Well, in my case, na wetin make me turn side hen (can’t be a side chick in your late twenties).
I’m sitting in the office, swamped with work, but still I feel this warm glow all over me. I’m happy and excited, feeling like I’m experiencing puppy love, but not the hot, flaming, intense one. It’s the warm feel of a trusted friend and lover.
I remember meeting the reason for this feeling at the bank. He had cracked the driest joke and his pick up line was lame, but because he was childlike and persistent I didn’t want to embarrass him.
With the way the bankers were fawning over him, it was obvious that he was an esteemed customer, and so I decided that las las, he go become maga.
I had already seen him buying my iPhone X and contributing heavily to my Venza, but little did I know that I was soon to realize that ‘Make I chop this man money na wetin turn babe to ashewo.’
It started with dinners and consistent phone calls to stolen kisses in cars and time spent in hotels.
The next thing, he was calling me pretty, I was calling him bae, and we were creating rules for what we were doing; the most important being ‘No one falls in love.’
That’s the one rule I seemed to be breaking, as I lay on the bed with my head on his chest while he caressed me, and I asked the universe why the wrong man had to love me right.
I felt like a teenager again. Things I never knew I missed became real to me and I wondered if he felt the same way or if I was just a distraction.
When I told him how I felt, he smiled and said, ‘Babes, I don fall in love since. Just trying to control myself, I knew the day we met that you’re the kind of woman that would alter my family life.’ I responded in anger: ‘don’t flatter yourself, there is no love here. We’re just having great sex and you have to keep being a good man to your family.’
For once, I understood the women I had laughed at and called stupid for loving married men. They existed to be magas only, but here I was in the same situation.
I was happy. I was loved. I felt protected and I wanted to be here. The 20-year age difference meant nothing; he was more perfect than the thirty-something year old suitors I had.
We fit perfectly and the chemistry was out of this world.
I knew I had to end it; ask God to forgive me and move on.
It’s two weeks and I’m gearing up to break up with him when every where goes blank.
I wake up hours later in the hospital and he is staring at me.
‘You fainted and I had to rush you here. You are pregnant, you must have ignored the signs.’
I’m scared but I will myself to speak. ‘I’ll have an abortion, I have no intention of causing you trouble.’
He stares at me with intense emotions. ‘I am happy, Chichi. I want you to carry my child. I knew the day we met that you would alter my life. Marry me, Chichi, make me a happy man.’
I shake my head in disbelief, ‘but you’re married.’
‘No, I’m not. At least, not legally,’ he said. I never married her in the church. What we have is like a long term relationship with a child in the mix. The bride price was paid, but that’s it.
“I will take care of her and do right by my child, but I want you to be the woman recognized by law and the church. I love you, Chichi, and I know you love me too.”
I feign sleep so I don’t have to respond. I love this man but my family has a reputation I cannot afford to soil. Sleep will postpone the bad news I have for babe. I have made up my mind. I will abort the child, marry Chinedu (one of the suitors my mum keeps raving about), and move on with my life. I try to fight back tears as babe kisses them off and caresses me. The last words I hear as I fall asleep are, ‘I love you. You make me feel like a king.’
Iyalaya Cupid yi sha. It has dealt me a hard blow.
Photo Credit: Dreamstime