Oghene, Biko

Romeo was a retard.

How else would you explain a guy who knew his entire family was forbidden to do anything with that other family, but still went and professed love anyway?

Before you go all “woke” on me and say it means Juliet was retarded too, you must know that I don’t care. I just hate men and I think they’re all retards. Especially the ones in love.

Rukevwe, my first and last boyfriend was one of those types. But wait o, when did someone loving you become a problem? That’s what you’re wondering, right?

Well, it’s not supposed to be a problem. Except the person being loved wasn’t just me, the girlfriend, but another woman too. My boyfriend was generous with love. Best in multitasking.

See, even if you don’t agree with anything I tell you today, agree with this: if a man has an Oghene prefix, he’s most likely a blood-sucking, destiny-destroying, wicked soul who wants nothing but to end your life.

I curse the day I met Oghenerukevwe.

The first thing you should know about Rukevwe is that he is a beautiful man. And worse, he knows he is. Perhaps if he wasn’t so divinely sculpted, I would’ve declined his advances and you wouldn’t be here listening to my tales of woe.

And the way we met? Very unusual. So apart from him being beautiful, I guess that made it stick. That’s why I paid him more mind than I usually would. Not like I was a man hater or anything (well, now I am), but I just wasn’t interested in meeting anyone.

I’d attended my friend’s housewarming party alone and was gladly leaving alone. The Uber app said my ride was three minutes away, so I started walking outside. I noticed a man walking behind me, almost like he was following me.

You know that mental wall you put up when this happens? Yeah, mine was up. I was ready to use the “I’m in a hurry” excuse when the man eventually tries to talk to me. I was so sure he would. If not, why was he literally following me bumper to bumper?

Anyway, I got outside just as a black car drove in. That was the description on my app, so I didn’t bother checking if the plate numbers matched. And frankly, I was already starting to get freaked out by this tailing man, so I just wanted to leave.

Then the weirdest thing happened. As I pulled on the back door handle (I don’t like sitting in the front) and sat down, someone opened the passenger seat door and got in.

A man.

He was the same one who’d been following me. I caught a glimpse of his side profile, and unfortunately, it was quite promising.

“Hi, what are you doing?” I asked.

And he turned to look at me, visibly shocked. “Sorry, you are?”

Who is this idiot?

I was about to go full-on Uber-passenger-zilla on him when he added, “Do I know you?”

I was confused. I looked at the driver for the first time and realized he was wearing a suit.

Well, shit. Definitely not an Uber driver.

I was still confused and not entirely sure what to say.

“You’re not saying anything. Could you please leave my car?” the man said.

“I’m sorry, I thought this was my ride.”

“Well, clearly it’s not”

I got out.

Embarrassment of the century. Some moments ago I was wondering why this man was following me and now I looked like an obsessive freak who followed him into his car for goodness sake. The irony.

The car drove off before I realized I’d gotten out without my bag.

Wow, I was really moving mad today.

I got home exhausted and almost crying from the embarrassment that was still chewing at my chest when my phone rang.

It was a strange number.

“Hello?”

A deep male voice responded. “Hi. Is this... the lady who entered my car by mistake?”

Oh God. What fresh shame is this?

“Yes... I’m really sorry about earlier-”

“It’s okay,” he cut in, sounding amused. “I found your business card in the bag you left behind. Thought I should call and get it to you.”

I sighed. “Thank you. I can come pick it up.” Ni 9pm. What was I even thinking?

“Or I could just bring it. Do you mind sharing your location?”

I paused. I wasn’t sure if it was smart, but the truth was I didn’t have much of a choice. My house key was in that bag, and I wasn’t about to start waking neighbours, who I don’t really interact with, up to come and help my predicament.

So I sent it.

When he arrived, I knew I was in soup. Under the streetlight, I could see him properly for the first time—his face, his frame, the way his cupid’s bow was perfectly defined, almost pulling me to trace my fingers on it. He was tall, much taller than I’d registered earlier. He stood with one hand in his pocket and the other holding my bag.

“You didn’t check the plate number?” he asked, that same amused glint in his eyes.

“Are you going to drag me or can I have my bag in peace?” I replied.

He smiled. That smile was dangerous. His voice, even more so. Low, soft, slightly raspy. It was doing things I wasn’t ready for.

Then he looked at the locked gate.

“How did you survive sitting outside this long. I would’ve come to save you earlier if I knew.”

I didn’t respond to that. I just took the bag and mumbled another “Thank you.”

“I’m Rukevwe, by the way.”

I didn’t tell him my name. I just nodded, clutching my bag like it would save me from doing something stupid, and went inside.

I should’ve locked the door and left that story there. But God did not build me strong enough. We started talking. Then chatting. Then seeing each other. And before I knew it, I was Rukevwe’s girlfriend.

Well, one of them.

---

I found out he was cheating in a way that still makes me want to bleach my brain.

We were in his house one Sunday afternoon. I was in the kitchen, boiling yam and arguing with him about why any sane person should prefer yam to potatoes. He said yams were elite. I said they just had superiority complex.

Then he went to have his bath and left his phone charging on the table. It rang and I ignored it.

It rang again. And again.

Then a message popped up on the screen:

“Babe, should I still get the green lingerie or the black one? I want to match your sheets.”

Ehn?

The name was saved as “Julius Berger.” You can’t make this up, I swear.

What kind of mad man saves his side chick’s number as a construction company?

I blinked. My head was turning.

I picked up the phone, unlocked it, and did what any reasonable woman would do. I scrolled up.

JB and Rukevwe had been planning outfits, linking up at hotels, and doing audio foreplay over text like they were a married couple. He’d been deleting their chats, but clearly forgot to clear this one out today. God’s time is the best.

After that, I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just served him the yam and said nothing.

He came out, ate, and kissed my forehead.

I said, “So, you and Julius Berger, ehn?”

He froze. That was all I needed.

I packed my bag and left. I didn’t go back. I also didn’t block him immediately because I wanted him to stew in his guilt. Let him send long messages and voice notes I’d never open. Let him see me read them and not reply. Petty? Maybe. But it was therapeutic.

Men like Rukevwe? They don’t deserve closure. They deserve confusion.

And me? I deserve peace. And very soft potatoes.