbled, as it was meant to. This is a story of how cultural norms shape our fears and expectations, especially in the arena of romance, and how they must be kept in their proper place.

As per usual, a man is at the center of this story. His name was Naija*, as he was based in Nigeria at the time. More specifically Lagos. I heard of him in 2018, during a family trip in Enugu. A childhood friend of Mumsy’s, who we’ll call Uncle Busybody*, mentioned him to me, but we didn’t meet in-person that summer. In addition, Mom knew his parents growing up, and said he came from good stock. Things didn’t go anywhere at this time. Classes started again the following fall, so I wasn’t pressed on meeting someone new, especially one so far away. We spoke over the phone once.

In January 2021, my stepfather was in Lagos. Many bad romances start in that city, I’ve heard. Uncle Busybody introduced him to Stepdad at a mutual’s going-away function. (Sidenote: If anything will be at the root of my undoing, it will be a going-away party. Please see Grandpa’s story for context if you haven’t already.) Stepdad took a strong liking to Naija immediately. The three men randomly video-called me via Whatsapp. From there, we reconnected.

Naija was an intelligent man. Good looking with a nice build, as well. However, communicating over the long-distance was difficult to say the least. I found it hard to form a deep connection solely over choppy calls that often started and stopped due to network issues and unclear audio, among other things. Perhaps these are all superficial excuses to cover the real problem I had: I didn’t truly work to form that connection because long-distance wasn’t for me.

When engaging in long-distance relationships (or in this case, a potential one), many factors must be considered. When is it best to communicate with them? How often will you see the person? Who will travel more and why? When will the distance close so you can both be together? As an overthinker speaking to someone who couldn’t simply fly over and whisk me away on an impromptu date night, these costs added up quickly. And I knew I would be the one paying the majority of them. Not because Naija didn’t want to, but because he wasn’t in the position to.

I further worried about how things would progress. Talking to someone based in another land has its nuances. Since you don’t see them often, the “getting to know each other” process ⸺which should be organic⸺ feels more intense and sped up. Then, next steps. What if I marry him? Would I have the fortitude to carry things on my own for a few years while he waits for his papers, then as he gets situated in a new country? It certainly works for many, and I applaud them, but I didn’t feel I would be able to given the situations I’ve seen. I spoke with Mom and Stepdad about these concerns and how I wanted to end things before getting in too deep, but I was often met with judgement. Stepdad would say, “You can’t get it 100% in a person.” and “You’re only saying this because you’re privileged to be brought up in America. Don’t be selfish.” Knowing what I know now, I should’ve stopped seeking their advice on the matter.

The summer was a tumultuous time, with its high and low points. Despite my anxieties, Naija and I still communicated, and I booked a flight to Lagos in May. I felt he had shown me enough of his character to warrant me exploring him in-person. He was happy when I shared the news. In July, I moved to Jersey to live on my own. The following month I considered calling things off with Naija, but I still felt it was best to put my all in before deciding he wasn’t for me.

Fall was worse. Mumsy lost her dad in October, which made it even more vital that I go back with her and Stepdad to support. With that, I left for Lagos on November 26th.

Being with Naija in-person after nearly a year of the back-and-forth was a much-needed change. I enjoyed his company and liveliness. But the pressure to take things to the next level got more daunting now that we were face-to-face. Before I arrived, he mentioned wanting me to meet his family during my trip, to which I said I wasn’t ready and tried to skirt around the subject. In all honesty, my emotional investment in him was not deep enough to warrant that. Within my first 48 hours in Lagos, he followed up about it, and I felt I had to agree to it. He asked how he should introduce me. (Sidenote: As stated earlier, this is a problem with long-distance. This is my first time interacting with him in real-time, and now I should meet his “village” to make the most of my journey?) At first, I told him to tell them I’m someone he’s getting to know (how I truly felt). Then, I said he could say we’re courting (how it felt I should feel). This is an action I sincerely regret.

He also wanted to discuss the future as he started applying for graduate programs in the UK months before I reached Lagos. In those conversations over the phone, I told him that I didn’t want him planning his life around me. I didn’t want the burden of having his life in my hands before even meeting him. I wanted him to take action on his own. Now that I was with Naija directly, I said I’d make my decision at the end of the trip. For me, this trip would help me determine whether I wanted to be in a relationship with him. I would not make that call without ever experiencing him in reality.

We spent a lot of time together in Lagos. He was kind and generous. No notes there. The real stress started when he and my family traveled to the east for grandpa’s burial. His parents picked us up from the airport and took us to our hotel. I was nervous, but I didn’t speak with them much at this time. A couple of days into the journey, Naija warmly attended grandpa’s funeral in the village alongside myself, my parents, and extended family. It was courteous of him as the drive from Emene, Enugu to Mom’s village in Abia was two hours of dangerous roads, police checkpoints, and other potential threats. I appreciated his efforts. Following the burial, I met his family and friends. They were gracious, hospitable people, also hoping I would make the “right decision” as they said. It was a hefty weight to bear. We all flew back to Lagos a couple of days later.

The remaining days of the trip went by quickly, and they had their ebbs and flows from pleasure being in his presence to anxiety. I enjoyed spending time talking, laughing, being silly, but other times were unnecessarily high stakes. For one, he pressed me about getting blood tests. He quite literally stuck pins in my hands to draw blood for them. I can’t quantify the embarrassment I felt as random passersby looked then averted their eyes. This was what people that are unequivocally sure they want to marry do, and I was nowhere near that point. Still, I got the tests against my better judgement. I allowed myself to be pulled along in those moments.

On the final evening before my flight home, I told Naija that I wanted him and I to be official. He happily jumped into visa talks almost immediately. Trying to determine when I should start processing a visa for him to make things easier and reduce my issues with distance. He suggested I could start filing a couple months down the line the following March or February. That as soon as he got over, he would start finding work. I told him that was fast, and he emphasized that I’m not the first woman abroad that he’s ever talked to, so it’s not as if he was pressing me to bring him over. He had also at times said that many women want him for their daughters. (Sidenote: Respectfully, what the fuck does that have to do with me?) Why would he even say that? Am I supposed to care what other women do or don’t do? I was turned off by the conversation. We were obviously going at two very different speeds. Instead of leaving the conversation excited about the future, I felt I was signing in blood when I had newly committed. My parents thought I was the one overreacting and that what Naija said was indeed normal.

Upon my return to Jersey, I was uneasy. My parents were still back in Lagos where I left them. Naija called me saying he attended Uncle Busybody’s anniversary dinner with them, but didn’t tell them what we had discussed. I jokingly asked him why he was acting secretive with them.

“It’s not like you proposed to me or something.”, I said. Because he didn’t. This was the first time I had ever faced his vitriol.

“What are you talking about? Are you trying to embarrass me in front of my family?”, he shouted.

Apparently the conversation we had before I left was his rendition of a proposal. This was the grand decision everyone was looking to me to make. No ring, no kneeling, or “will you marry me” necessary, of course. He compared me to the wives of his friends and peers.

“Why can’t you be like Ric*’s wife? She’s younger than you but she knows what she wants.”

Ric was a friend of Naija’s that I met in Enugu. He was thirty-one, and his newly wedded wife, Via*, was twenty-one. The comparisons were inconsequential. These people had normal courtships. They at least lived in the same country, so of course they had ample opportunities to observe each other for an extended period. Yet, I was expected to make a lifetime decision based on Whatsapp calls throughout the year and a two-week trip where most of the larger decisions felt pressured. He even said he gave up admission to a masters program in Scotland for me, and that angered me. I categorically did not want to be responsible for his life plan, but alas I still received the blame.

I attempted dragging this poorly conceived relationship for a couple extra months. To give it a good shake before washing my hands. It fizzled, and I closed it out in March 2022. My family was upset with me over the ordeal. To meet a potential mate’s family and yet reject their “proposal” is majorly frowned upon. An embarrassment to them and myself. But I didn’t feel ashamed. It was quite the opposite, actually. While I felt bad for his family’s involvement and hospitality, I wasn’t remorseful. Within myself, I knew I made the right decision. I just wonder why it took so long to make.

There were many reasons I drug my feet, but they aren’t very sound. By this time in my life, the pressing voice of settling down was no longer a figment of my imagination, something I had forced on myself. It started coming from external sources. My parents, aunts, and uncles were eager to provide their input. I gave them too much weight, and allowed myself to be quieted when voicing my thoughts. They (primarily the men, unsurprisingly) put the fear of aging into me. I had just turned twenty-three that summer. I shake my head at the thought of it now because I was never old, so you can imagine my self-doubt. Even after the fact, there was the constant push to explain why I ended my relationship to others. I was simply a grown woman that determined a connection wasn’t for her. Simple. There was never a need for extra scrutiny, and I’m not a walking apology that needs to explain my every move. If you don’t understand me, that’s on you.

Then the fear and scarcity aspect. The fear of being alone and perceived as “defective”, and scarcity because my dating pool is already quite shallow. A scarcity mindset is a silent killer of many, and it almost took me out, too. Starting a courtship or marriage based on such feelings is not a recipe for success. Granted, I’m unmarried, so what do I know? However, I see how fear impacts others, especially other Nigerian women approaching or past thirty, and I don’t envy the relationships in which they find themselves⸺ much like some of my aunties with marriages that leave much to be desired. Had I entered the relationship and ended up miserable, I would face the fire alone. All everyone would say is “Nne, ndo. Sorry. Marriage is like that sometimes.” or “Ebezina. Manage him like that. Take what you see and try not to make a fuss.” They wouldn’t say that because they’re bad people or they don’t care. It’s just that misery is their normal. Therefore, I’d rather take some time to make a well-informed decision.

This was one of my more long-form stories, but I hope the point was never lost on you: don’t be a weakling. While it is wise to get advice from those with experience, always take it with a grain of salt. The context in which they have made their bed does not dictate how you will lie in yours. You love them, and they love you, but you must establish healthy boundaries early in adulthood. Life is yours for the taking, and you don’t want to regret everything because you were afraid to stick to your instincts. Finally, this post is not an indictment on all Nigerian relationships and culture as a whole, but my critique of what we have come to accept as normal. An honorable mention is to never start what you know you aren’t capable of finishing.

This one took me weeks to write. It was long-winded, but it all needed to be said. I was fearful of being so honest about my mistakes, but here I am. This wraps up my man stories. To close out this series, I’ll discuss where my head is at nowadays. Thank you for listening this long.

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Not to get preachy, but I started rereading Proverbs the last few weeks. The book deeply triggers me and makes me reflect, but not for the reasons you may think. Of course, the underlying message is simple: don’t be a useless slob and apply wisdom to live a quality life. Ok great. So why does it bother me? The visceral discomfort I have with the book stems from a different source. A man. A man I will call Grandpa*.

“Complex. That’s somebody that has complex.”

Mumsy would say this often about people that projected their insecurities, frustrations, and “-isms” about themselves onto everyone else. I learned about complexes firsthand when encountering Grandpa. I concede that “Grandpa” is a strange name to give a young man, but I can’t take credit for that. His other names include “Grumpy Guy”, “Mean Guy”, and “Basic Features” (this is not an insult to him, but rather how he described me in front of his friends), but I think Grandpa suits him best as he was abrasive to say the least.

A Sunday morning in 2018 is when I first encountered him. His face was new to me, but well-known to the congregation. He handled the Bible well, speaking with poise and conviction in front of a crowded auditorium of onlookers. I appreciated his words and told him such after his talk. I was twenty, and he was twenty-eight. The initial conversation wasn’t particularly striking, but he did linger a while. It wasn’t until we met once more at a mutual’s going-away party that he asked for my number. I didn’t think much of it.

He would text often. We would talk over the phone, too. Sometimes for hours at a time. There were a variety of topics on the table, but our most notable discussions were those about men and women. Grandpa had hard-set ideas of how women should behave based on his upbringing, in my opinion. He was raised by his grandparents and had a strained relationship with his mother due to no fault of his own. I won’t detail his mother wounds here as that would be a betrayal of the confidence he once bestowed on me. Although I don’t like him as a person, I won’t wash his linens outdoors.

His opinions started out small.

“I don’t like when women do their eyebrows this way. They look permanently surprised.”

In general, I thoroughly dislike men in women’s business, but I didn’t want to make rash assumptions about his character. After further social media exchanges, he pressed more.

“Your Instagram is public. That kinda gives off the idea that you want people to notice you. You should probably go private.”

The crazy thing is that I saw reason with him and made my account private. Why I allowed a man that wasn’t my man to have such a weighty opinion still perplexes me. (Male approval and validation must have crack in it. That is my only explanation.) I still remain private till today, but now for my own reasons.

Additionally, Grandpa spoke ill of a few ex love interests⸺ of which there were ten in total (yes 1 and 0), I might add. (Sidenote: I concede that dating 10 people in the course of one’s twenties isn’t the most far-fetched notion. It is a time for internal upheaval and discovery. However, coming from me and Grandpa’s shared conservative background, ten is quite the number, rounded and bold. A red flag whips about in the distance.) I listened closely to him as he relayed his side, how this one was crazy, or how he made mistakes when dealing with that one, etc. But I knew that all of those women couldn’t be “crazy”, and he acknowledged that he wasn’t mature in each situation. In my eyes, these women were all just side-characters throughout his life that made him look and feel good. Not real people. He could switch them out freely if they became “defective” in some way without truly having to grow from the experience. How else does someone go through dating that many people in that span of time?

He expressed his interest in me. I tried to be direct but kind. I wasn’t attracted to him both for the physical and the mental, but I never felt the need to say that. I didn’t want to be shallow or mean. I told him I didn’t see him that way, but we still maintained a friendship and talked often, which I felt was the wisest thing to do. Looking back, I should have created more space to not cause any confusion. Since I failed to establish these boundaries, he kept asking me out.

With each “no”, he would press me more in regular conversation. He asked what I wanted in a partner. While I never said my future lover must be a prince or oil tycoon, I did say that I would like for him to be able to provide. Grandpa agreed, but told me that some of my expectations were unrealistic because people go through different obstacles. I kept in mind that he had an eight year head start in this marathon of life. He made some mistakes, but he also had time to correct his course, and he wasn’t doing badly working as an EMT and living with his grandmother. He once asked how much money I would make from my summer internship. I shouldn’t have dignified that question with a response, but I trusted him.

He followed up with, “Does a man have to make a certain amount of money for you? $XX,XXX should be enough, right?”

It was a strange exchange. No reasonable person sits down to calculate a specific number their future mate must earn for them to be content. I feel he felt some inadequacy, which was never my intention. Conversations like these made me uncomfortable, especially when our viewpoints differed.

At times, I was able to nuance through the things he said, even when they were off putting. I could understand it because I listened to his past and pains, and I extended support when he experienced a loss in his family. But he didn’t extend that same grace to me, even after sharing some of my grief with him. So his words and actions were cutting.

“What even are your spiritual goals?”

“That’s not good enough. You’re not doing enough. You’re spiritually weak.”

“You should be more like your friend, Grace*. Everyone really likes her.”

On one such occasion sometime in 2019, we had a disagreement. It may have been about our viewpoints on divorce, submission, or something else. I genuinely can’t remember as we had several misalignments. He later sent an excerpt of Proverbs 5: 3-6, which reads:

3  For the lips of a wayward woman drip like a honeycomb, And her mouth is smoother than oil.

4  But in the end she is as bitter as wormwood And as sharp as a two-edged sword.

5  Her feet descend into death. Her steps lead straight to the Grave.

6  She gives no thought to the path of life. Her course wanders, but she does not know where.

According to Gramps, I was the Jezebel seeking to corrupt and destroy and thwart the paths of good men. Admittedly so, during this time, I had still had more growing up to do mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I am a work in progress even now. However, Grandpa had made himself the judge of what morality looks like, and that never sat right with me either. Even if I were to disagree with someone, I would never fix myself to condemn them using the Bible because I am a deeply flawed individual as well. This interaction, among many others I can’t find the time to relate to you, left a bitter taste in my mouth. Like how I imagine wormwood to be. Is this the “good Christian man”? Is this what I should expect in any future partner?

Grandpa learned about my feelings for Honeywell in the spring of 2019. He invited me to a bonfire somewhere outside Atlanta. He picked me up and we went. Honeywell came sometime after, an unexpected but welcomed surprise. (Sidenote: This is when I learned just how small my world was in Atlanta. Everyone knows each other and rarely are there any original experiences.) We excitedly recognized each other and went off to the side to talk. I sincerely cannot recollect how long Honey and I spoke. Although we didn’t ignore everyone the entire evening and eventually rejoined the group, in hindsight, this may not have been in the best taste. The rest of the evening went over smoothly, or so I thought. A day or so following the bonfire, Grandpa remarked about the night, saying Honeywell could’ve hit me over the head with a stick and drug me into a cave and I would’ve been fine with it.

“What is it about him?” Grandpa would ask.

Trying to draw me out. I didn’t bite because I didn’t feel the need to make a comparison. He saw I was still holding out that hope, and he looked to crush it.

“Many girls like him, you know.”

He proceeded to send me pictures of two women that were interested in Honeywell. Both were beautiful from what I can remember. This was Grandpa’s not-so-passive way of saying “Bitch, who do you think you are? Get in line. These are the caliber of women you’re up against.” It was then that I realized the true nature of the man I was dealing with. A villain. Calculated and strong-willed. What able-bodied, employed man takes the time to hunt down, screenshot, and send pictures of women that don’t even like him to terrorize another young woman that doesn’t like him either? It was sick. I don’t remember how I reacted, I only knew I was disgusted.

I gave up on Honeywell by winter of 2019. 2020 felt unreal, and I had minimal contact with Grandpa and most Atlanta people as I had moved. Valuable time had been wasted chasing and fretting, and the voice in my mind got a bit louder as COVID marriages boomed.

In late 2021, Honeywell’s wedding bells rang, too. Thankfully, this news was broken to me by someone that cares for me before less savory characters could do so. One October day, Grandpa gleefully texted me out the blue,

“Hey, did you hear about Honeywell? He’s getting married next weekend.”

Till this day, I still wonder what exactly I was meant to do with that information. There was no inconsequential banter leading up to it; he just wanted to drop it and get my reaction. Though I hadn’t spoken to him in months, he couldn’t help himself but to jab again. Something he got off on. An insatiable urge. Almost like a kink.

Although I have neither the certifications nor the language to diagnose or make judgements, I sincerely believe Grandpa was my first brush with a narcissist. I know. I hate how unqualified people throw the n-word around, too. (All of the n-words.) But today, I will be that person. There were several hard-earned lessons during this era of my life. First off, a spiteful man is a dangerous one, and anyone bent on humbling you has inner issues of their own. It is also not my job to compartmentalize and minimize every shortcoming of those that consciously try to belittle me. I can’t psychoanalyze everyone else as I, too, am quite fucked up myself. Each one must carry his or her own load and do the personal work to heal. In other words, I learned to stop negotiating with terrorists and quit playing hostage in my own life. People like this need to be “starved” of time and energy. Time, energy, and vulnerability are so expensive, yet I gave mine away cheaply.

Grandpa’s efforts to humble me, both in our one-on-one interactions and group settings, played in my mind many months and years after the fact. The outcomes of these efforts varied widely from each other. On the one hand, I doubted myself more about my looks and my ability to attract a worthwhile mate. On the other, I learned I’m actually that girl. I am self-aware enough to know I’m not the baddest bitch to ever roam planet Earth, but I don’t have to be. I’m special in my own right. And my lover will treat me as such. I didn’t recognize that about myself during this period of my life, so I couldn’t grasp how a man could hate me and want to fuck me at the same time. Now that I am older, I see that this dynamic is much more common than we would like to admit.

Grandpa absolutely earned his place in my “A Hiatus from Husband Hunting” series as he taught me that as a woman, a man may very well be the weapon fashioned against you. Be fluid and open to love, but keep on the watch for men and people such as these.

One of my less significant yet enjoyable pastimes is giving people (often men) nicknames they will never know of. I create them based on where a person lives, what they do for work, or perhaps even something jarring they have said or done. In the course of my writings, you will see many nicknames highlighted with an asterik (*).

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Herein lies the story of the first time I fell victim to a stoic man. A baptism by fire in a certain way. It is a canon event that most women must experience at least once. It builds grit.

Eighteen. That’s where it started. I started my computer science major at UGA, so I had something to occupy me. The thoughts started faintly at first:

As time progressed, I met with a potential love. His name was Honeywell*. I met him through my favorite uncle, who became like a father to me. Honeywell checked my boxes at the time: charismatic, popular, gainfully employed, educated, tall, and religiously on the same page. He was Nigerian and Igbo like myself (not a necessity for me, but a plus). What wasn’t there to like?

His lack of emotional availability. That’s what there wasn’t to like. Much time was invested exchanging messages and laughs to and fro, sometimes trivial but many times meaningful. They meant something to me, at least. And I thought the same of him. Never a call. The one time he did, he said it was an accident. He found it hard to say he liked me. It was as if I had to drag it out of him.

How could one be so fickle? I would ask when he would make out time to see me, and he always had a reason that was valid to him alone. I was a broke student, so I wasn’t going to him. (Sidenote: we eventually did meet by happenstance because of a man named Grandpa*. More on him later.) My concerns were met with the dismissive response commonly proffered to many women: that I was being “too emotional”. This endeavor was doomed. Ultimately a nonstarter that I allowed to drag on a couple years on and off until late 2019. I’m still embarrassed to this day that I went out that sad. As I put these words to paper again ⸺despite having written extensively in my personal journals, which are far more crass and unhinged⸺ I recognize my resentment lingers.

The voice was there, but remained at a place, not getting too close but still making its presence known:

Though Honeywell wasn’t someone I dated, the lack of reciprocation stung, and I felt small and insignificant. I was not the right type of woman that would make him want to commit, so that must have meant I wasn’t good enough period. I struggle with these feelings even now. It took me a while to unpack why I felt this way.

Usually, when we talk about objectification between men and women, we primarily see it in a sexual context. Men see women as objects for sexual gratification. While that is a common case, I found that it can be the other way as well. We just don’t call it what it is: objectification. I can admit now that I was vain and superficial for some of the things I liked about him. He was a rarity, almost like a collector’s item.

I spoke with my friend Marcus about how I felt, and he said I coveted Honeywell. Like he was something I could pin down and own. At first, I was taken aback by that; I only ever heard of coveting in the Bible. A man coveted another’s wife or possessions, among other things. A woman coveted another’s husband or children. It was disgusting, greedy, and dark. And I could never be any of those things. At least, not in my own eyes. The more I sat with myself and my heavier thoughts, the more truth I uncovered behind what Marcus said. Honeywell was the object of my affection, but still an object nonetheless. I romanticized the idea of him without having enough knowledge of his substance. So when he wouldn’t behave the way I envisioned, I would be upset. While he had flaws of his own, I accept it was unfair of me to have those ideas to begin with.

The second, arguably more profound, layer to the Honeywell matter is this: I was wildly insecure in myself. How else can I explain letting a man be this unintentional and inconsistent for that long? Or getting my emotions involved despite the lack of action? Or getting got with a false sense of intimacy? I struggled deeply with my self-esteem at this time in my life, which left the barriers to entry to my heart abysmally low. Therefore, forcing a relationship became my top priority. I didn’t feel worthy of him, and his actions showed he shared that sentiment.

Since the Honeywell fiasco, I have made it my mission to beg God to save me from the clutches of nonchalant men and people at large. I don’t wish the experience on anyone. They know that they either don’t give a damn or don’t have the emotional ability to and yet watch others contort themselves to please them. Not necessarily because they are bad people, but because they are emotionally-stunted people. But the onus is not entirely on Honeywell and those like him. My experience of him taught me to increase the standards of those I call friends, both platonic and potentially romantic. Why deal with anyone you feel you must beg for time or attention?

No one can change on a whim, they have to be moved to do so. Perhaps if we express how their aloof attitude impacts us, it will give them pause to reconsider. It requires balance. We can help to the best of our ability, but alas, we are not rehabilitation centers for others. In the end, it is our job to know when to say when, close shop, and invest back into ourselves. I am learning to apply this to all my relationships. Dealing with people that are “too cool” leaves you wondering what they truly think of you, and the overthinking that results is a waste of energy. Life is too short to question one of its simplest, sweetest pleasures: genuine human connection.

I implore you to use my vulnerability to take stock of your own relationships, and find only those who consciously seek you out. If you can’t, it is much safer to be alone for a season. I hope you stay a while as I continue my husband-hunting series.

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For as long as I can remember, I have always compared myself to one of the four women I love most: my mother. I loved her intellect, her frankness (even though I hated when I was in the line of fire), and her resilience in the face of the many obstacles she had overcome. She grew up in Nigeria, to the east, in a bustling city called New Haven, Enugu. Although Nigeria has experienced one form of instability after another over the decades, Mumsy came up when it was even closer to its infancy. She shares fond memories of it now and laughs, but I know things were never carefree for her. I thumbed through her old pictures many times, and rarely did her lips part to show the whites and gaps of her teeth. And it makes me sad.

Mom and grandma had a strange relationship. Mumsy has always been a lively, no-nonsense person, even in the midst of austerity and authority. Her courage made her quick to call out flagrant hypocrisy, so I can only imagine what she was like as a young girl in an African household. On top of that she knew she was beautiful, as did her many admirers. For these reasons, among others, mom was the black sheep of her family. A young woman like this must be subdued. Have her wings clipped before they can fully mature. To protect her, and get her to calm down. At least that’s how grandma felt.

Marriage would be the tool to do this. Dad married mom when she was quite young. About eighteen or nineteen. He was thirty-three or thirty-four. They were just two people that encountered each other, connected through perceived family status and intervention, and married. My memories of their relationship are neither warm nor fuzzy, but I loved them both individually. Mom and dad got used to living together, bearing each other’s idiosyncrasies, however difficult. They did what was expected based on Nigerian societal standards, but I won’t delve too far into that for now.

This introductory model of male and female relations was short-lived for me. My father died young. It was sudden, like a candle flame snuffed out, plunging the surroundings into darkness. I was six. Mom was our stronghold, the remaining semblance of normalcy we had, so following her every move felt natural.

From that time onward, I thought that in order to “life” correctly, I had to reflect my mother’s to the best of my ability. I wanted to become a nurse because she was a nurse, have three kids like she had (at that time), be as skinny and tall as she was when she was younger (my deep-rooted weight obsession bordered on absurdity for many years), and even marry as she did. This mindset is where I started to unravel, even in my younger years.

At that time, I didn’t think critically about how and why Mom was in her position. A good deal of her choices were not hers to begin with. Marrying my father, pursuing nursing school, and carrying the weighty responsibility of supporting everyone home and abroad were things she was pressured into. She only knew a life of being placed in the sacrifice seat and strived to survive. Had she made the choices herself, life would have looked much different. She might have traveled the world as a flight attendant like she wished and eventually fallen for someone along the way. There’s no way to tell what could have been. With what I know now, I try to extend more grace to Mumsy. I remember that she is just a girl at the end of the day, too.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t armed with this level of nuance in my teens and early twenties. I didn’t yet realize that Mom’s life was her own, and that mine would look completely different. And that that difference was OK. This period was the genesis of my husband-hunting woes.

Fortunately, I don’t have a sanctimonious sob story to recount (for now) that gives me the right to complain more than anyone else. I’m not the first ever to suffer in this life, and sadly, I won’t be the last. At twenty-six, I have found myself lost in the so-called pillars that make up the “best” life: higher education, money, corporate America, and the pursuit of love. While having the outward appearance of success, within I knew I was hiding in and gradually becoming disillusioned with these institutions. I did all the things I was “supposed” to do, but never found out what I was meant to do. I am apathetic about most things, and dissatisfied with others. In turn, I tired those that love me and lended an ear.

With that being said, I’m making it my goal to be a little less insufferable every day by fully living and appreciating each moment. My own little way of making the world a little less troublesome. I do this by studying the world and the people in it ⸺myself included⸺ and trying to understand why we do the things we do. So far, I haven’t answered any of my questions, but I appreciate you sharing your time with me as I sift through the nonsense to get the sense of things. My posts will be an exercise in self-exploration and widening my perspectives, and as long as I gain more insight on the world and my place in it, that’s a win in my book.

This is Castaway Girl.

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