Once Upon A Swipe On Tinder.

IG: Pachutoressarts.

On your first day on Tinder, you scored 13 matches.

After a week there, you’d scored a lot more. Yeah, you still got it. All those killer JPEGs found home in the courting eyes of Abuja women. Your life was looking up and down at the same time — your blog posts were behind schedule, you were freaking out on approaching deadlines, and it had gotten to the time of the month when one became a mathematician after buying anything. But you were basking in the tenderness of Tinder intimacy.

You spent your first day on Tinder swiping right on every profile, even the one whose profile pictures were of her zobo business brand. It didn’t take long for people to find you attractive enough to swipe back. You even got a dry ass ‘hi’ from one of the new matches, and you were utterly impressed that women cared enough to start a conversation in these pink streets. But this is how the chat would go:

— Hi.

— Hey there, beautiful, how are you doing today?

— M fine. U?

— Aside the weather, I’m doing alright. I hate that it rains every day these days. How’s your day going?

— Fine. Urs?

And that was when you knew, that women everywhere on Obasanjo’s internet had the same communication deficiencies. That was the end of that conversation. In fact, that was the end of Tinder Day One, for you.

The next day at the workstation, your phone beeps with a notification from Tinder. Ese with the big mouth announces to the office that she recognizes the sound, and it is from Tinder. Everyone laughs except you. You just shoot her arrows with your eyes. After work, Obiageli walks up to you and tells you that in case you’re searching for a girl, she has a younger sister who is single. When you get home that night, you curl yourself in bed and ponder on the cruelty of life, and how far into the ignominious depth of loneliness you have sunk to make Obiageli offer you relief. It is not your portion in Jesus' name, you pray.

You slide your left hand into your briefs, clasp it around your junk while your right thumb finds its way back to Tinder. You start swiping again, but this time with measured restraint.

It doesn’t take long to hit gold. You score another match who also texts first. She’s hot as hell, her face the shape of a full moon. As if it isn’t enough that she has your mother’s name, her warm eyes are filled with the subtle innocence that reminds you of Banke, the only one of your exes that you still think about.

You have my mother’s name, you tell her. She sends a blushing emoji, and tells you that she’s honoured to, in a way, remind you of your mother. That she hopes to be able to bring some of the warmth deficits your mother’s absence in your life must have caused you. Immediately, you know you have found the one. You ask her about her day. You want to talk to her about life, about the weather, about nations and empires and brave men. About love, hurt, depression, and the efficacy of therapy.

But for now, she’s typing, and you’re waiting, and soaking in all the mushiness of the prospect of a new love interest.

Her reply comes.

— My day was fine. Wanna hook up?

Your morning meditation typically involves listening to Kendrick Lamar’s Money Trees while being driven to work in a cab along the Kubwa/Berger expressway, with your face brittle in the comfort of the chilly air-conditioner. Helps to put your mind in the perfect mental frame to trudge through another day at corporate Nigeria. This morning though, you’re having none of that reflective bullshit. Yes, the song is playing in the background, but inside of your inner sanctum, all you can think about is the audacity of Tinder women.

The ones who sell the cake early enough are the least problematic. At least they're honest enough to spell out clearly that they're in for hookup only. But those sly daughters of Lilith? Omo. After the heartbreak of last night, you spent the rest of the dying lights trying to navigate the labyrinthal depths of Hookup Tinder, trying to figure out all the pointers to which demons are fronting. Here are some of the leads you picked out:

• If the profile reads “mature minds only. Go straight to the point”, she’s for the streets.
• If she’s wearing cheap but flashy clothes, and has mirror selfies taken with iPhones, in exotic places she looks too unsophisticated to afford, she’s probably an escort.
• If she’s hot, shows flesh, and she texts you first…
• If she’s “new in town and needs someone to show her around”, she’s trying to hustle off you.

You even write these points down on your notepad. Today you’re determined to score a match that materializes into a free dick appointment. It’s a slow day at work so you take advantage of this to do some swiping. You bump into a very familiar profile with pictures that are, at first, remotely recognizable. Then you check out the profile name and it hits you that you just almost swiped right on the Tinder profile of aunty Gbemi, a much older cousin; 32, and the family’s most persistent prayer point.

You close the app for the day and chant astaghfirullah three times.

Tonight you are feeling blue as fuck. You resolve to indulge in some mischief, just for the fuck of it. You swipe right on one of those profiles set-up for hook up on the low. Her name’s Alex. You get matched with her. You wait for the message to come. It takes a while, but it eventually comes…with very familiar warmth.

— Hi hun.

— Hi babe. You good?

You’re trying to play ball.

— Yes dear, she responds.— What part of town are you?

— Ministers’ Hill, you?

— Gwarimpa. Care for hookup?

You now have her within the range of your snare.

— Yea, how much?

— 25k.

You have to haggle a bit…for effect.

— Will you take 20?

— ok then.

You’re almost there…

— Alright. Send your account details.

— 3049114546, first bank.

Time to play ball.

— Uhm…it’s my girlfriend’s birthday and we’d like to have a threesome with you. She wants you more than I do sef. I can pay 30 for this.

— Hmm…pay 35.

— Alright. Will pay for your cab too. Sending you 38.

— Wow tnx. Waitn.

At this point, you go off Tinder to do other stuff with your time. You check Twitter to see what’s trending; your WhatsApp to see if anyone still cares about you (no one does); your iMessage to see if Uwak has texted back (she hasn’t, will probably never — you lying dickhead); and finally back to Twitter for some Twitter porn. This is where you spend the rest of the night while blissfully ignoring Alex, who has been blowing up your notifications with Tinder messages, waiting for money her father did not work for.

You’ll return to her after a while though, and casually unmatch her while she’s typing what would be her sixth message asking if you have sent the money. You’ll feel the energy gag that happened 3 kilometres away after you made the rapture happen on her ass.

Pure cruise.

While at work less than a week later, Ese with the big mouth would call the attention of the entire office to a scandal brewing on Twitter. It would be about some guy being dragged by a girl on the TL for defrauding a Tinder hooker of 38 thousand naira “after he had had sex with her.”

The pictures on his Tinder profile would be scattered around the TL, along with sensational tags like “thief”, and “rapist.”

The guy being dragged would be…you.