One Babe Dey My House
You can barely pronounce her first name, and only remember her last name vaguely. She’s too awfully shy and you can’t even place it. On Facebook, you think, she’s the fucking party. Now she’s sitting across of you, a can of Fayrouz sweating in her grasp, looking as blank as your chemistry test sheet back in SS1. You find out, from every phrase she utters in response to your questions, that you have very little in common, and whatever attraction you must have had for her should have been left at the thirsty emojis you responded to her stories with.
Forty minutes later, you concede that whatever chances of coitus you must have nursed in your mind before she came were overstretched fantasies. You pick up your phone and text your boy Tobe, and tell him he can come over for FIFA now.
He comes over, and surprisingly bonds with her over shared interests in YouTube webseries like The Men’s Club and Skinny Girl In Transit. Two months later your boy tells you she came over. He tells you they shagged.
He has the patience to play slow. You don’t.
Babe Dey My House
v. You both endured the circus for about five weeks before you let her off. There was no gentle way to do this. She did not give you a good reason to leave, so you made up a ridiculously flimsy one. Didn’t matter to you how obvious it was to her, that you only rode on the waves of her affection for as long as her pussy fascinated you.
iv. Thinking about it now, you’re so utterly shocked about how tedious the sex eventually ended up as. You’ve discovered, painfully, that all the sexual energy that a woman exudes may crumble under the weight of great expectations. Thinking about it now, it is not the sex itself that drew you into her. It was the aura of her femininity. For real. To you, all pussies in fact, feel the same.
iii. You knew, as well as she did, that the first time she visited the apartment would have been the perfect time to get that fuck off your chests. But she was playing the long wait. She needed some emotional insurance, as if sex should be validated by some commitment. You hated sex politics but you’re always game anyway. That day, she left your place with all the sexual energy she came with. That night, you asked her if you could both be a thing. She said yes. Stupid stupid.
ii. The first time you met physically was in a lounge at River Plate. After the date, she offered to shoulder half of the expenses, like Twitter feminists do whenever they want to prove financial equality. You half-heartedly refused, hoping that she would insist. She didn’t, just like you thought.
i. This one, you found her on Tinder.
(Alternatively, this section can/should be read from i-v)
My Babe Dey My House
This is the one you’re having raw sex with. These days she lies naked beside you and sometimes you can swear you have lost the carnal desire to plough her like you used to. OK sometimes sha, especially after she does something to make you feel a bit insecure, like when she posts some other dude with suggestive captions. You get turned on by a possessive, jealous rage, and you lay the territorial dick smoothly on her fine ass.
She’s the one you have to text back after a long day of slaving away at corporate Nigeria. The one you have to remember to call before you sleep. The one you stay awake at midnight with, helping her pass the butter she bakes with.
The one whose name your keypad already memorized, so every time you type I-love-you on your phone, her name pops out on the prediction. She even makes you watch Therapy on YouTube with her.
Sometimes, you let yourself marinate in the guilt that comes with cheating on her on some weekends. But some other times, you’ll convince yourself that you’re being fair enough. After all, she did fuck your boy Tobe two months after she first visited you…a month before you decided to simp yourself back to her to ask for another date.
Yes, this is the one you end up with.