This story is published in two parts. This is the second part. Click this link to read Part One.
I was crying when I called my friend.
“What am I not doing right?” I asked between tears. “Now everybody knows we’re together. My sister knows. My brother knows. I already told my family about him. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that again, that I wouldn’t fall victim to a man and his machineries, but I did. What kind of example am I setting for my younger sister?”
She tried to make me feel better. “But at least you haven’t gone that far yet. Not like what happened with your ex.”
“What does that even mean?” I snapped. I felt she didn’t quite understand what was at stake. I had already gone as far as there was to go with him. “Did you not hear me say everyone in the estate knows we’re dating? Did you not hear that my brother is aware? So what the fuck do you mean by we haven’t gone far?” It wasn’t just my family, even my coworkers knew him. My friends, everyone.
She kept talking, but I wasn’t even listening anymore. I was tired of trying to defend how much it hurt, of trying to measure my pain in units of “how far.”
When he saw I was withdrawn from him, he continued calling, but I didn’t answer, he sent me messages and texts and voice notes, but I was already too tired to reply.
Things went on like that until I got a message on WhatsApp. It was his elder sister. She told me her brother had explained things to her and it was all a misunderstanding, that I had things wrong. There was nothing going on between him and the girl
“I’ve asked both of them. I’ve been watching them too, their interaction has been very clean and pure.” She said.
I scoffed internally. I wanted to ask her if she slept between them, if she was with them through the days and nights she stayed over at his place for an entire week. Something I, the so-called girlfriend, had never even done.
But I just kept quiet and listened. I was too mentally drained to argue with her.
Later that day, he called again, and I picked up. He spent a long time pleading and apologizing, begging me to give him another chance.
He promised me it would never happen again, that he had set boundaries and put her in her place. She wouldn’t come over again, she knew her place in his life now. She wouldn’t come over again.
I gave in and agreed to give him a second chance, but made it clear to him, “If I ever see her around again, I’ll take it as confirmation that you two are ‘friends with benefits,’ and I’ll leave.”
He agreed, and added, “Though at your age, you’re too old to be doing that. That’s for Gen Zs, you know, this younger generation.”
Soon after we made up, I had to travel and while I was gone, he played the perfect part of a dutiful boyfriend. He always called to check up on me, we texted, were close, but it wasn’t the same for me, I was still on the look out for cracks. When I got back, I started to see them again.
The first instance was when he bought clothes and perfume for me. The clothes were far too big, they weren’t my size. Instead, they suspiciously looked like they’d fit the family friend. I told him I was a size 6, not a 10, and asked how he couldn’t tell that the clothes were going to be too big.
He laughed it off and said he would have the clothes resized to fit me. I never got them back.
A couple of days later, I told him I was going to stop by his place, and he informed me he wouldn’t be around, he was going to visit a friend who just got back to Nigeria from abroad. I had a spare key, so I told him I would be fine on my own.
When I was at his place, there were suspicious traces that another woman had been in the house. I went to his wardrobe to find the clothes he’d supposedly gotten resized for me, but they weren’t there. The next day, he said he was going to see a friend visiting from abroad.
Everything added up together and I was stabbed by the familiar feeling of betrayal, of being taken for a fool. I closed the wardrobe, locked the house and went back home, and changed my mind about staying at his place for a while.
I didn’t tell him about my suspicions just yet. I didn’t want him to play it off and make me feel like it was all in my head again.
Few days later, his mother had an accident, and I went to the hospital to see her. His siblings were there, and they were all so kind to me, they kept talking about how genuine and sweet I was, and how lucky their brother was to find a woman like me.
He smiled and said, “That’s why I’m going to marry her.” But I didn’t let his words sway me. Not again.
I held on until his mother got discharged and told him we needed to talk. He didn’t seem worried at all, until I opened up on my suspicions on his relationship with the family friend and asked to see his texts with her.
I still remember his expression then, he looked at me like I had grown an extra head on my neck.
I repeated myself: “You told your people I’m the one for you, you said you want to marry me. If that’s true, I want to see your chats with her.”
He started talking fast, making excuses, saying they gossiped about people I knew, how it was important that their texts stayed private, how they’d been friends for years, and I would be infringing on her privacy if he let me read them.
Then he said he’d rather delete the messages than show me.
I knew then that it was over. I was shaking, trembling with pain and anger, but inside, I made a quiet vow. Never again will I show this man the soft part of me. That American love you used to twist and call drama? You won’t see it again.
I couldn’t go home, I couldn’t be alone in that moment. I was too vulnerable and wasn’t sure what I would end up doing if I went home alone, so I ordered a ride to my friend’s studio.
He was still talking, creating excuses and spewing lies when the Bolt guy called. I answered, then told him
“You won’t be the one to break me.”
And I left.
But I was already broken. I cried all the way to the studio, I’m pretty sure the Bolt guy felt bad for me. My friend saw the state I was in and whispered, “You’re in public o”, in attempts to get me to calm down. It didn’t work.
I didn’t care.
I kept sobbing until her clients came out and consoled me as I cried harder. It wasn’t until night came that I left, after crying to my fill, washing my face and then heading home.
I didn’t want to hear, you should have checked his phone when he was sleeping. Or, you should have played the game too. I didn’t want to hear how clever I could have been to dissect the signs I had missed.
But I believed in my way. I wanted to see how he reacted to being asked directly, and he gave me all the answers I needed to know.
I tried to move on with my life, held on until the pain felt a bit lighter and three weeks later, on my way to work, I told my sister, “It’s over.”
“Is it still about the same girl?” She asked.
I nodded. “I feel like they planned this. When he told her not to come over again, he started going to her place.”
My sister sighed. “I feel like you should’ve gotten more proof.”
“My gut feeling is enough proof,” I said. I didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to hear any more justifications.
I started seeing him around the estate again. From afar. Every time I did I would keep a straight face and pretend not to see him until one day when I ran out to buy something and met him on a quiet path.
“You stopped picking my calls,” he said. “Or replying to my texts.”
I looked at him. That kind face again, the one that made it so easy to forget. I tried to see if I could tell the kind of man he was from his face, if I had missed anything the first time but no, he still looked the same, like he couldn’t hurt a fly.
“You told me I was overreacting. That I crave respect too much. Well, I love myself too much to keep letting you disrespect me.”
“Can I call you later? Will you pick?”
I said “okay.”
But I knew I wouldn’t.
Two days later, I didn’t see his call, but my sister came home that night and said, “Guess who I saw with another lady? He just passed by me without talking.”
I asked her to describe the woman.
“She was tall. Dark-skinned.”
I said, “That’s not the same one.”
He was already bringing new women.
To make me feel better, my sister said, “Maybe that was his sister.”
“He doesn’t have an unmarried sister,” I replied.
Still, I needed confirmation.
I did what I said I’d never do: I approached the estate’s infamous newscaster. The woman who had information on everyone living in the estate, and was always up to date on what was happening.
“Please, do you know that guy?” I asked her.
She laughed. A bit too eagerly, if you ask me. “That one? He’s been bringing different women recently. We even wondered if you two had broken up. We all saw you at their end-of-year party.”
I went home and told my sister.
She shook her head. “He’s so messy.”
Not long after, I saw him again, driving in with another girl. He looked at me and quickly turned his face away when he saw me.
I felt the pain rush back in and still went home to vent.
“It’s hard, but try to ignore him,” my sister said.
Days later, we crossed paths again and when I tried to walk past him, he pulled me aside and tried to guilt-trip me.
“You just left me like that. Did you want me to be lonely? I had to call my female friends to cheer me up.”
I was disgusted. “Did I also go looking for male friends to cheer me up?”
He kept talking. “Please reply to my messages.”
I said, “Okay.”
But I left the messages unread.
Two days later, I saw him again, with her. The same family friend. The one he swore off. They were walking together and when she saw me, she said something to him and he turned to look at me, before turning away quickly.
When I got home that day, I told my sister: “I’ve never felt this heartbroken.”
She said, “You were right all along. Dating someone in your neighborhood makes you carry shame. He’s the one bringing women around, but you’re the one feeling the pain and enduring the side talks.”
And then I remembered what my older brother once told me: The moment he told you about another girl, you should have left. A man who loves you would never introduce another woman.
So, I carried the shame, tried to move on with my life while battling the heartbreak. I turned my focus to my life and career, but I couldn’t stop the questions that would come creeping into my mind if I relaxed for a moment.
Should I have been tougher? Colder? More calculating? Was it me? Was there something I could have done better? Maybe it was because I said I wasn’t ready for intimacy? Maybe if we had sex, this wouldn’t have happened?
So many maybes and what-ifs.
But now, after everything, I know better. I know better than to say it could never be me. It can easily be you. Because in a short time, I went through something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
That deep, dark place where you constantly compare yourself to someone else, wondering where and how you fall short.
That place where I constantly replay some of the cruel things he said to me, “Even if you leave me, do you think you’ll find a man who won’t cheat? Your ex did it. I did it. You better loosen up.”
And in those moments, I’d whisper to myself, “My mates are thriving. Excelling in their careers. Making money. And here I am, crying over a man.”
I’d be working on something important and suddenly stop, fall into self-loathing again. Those words would help the horrible thoughts leave my head and I would feel better again.
Many women might have chosen to stay due to one reason or the other but to me, there’s something beautiful about leaving.
When you leave, you become a spectator. You get to see the whole thing clearly, every red flag, every manipulation, every time you doubted your own worth.
You get to see, for the first time, the full rubbish you endured.
And you never want to go back. You’ll never want to stay.
The End.
This is Part Two of this story. Read Part One here!
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