In hindsight, he wasn’t handsome, eloquent, or generous, and neither was he ugly, inarticulate, or stingy. He was, to put it simply, the first man to make me look in the mirror and acknowledge who I am. Except for his six-foot-two-inch frame, I ordinarily would never have looked twice at him was I to walk past him on the street. He was bland, to my mind, didn’t say the words “I love you” with the impassioned desire of a star-crossed lover. But I loved him. Loved him not because I knew what love was, but because he was my first.

If memory serves me well, I was in Lagos, lodged in a two-star hotel by a musical talent show when his message showed up on my Facebook account. I must have been having dinner at the time, because as soon as I responded “Hi” to his “Wsup?” his video-call rang through, and, shifting my table forward, the plate on my table fell to pieces.

Naturally, I was withdrawn for most of the conversation. He sat on a stool in his kitchen somewhere in Kiev, Ukraine, sucking yogurt from a bag, telling me how much of a good singer I was and that he was rooting for me. “So far, your worst song has been Kissed by a Rose,” he said.

With downcast eyes, I said, “I know.”

“My nephew and niece were horrified when you came out in that drag costume. What were you thinking?”

“Blame my designer.”

“What’s his name?”

“It’s a she. One Tolu like that. She came in from Australia. I hear she’s doing well there.”

“Well, even I am a better designer than she is. Just ‘cause it’s Kissed by a Rose doesn’t mean you should come out looking like a scarecrow.”

I laughed. “Oh, well. What is past is past. Too late to cry over spilled milk.”

“I agree.”

We spoke about the Russian and Ukrainian dispute over Crimea. He said he visits Crimea often, but because of how polarized it has become by Russian military forces, he won’t be visiting any time soon.

“Will you ever come back to Nigeria?” I asked.

“Yes. As soon as my medical program is done.”

There was something here: an attraction growing between us. I just didn’t know that’s what it was. All I knew was that I thought it uncanny for a man to speak with another man for the length we’d spoken. And I knew that were I to never hear from him again after that night, he’d become one of the many men I wish I’d come out to.

A week later I was evicted from the musical talent show, and I headed back to Abuja to pick up my life from where I’d left off: awaiting my enlistment to the National Youth Service.

One night, when I was making a Facebook video singing Justin Bieber’s “Love Yourself”, he video called.

“What were you doing before I called?”

“Singing.”

I paused and looked the other way, angry he hadn’t called since my eviction.

“I was writing my medical exam.”

Nodding, I said, “I see. But you’ve been on Facebook of recent?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t see the messages I left you?”

“I saw them, but each time I wanted to reply something came up and I forgot.”

At this point, I should have realized I was more into him than he was into me, but I was new to love, and no one ever showed me a template to follow.

We held the silence for a while, and then he said, “I’m sorry you got evicted.”

I looked up at him and saw he felt genuinely sorry, so I said, “What’s done is done.”

He told me he’d moved into a new apartment, that his former landlord was a terrible person who didn’t have the faintest idea about property maintenance. He showed me around his new place using his iPad: his cozy living room with plush green sofas, his bedroom with a disheveled bed, and his large kitchen. He settled in the living room finally and shared with me a video of Akporo, the comedian, making fun of gay people.

“…Any gay wey dey this crowd, I cover my yansh in the blood of Jesus!”

The crowd laughed.

“What do you think about gay people?” he asked.

My heart sank to my belly and began beating at its fastest.

I managed to say, “I think they should be allowed to live their lives. It’s consensual, between adults, so where’s the harm in that?”

He stared at me, his finger flicking back and forth his chin as I stood there, before my laptop, wondering if he was going to say something within the lines of I am afraid I don’t like how close we’re getting, but then he said,

“I’ll be in Nigeria this coming weekend. I can’t wait to see you.”

True to his words, he was around that weekend. He came by an open mic event I attended, and we drove in my car afterward down a lonely road. We parked on the roadside and reclined our seats until they touched the backseats.

“I am so happy you’re around.”

Frantically searching the windows, he said, “Isn’t it dangerous to park here? What if someone sees us?”

“Relax, Ayo. My windows are tinted.”

“This is Nigeria, not Ukraine. I don’t want to be deceived into believing that things will–”

I kissed him. Reached across, my legs between his legs, and kissed him.

His hands on my chest, he pushed me back mildly and said, “Can we leave this place now?”

Amused, I smiled and drove him home.

I didn’t start falling out of love with Ayo because of his failed promises, his ‘I want you’ and ‘I need you’ never matching his actions. I started falling out of love with him because I met Chukwudi.

Unlike him, Chukwudi was five-foot-eleven inches, bearded and handsome, with eyes like the sun was shining directly into them. He was generous, said I love you with the impassioned desire of a star-crossed lover. He kept to his promises.

Chukwudi had messaged me on Facebook, saying my random ramblings, where I talked most of my father’s sister, a funny extremist Christian, had given him the best laughs the previous year and how he’d always wanted to say hello but didn’t know how to. His voice was soothing – a true reflection of his heart. We began talking every night.

Around this time Ayo had failed his Nigerian medical exam but hid it from me. He made falling for Chukwudi easy because my consistent phone calls to him were met with either cold short answers or no answers at all. He’d later come to say he acted that way because he was depressed. And even though we got to see each other every once a while – visiting cinemas and eateries – his demeanour each time we went out was as though someone was coming for him, like he’d committed a crime and was afraid to be found out. Sometimes, he would see a familiar face and plead that we evacuate the premises. Until much later, after we’d broken up, will I discover those people he avoided were people he was dating simultaneously with me.

One morning, I’d visited Ayo’s apartment. He was set to visit the American Embassy for an interview and I was going to accompany him. While he was in the bathroom, lying in his bed, I went through his phone and realized he’d sent nudes and love emojis to a plethora of men. I dropped his phone and quietly left. On my way, he called repeatedly before I finally answered.

“What do you want from me?!” I shouted, tears welled up in my eyes.  

“I see you went through my phone.”

“Yes, I did, and so what?!”

“Will you please come back let’s talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” I hung up.

Later that night he showed up at my home with a friend who’d phoned on his behalf and asked me to come out. I came out of the house and got into his friend’s car, where I saw him seated in the backseat. He was crying when his friend said, “Please, give him a second chance.”

I said a lot of things that night: how Ayo was my first and how I felt like a fool for believing him, how I truly loved him and was heartbroken. Ayo clutched my shoulders and promised to be loyal.

Even though we continued the relationship, his disloyalty had given me the impetus I needed to belong to Chukwudi, so I wholeheartedly gave myself into this new love.

Chukwudi and I dated for three years alongside Ayo and I’s relationship. With Ayo, I’d come to become everything I despised: dishonest, disloyal, and a cheat. With Chukwudi, I’d come to become everything I wished to be: nurturing, loving, patient and kind.

Not until Chukwudi’s death of cancer of the blood did Ayo come to find out I’d been cheating on him all the while. I would make a post on Facebook saying something along the lines of Chukwudi being my heart and soul, and not knowing how to live in this world now that he is gone.

Ayo would phone me to ask me about it, and I would say, with tears in my eyes,

“He was my boyfriend. My first true love.”

Ayo would call me a slut, a cheat, a whore, and I would say, “I just told you my boyfriend is dead, and this is what you have to say to me? How selfish could you be?!”

I would then block his phone number and never speak to him again.

About the Writer

This writer has asked to remain anonymous.