Posts Tagged With: Nigerian love stories

First Love Diaries…the ones that walk away

three women, same story

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There are days the pain is too sharp, I can hardly breathe, and there are days when all I remember are the happy times – the times he said he loved me; the times he said I was funny. Eccentric. Sometimes cute. But never beautiful. No, he never, ever said I was beautiful. But he did say I had a brilliant mind, and that I was sure to go places. He wore a chain – a thin, gold chain around his sturdy neck, and he had a gold stud to his left ear. If you had the patience to wait for him to take off the dark sunglasses he wore on both sunny and not-so sunny days, you’d find brown eyes that held secrets. He was tall, too. Tall, brawny, dark, handsome – all of those adjectives you’d find in a romance book for a hero. I remember him laughing; it was always such an unusual chortle…almost like he was chuckling to himself, secretively. I remember him holding me one warm evening and looking straight into my eyes. The world was perfect that night. Everything stopped, including my heart. I was lost… lost to the awareness of him; lost to the awareness of my deep feelings for him. Lost to an ocean from which I knew I would never find my way out.

Yes, all those things, I remember about my first love.


Seven years I’ve waited for my first love, hoping he’ll come back…wishing he’ll tell me he loves me and that he’s made mistake about me. About us. But he’s married a woman that is conventionally woman – petite; light, even toned skin; with an accent that screams intelligence in its foreignness. Even now, I still do not know what I ever did to him that would make him walk away. One moment, he said he loved me. The next, he is married. One moment he said he loved me, the next… he says he wasn’t planning to fall in love with someone like me – too dark, too tall, too skinny girl with too wide lips. One moment he said he loved me, and the next, it almost feels like he can hardly bear to look at me. And now, many years later, and finally, physically beautifully in all of the right places, the pain of his rejection remains a gaping wound screaming for help; for healing.  It screams for attention from anywhere, and anyone willing to listen.

Yes, all those things I remember about my first love.


First love? Ha! Let me tell you about my first love. He had kind, warm eyes that caressed you long enough to make you feel you were the most special woman in the world. Yet, he chose his parents over me. I wasn’t exactly what his folks would have liked for him to have, so he did some choosing  and, well, it hurt. Very much.  I needed repair, so I did a little walking of my own, searching for the filling that would stop my emptiness. It’s a walk that seems to have no end in sight.  I’ve become a heartbreaker in my quest for finding love. I take your love, and never give back. I make you believe I love you, then, just when emotions are running high with sweetness and the spirit of giving, I walk away. I walk, and leave you hanging, confused, hurt, and alone. I walk on, in this journey called life, searching, constantly searching for the approval of the first love that wouldn’t stay.

Yes, all those things I remember about my first love.

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Categories: African Romance snippets, My Stories | Tags: , , , | 1 Comment

Even men cry too

Perhaps I am a jerk for divorcing Chichi for reasons other than infidelity, but the truth is, I’d had enough in the sham that I called my marriage.

My friends said not to settle; that my decision to marry her would eventually bite me in the butt, but I’d been in such haste to have Chichi to myself that I shunned their advice.  I somehow convinced myself that I could adapt to her temperament. I even arrogantly believed that I could change her.  You see, there are not that many beautiful Nigerian girls in Atlanta willing to date guys like me – guys who are shy, short and rotund. Since I wasn’t a big catch in terms of physical features, to have Chichi consenting to date me, talk less of marrying me, had been a huge deal.

She was everything a man like me could ever dream of: Petite, light-skinned with long hair – not the one that carried extensions or weaves. Hers was real, the kind of hair a man wasn’t afraid to touch for fear that it came from the head of some poor Asian who had sold her thick locks of hair for the next meal.  She had a sharp mind too, never lacking for topics to converse on, so it wasn’t surprising that she was well up on her way to becoming a big player at the bank where she worked. I’m no poet, but honestly, her smile was like the bright rays of the sun. And when she frowned, I sighed with fascination.

There was just something very cute about her every facial expression. She often made me wish that I was a painter so I could capture every look on her stunning face.  People who saw us together frequently wondered how a beauty like her could be with a guy like me. I considered myself the luckiest of men, until her flaw came out like the murky waters under a clear sea.  Hers was a vice that took the form of uncontrolled rage, lashing out at anyone and anything.

The first time I saw her throw a tantrum, it had happened in a cozy restaurant.  The waiter, a white racist who couldn’t stomach the idea of two blacks eating out in a classy restaurant, had attempted to make our dinner a frustrating exercise. He was rude, but I don’t think he deserved the plate strike on his face, almost ending up with a blind eye. Chichi and I found ourselves escorted out of the restaurant by Security, as she wouldn’t stop screaming obscenities at the waiter and the restaurant’s management.

The second time I saw her lash out was some few weeks to our wedding when she had slashed my tires. We’d had an argument over the number of people we were inviting to the wedding.  It was during that time that I began to encourage her to take anger management classes, but she rebuffed my advice.

Third time, she threw a fit because the wine cups we ordered for the wedding arrived late. Chichi visited the factory that made the cups and hit the manager with her heeled shoe when he couldn’t provide an answer to why the cups hadn’t arrived.  She spent that night in Jail for harassment, and we had to cough out thousands to bail her out. Fortunately, the matter was settled out of court as the manager dropped the charges; unfortunately, my parents were in town when this last squabble happened and they verbalized doubts about Chichi.

For a while, marriage to Chichi was bliss until she became pregnant and suddenly, the time bomb in her head went off one Friday when I returned home late from a night out with my buddies. She accused me of sleeping around, and of not being physically attracted to her. It was a lousy fight, but it wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d controlled herself.  When I tried explaining that I wasn’t doing any of the things she accused me of, she smacked me in the face, threatening to call 911 if I retaliated, as I so badly wanted to do. Something died in me when she struck me and it took a while for me to figure out that every love I thought I had for her disappeared that night. I didn’t want any more altercation, so I walked out of the house, confused at my wife’s violent nature.

I came back home the next morning to a quiet house, unaware that the situation was about to get worse, real fast.

Enjoyed this? Watch out for part II 🙂

*Image culled from


Post originally posted November 16, 2011.

Categories: My Stories | Tags: , , , , , | 15 Comments

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