Posts in category: Relationships

Narrated by: Tari Braide

I always told myself I’d never be that girl.
The one whose name hides in silence.
The one who waits for weekend texts.
The one who loves borrowed things.

But life has a funny way of humbling you.
And love? Love can disguise itself in the smoothest lies.

The Man Who Found Me

It started on a rainy Tuesday in Port Harcourt.

I was late to a branding pitch. My makeup was half-smeared, the okada man nearly drove into a muddy gutter, and I was holding my laptop like it was the Ark of Covenant.

Then he pulled up. Lexus. Clean.

He rolled down and said,

You look like you’re about to save the world, but rain is already winning.

I gave a small smile.

Need a ride?” he asked.

In my mind, I knew the answer should be no.
But everything, the rain, the tension, the desperation, said yes.

Enter Mr. ‘Almost Too Good to Be True’

His name was Tamuno.

From Buguma. Calm voice. Bright smile. A laugh that tickled like guitar strings.

He spoke like someone who read books. Quoted Wole Soyinka in conversation. Opened doors. Sent flowers.
Real agbani level romance.

By the third week, I was already asking God,

Is this how it feels to be loved gently?

He never forced anything.
He listened when I talked about my dreams.
He helped me design my business plan.

Every date felt like home. Every kiss like rain on dry earth.

So when he said, “I want to take care of you,”
I didn’t pause to ask what he wasn’t saying.

The Whispered Truth

One night, I forgot my phone at his apartment.
He dropped it at my gate the next morning, with a brown paper bag of pastries and chilled zobo.

It was perfect. Until it wasn’t.

Later that evening, I opened WhatsApp and saw a message from an unsaved number:

Do you know you’re dating a married man?

My heart stopped.

I laughed nervously. Replied:

Sorry, wrong number.

But they sent a photo.

Tamuno. At a family thanksgiving.
With his wife. And two kids.

Breaking, Slowly

I confronted him, heart in throat.

Is it true?

He didn’t lie.

He didn’t even flinch.

He just said,

I didn’t want to lose you before you saw the real me.

Real you?

Married you?
Husband you?
Father you?

I wanted to scream. But I didn’t.
I stood there, tears streaming, asking: Why me?

He said,

Because you’re peace. You’re light. I haven’t known joy in a long time.

Between Right and What Feels Right

I should’ve left.

I knew that.

But I didn’t.

I told myself I’d back away slowly.
That I’d stop answering his calls.
That I’d block him on Instagram.

But then he’d show up.
With warm jollof and sweet words.
And suddenly, I was thirteen again, wanting to be chosen.

And he chose me.
Over and over.

At night.
On lunch breaks.
On weekends when “he had business trips.

It became a routine I hated but couldn’t let go of.

The Side Chick Echo Chamber

When I told my best friend, she sighed and said:

Na this country we dey. Most of these men are taken. You’re not the first, you won’t be the last.

It stung.

She meant well. But what she called “reality,” I still saw as heartbreak.

I started seeing how normal it was:

• A friend dating her boss who “only stays with his wife for the kids.”
• An aunty who raised her children alone because her married lover “never left his wife like he promised.”
• A tailor in GRA who once said: “If side chick no dey, many women go suffer more.”

Our pain had become cultural camouflage.

My Breaking Point

It was his son’s birthday.
I found out through a Facebook post his wife tagged him in.

They wore matching outfits.
Even had a family portrait session.

That night, he called me, casually saying he missed me.

I asked:

Did your wife take those pictures by force?

He paused.

I didn’t wait for an answer.

I hung up. Blocked the number.
This time for good.

Healing in the Mirror

Leaving hurt.

But staying longer would’ve broken me.

I took a break from dating. I focused on work. I started therapy. I began teaching girls in Rumuola about emotional boundaries.

Now, every time I see his car drive by my studio, I don’t flinch.
I don’t ache.
I don’t wish.

I just breathe.

Because loving someone doesn’t mean staying.
And being treated well doesn’t mean it’s right.

💔 Final Words from Tari Braide

• He was the perfect boyfriend.
• Except… he was never mine to begin with.
• And I don’t want to be a secret in someone else’s story.

We live in a country where the side chick narrative is normalized.
Where women are taught to adjust, to manage, to keep secrets.

But love without honesty isn’t love.
Attention without integrity isn’t affection.

If you’re reading this and you’re “the other woman”…
You are more than someone’s escape.
You are not a mistake.
But don’t let someone else’s choices write your worth.

Narrated by: Adaobi N.

Do you love him?

That’s the question Cynthia asked, her voice careful and soft, like she was stepping on broken glass.

We sat on her bed after midnight, sharing the last of the jollof from Oba Kitchen. I was wearing her t-shirt like a shield, I needed protection that night. My phone screen threw light onto her room filled with university prints and plant pots that never died.

My throat felt tight.

I looked away. Pretended to scratch a mosquito bite.

Then I laughed, an empty laugh. Not my real laugh. She knows the difference.

I said:

“Cynthia… I don’t know if it’s love. But I know I need him.”

That was Month 8 of me and Femi.

When Easy Becomes Everything

I didn’t grow up broke; I grew up careful.

Rice once a week. Beans only if we had visitors. And pressure, lots of pressure, to “make good” before turning 25. As in, degree, job, rent, relationship, strict checklist.

So when I started working and could afford small things, I felt… alive. My own story. My own rhythm. My own glow.

Then came May 2023. Fuel scarcity edition.

I was going to Abuja for a presentation, my first big shot. I left a charging phone and woke up to “No one dey for station.” I waited for over two hours, tears coming down my cheeks in the rising sun.

He found me crying at Berger Roundabout.

He pulled up in a Benz. Asked, “Need a ride abi?”

I said yes. Because yes. My fear outweighed my pride.

Small Gestures That Feel Like Love

He bought me a cold Coke after we dropped me off at the hotel.

He remembered my name.

Showed up for my presentation, bless, he went up on stage and took pictures so I would look “like someone arriving presidential.”

He paid my bill at Hotel De Fantasy.

He asked me to stay back for dinner.

I said yes again, even though romance was fire, but I didn’t want him to know that dinner felt like home.

Blur of Feelings and Needs

We started dating. Or calling it that, anyway.

But I never felt butterflies. Just calm. Lack of anxiety. A low hum in my chest that said ”I’m okay.”

He texted me while I was cooking for my flatmates.

He ordered transport while I was walking home from work.

He called just to say, “Babe, I hope you slept well.”

None of it was wild.

None of it was sexy.

But in this country, when nothing else is working…

Even small kindness is a revolution.

The Comfort Becomes a Cage

One evening, I told him I wanted to go on a writing retreat, to rent a small cottage and write my first book.

He said:

“That’s expensive.”

I replied:

“Yes. But I need it.”

He replied:

“Then I don’t think we’re on the same page. I can’t support that.”

I froze.

He clicked off.

That’s when it hit me, I wasn’t building. I was renting.

He supported a version of me that was convenient. A version that didn’t need expansion. A version that never asked too much.

I told Cynthia that night, and we both cried.

How do you dissolve a relationship when your peace depends on someone’s wifi login?

Pressure of the “Let Me Help” Syndrome

In Naija, help is a weapon.

It can be a blessing;

• When you need money to write an exam.
• When your cousin’s Edo girl is pregnant.
• When your father is too old to search for jobs.

But help can trap.

It begins with small loans. Then bills. Then “I dey here.” Then ownership.

Soon, “I’m helping you” becomes “you owe me.” Always repaying, your effort, your silence, your freedom.

When I finally challenged it, I realized I deserved more than convenient company and financial babysitting.

I deserved partnership, not patronage.

Chapter 6: Breaking the Division Between Love and Convenience

One night, after a fight about rent, him saying he’d pay for “now”, it ended with me saying,

“I don’t want a boyfriend who thinks love is just a monthly transfer. I want someone who loves me, not what I can become with his help.”

He replied:

“I love what you do… when I support you.”

I vomited once I walked out that night.

Not because of the conversation, but because I finally saw the mirror, and I didn’t like what was staring back.

Walking Out Feels Like Starvation

I left him.

He begged.

I said, “I need space to stand on money I’ve earned, not money I borrowed from your pocket.”

I gave back every gift, except a necklace. I kept it because I earned it. I didn’t always know that at the time, but I do now.

Reconstructing Myself, One Naira at a Time

I got a second job, freelance writing, content creation, church tutoring.

It was messy. I borrowed wifi when NEPA stole mine. I wrote by candlelight. I realized for the first time…

I am not less without help.

Not less. Not deceptive. Not thankless.

I started paying for my own fuel.

My own transport.

My own therapy.

And my own heart.

Healing Is Not Lonely

Because healing is messy, sometimes lonely.

But healing is community too. Cynthia became my armor. My writer’s circle became my choir. Every struggle became a story, something that used to weigh on me became something I could stand on.

I began to date again.

But I dated intentionally this time.

I told men,

“I can only be with someone who supports all of me, my ambition, my fear, my peace, and my seasons.”

I won’t require them to tuck me or body my baby. But I won’t accept nonsense either.

Love Should Not Feel Like Debt

If you’re reading this and you feel stuck in a relationship that feels more like rent than real love, remember:

• You are not ungrateful for wanting more.
• You are not unlovable for demanding intention.
• You are not petty for choosing growth over comfort.
• You are not alone in navigating this Naija maze.

Narrated by: Amaka

Let’s not lie to ourselves. In this Nigeria, a woman can give a man wild, crazy, unforgettable moments in bed, feed his ego, inspire his hustle, and still not be seen as “wife material.” He’ll laugh with her, sin with her, beg her for “one more round,” and then turn around and say, “But I can’t marry someone like you.”

This is not just gist. This is my truth.

The Girl They Call “Too Much”

My name is Amaka. I grew up in Port Harcourt, raised by a single mother who taught me to speak my mind, walk with my shoulders high, and never apologize for being myself. By 22, I had two degrees, a stable job, and enough confidence to own any room I walked into.

But in relationships? I kept losing.

Why?

Because I was too outspoken, too bold, too freaky, too real.

One of my exes once told me, “You’re the type I want to have fun with, but not the kind I can take home to my mum.”

I asked him, “Why? Because I don’t act like I’m dying of shyness? Because I don’t pretend to be naive? Or because I know what I want in bed?”

He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Exactly.”

Mr. Bedroom Champion & Holier Than Thou Wife Searcher

His name was Kunle. Fine, smart, well-to-do. We met on Twitter. He loved that I was witty, confident, and “not like those basic babes.”

Our chemistry? 🔥🔥🔥

He wanted it in the car. On the washing machine. In the shower. He would text, “My freaky Amaka, you too sabi.”

But then came the day he told me about a girl his mum wanted him to marry, “She’s calm, from a good home. Doesn’t talk too much. A virgin, even.”

I stared at him like I was watching a Nollywood horror film.

“So what am I?” I asked.

“You’re my vibe. My peace. My experience. But she’s my wife.”

This Saint-and-Sinner Scale Needs to Die

Let’s be honest, Nigerian men are drowning in hypocrisy.

They say:

• “I want someone I can gist and laugh with”, but not if she laughs too loudly.
• “I love confident women”, but not if she’s more successful.
• “I want someone who’s good in bed”, but she must have less than three body count.
• “I like natural girls”, but still save the curvy IG models in their Explore feed.

They claim they want a Proverbs 31 woman, but their Google search history is full of Kim Kardashian.

So who exactly are you people trying to deceive?

Saint in the Streets, Freak in the Sheets? Or Just Be Real?

At some point, I tried to play the game. I reduced how I dressed. Talked less. Pretended to be shy when he touched me like I hadn’t just sent him wild nudes the night before.

But I was dying inside.

Why should women have to split themselves in half, holy by day, hedonist by night, just to fit into some man-made mold?

You say you want transparency, but judge her the moment she opens up.

You want loyalty, but you yourself are bouncing from babe to babe like MTN signal.

You want a wife, but you treat her like she must come factory-sealed with no past, no spice, and no opinions.

One Day, Una Go Jam the Wrong Girl

Let me tell you about my friend, Bisola.

She was in a three-year relationship with a man who would beg her for sex, then guilt-trip her for not being “holy.” He said, “You should save your body for your husband, not me.”

Meanwhile, he was collecting head like offering.

Guess what?

He married someone else. Told Bisola she was “too exposed.”

A few months later, his so-called saintly wife found his secret Snapchat with escorts in Lekki.

Bisola moved on. He’s now divorced and sending “I miss you” texts in the middle of the night.

You can’t eat your cake, lick the crumbs, and ask for puff puff. Life no be like that.

Final Thoughts💔

Dear Naija men, hear me:

✅ If you want a freak, be man enough to handle the woman behind it.
✅ If you want a saint, stop chasing shadows in the streets.
✅ And if you truly want love, let go of double standards.

Stop confusing a woman’s sexuality with her worth. Stop assuming that submission means silence. And stop thinking that purity is defined by lack of experience.

Women are full. We are wild, soft, spiritual, sexy, broken, healed, powerful, and gentle, all at once.

Don’t marry a shadow of what society told you is “wife material” and spend your whole life longing for the woman you were too insecure to commit to.