Is It Love or Help?

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,