Recapping the details of our three-year relationship always puts me in a trance of utter embarrassment. Even though it was such a toxic practice, I could not pull myself away from reliving the memories and beating myself up. I’d often scold myself and say “But you knew from the first date that the man was not for you, so why did you expect it to turn out differently?” Three months into this our looks-good-on-paper relationship, the man invited me to spend the holiday with his family. When I told Timi, my romantic coach, she exclaimed “you see, this is a sign that he is thinking about you in terms of future plans.” I smiled and nodded shyly, giving her the impression that this was surely the case. What I did not reveal to her was that he unwillingly offered the invitation because I lamented that I had nowhere to spend …
Three years ago, I had completed my graduate education at a prestigious school. That accomplishment further solidified my “I don’t want a man, I only need a career”motto. I briefly dated two men – one while in undergrad and another in grad school – and I quickly concluded that dating was a waste of my time and maybe marriage was more like a fantasy than a possibility. Either I was going to get the man that shined when his attributes were jotted down on paper or I’d get no one at all. No one warned me that the pursuit of the one on paper would leave be emptied, disappointed, and heartbroken. If I ever hear the phrase “he looks good on paper”, I might take out the speaker. Anyway, I sha ended up meeting the-one-who-looks-good-on-paper through my friend, Timi. I wouldn’t ordinarily take advice or recommendation from Timi. You see… …
Self-pity doesn’t completely encapsulate how I used to treat myself – perhaps it’s more appropriate to call it self-disgust. I would close my eyes and remember all my past mistakes and I’d shiver with disgust – at myself. I would get goosebumps thinking about the horrendous treatments I allowed, enabled, and excused repeatedly. Once I moved on from mourning the useless relationship, I didn’t wisely get to a place of forgiveness and self-love. Unlike the women I see on social media who experience their “eat, pray, love” phase… that phase of glowing skin, releasing thyself from the shackles of needing a man, and traveling the world and taking stunning pictures … my own post-break up story did not touch the hem of the garment of such stories of redemption. It didn’t even occur to me to perhaps spend my new-found singleness discovering happiness. Rather, I decided that since I could …
He wants to make me his boomerang lover. Yes o. His boomerang lover. Let me gist you on what I mean by this. You see… we met when we were 15. His mother and my aunt were both immigrant women who were forced to take on new careers in nursing, as their peers popularly did. Apparently one aunty convinced all incoming Nigerian women that the only prospect they have in a career is nursing. Therefore, these women decided to forge such a difficult and new path at the tender age of 44. The repercussion of this was their children – me and Him – having to then unofficially enroll in the nursing program as their God-given tutors. This is how we bonded. My aunt was typically strict and did not believe in the notion of teenage girls having friends of the male persuasion. But, she allowed our friendship grow since …
I wish there was a way to remove unwanted memories. How is it that I can choose to register certain experiences, but our brains have not evolved to a point where I can successfully unregister them? As life seems to enjoy ironies, the unwanted memories tend to get immense airtime in our brains. The places, smells, tastes, views, and people that I long to forget continuously reappear in my conscious and subconscious. In my attempt to forget them, I find myself unknowingly drawn to – obsessed with – them. They become like an unwanted drug to which I have become addicted. If I was granted one wish of deleting a set of memories, I would choose to delete Him. I met Him at a food festival – it was one of those summer afternoons that I delegated as “me time”. After my recent divorce from my husband of 3 years, …