Preordained #ProjectNigeria

67- A Memoir

It's never too early to start something good, baby girl.

I smile, but my stomach drops. I continued to keep up with news of him, but never have I looked at his personal social media pages even when the urge was overwhelming. He is doing quite well and I'm proud of the man he's become. To say I had him in my life at one point...still surprises me.

I had made a promise to myself, to keep the good memories with Maduka and pick myself up, to be a better person than I was the previous day, no matter how difficult it might seem. No matter how painful the memories from my past are, I have forged ahead to the best of my abilities. Teaching in Abuja has been a great experience, a welcome distraction from thinking too much about my past.

But thinking of Maduka never fails to fill me with sadness. It's something I'm used to, and though it might not be as painful as it was last year, I wish I had been truthful. The weight of regret still sits upon my shoulders like a wet log.

It has already happened.

This is what I keep telling myself. I also keep wondering what would happen if I ever had the chance to see Maduka again. Would he bear to look at me, knowing I ended up in Saheed's arms?

I had been at my most self-destructive state, accepting Saheed over loneliness even though I knew, deep down, that it wouldn't help. I couldn't help taking out my despair on him, even though I knew he felt guilty for playing a role in all that had happened. I didn't want his money or his gifts... I had regressed to seeking physical pleasure as a distraction, and he had been available, and I had thought, why not make him suffer a bit while you're at it?

I'm not proud of what I did.

Saheed loved me...sort of, but in all the wrong ways. He wanted to care for me, but he was incapable of expressing it. And I had known. I had seen it in his eyes everytime he tried to tell me something, in his movements when he would reach out, tentatively, to touch my hair, his eyes showing his uncertainty. I had felt it when his arms would seek me in the middle of the night, heard it when he would murmur my name in his sleep. He was the most peaceful when he was asleep, all traces of mischief gone from his handsome face as he breathed slowly. I would know because I had watched him while he slept, sprawled across the king-sized bed in his favourite hotel room with his arm draped over me. I had watched and wondered what his life had been like when he was younger.

What had twisted him? What experience had created this cynical, manipulative, charming and stubborn man?

When our wills clashed, it was like a tornado meeting a frozen river. Usually he got angry about my silence towards him. I refused to have conversations with him beyond a few words, refused to show gratitude for his gifts, refused to display emotional vulnerability even when he tried to show me his. And often he would lose control, trying to physically restrain me so I would focus on him, because that was the only form of control he had over me. Most times I would be held against a wall, or his bed, or to his body with his strong arms. He never raised a hand to hit me, though.

I could see his desperation, his need to pass onto me how he felt...but he never succeeded partly because I never gave him the chance. We were only on the same page in bed. After all, that was what I told him I wanted from the start of our relationship. And, surprisingly, he had agreed. So why try to get more from me?

Where is he now? I ask myself silently while slicing onions, which I put into sizzling oil.

After receiving my call-up letter for the mandatory Youth Service, I had started making arrangements without telling him. The night before leaving for camp in the Federal Capital Territory, I had gone to meet him at one of his favourite restaurants. Declining food, I had spilled my heart to him while he anxiously sat across the table, watching me intensely.