Explore Naija
Real stories. True voices. The heart and soul of everyday Nigerians.
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.
