I still try to convince myself it never happened. If I don’t think about it, maybe it will fade into nothingness, like a bad dream upon waking. But some moments refuse to be forgotten, no matter how much you wish they would.
It was six years ago when I met Sunday a.k.a "Sunny," as he called himself. A handsome stranger in a supermarket near my aunt’s house, where I lived at the time. He mistook me for an attendant, and I let him, just to see where the conversation would go. When he asked for my number, I gave it to him without hesitation. He never called.
I brushed it off, barely thought of him again until that Wednesday evening. I was sitting outside our gate when a red Camry slowed down. The driver? Sunny. He rolled down his window, his face lighting up with the kind of recognition that wasn’t quite real.
“Hey there, you look familiar… have we met before?”
“No,” I lied, watching the confusion flicker across his face.
But he was determined. He squinted, snapped his fingers, and then “Ann, right? My Ann!”
I wanted to laugh at his confidence, at the way he acted as if I belonged to him. But I didn’t. I kept my mask on, pretending not to remember. He struggled to jog my memory, reciting every detail of our first meeting, but I refused to give in. Eventually, he gave up and asked for my number again. This time, I said no.
That should have been the end of it.
But later that night, my phone rang. His number flashed on the screen. I wasn’t surprised, I had given it to him once before but I feigned confusion anyway. “How did you get my number?” I asked, playing my part.
We talked. He had a charm to him, something easy, something warm. I liked that. And four months later, when he finally asked me out, I agreed.
Except, there was a catch.
The “date” was at his place.
I hesitated but convinced myself it wasn’t a big deal. He even gave me the option to say no. But I didn’t. His house was close to my aunt’s, and he seemed trustworthy enough. What could go wrong?
At 3 p.m., he arrived on foot. I had dressed in a gown and heels, but seeing his casual outfit, I rushed inside to change into something more casual.
His home was neat, cozy, and smelled of spices. He cooked Nigerian Jollof with beef. It tasted better than mine, I admitted though I never said it out loud. He poured me a glass of red wine, and we ate, talked, and laughed. It was nice. Until it wasn’t.
A sudden, sharp scream shattered the moment.
“Sunny, open this gate!”
The voice was high-pitched, filled with rage. A woman. No worse. An angry woman.
My pulse quickened. I turned to Sunny, expecting an explanation. He leaned back casually, sipping his wine. “Relax,” he said.
Relax?
My body went rigid. Another scream. Then a bang and another she hits the gate and forces it open. She proceeded and then shattered the windows with the word in hand. My breath hitched as I peered through the mirror.
She was furious. A storm in human form, gripping a thick wooden stick, her face twisted with anger. And she was breaking his windows, his belongings and shouting his name like a curse.
I was trapped.
My heart pounded so fast I could barely think. My legs itched to run, but where? My hands pressed together in silent prayer. God, please. Get me out of here, and I swear, I’ll never step foot in a man’s house again.
Frantic, I sprinted to a door and then I found the kitchen. No escape. Another—locked. I turned back to Sunny, desperate.
“How do I leave?”
“Hold on.”
Hold on?!
But then, he did something reckless. He opened the door.
The woman lunged, striking him with the wood. Again. And again. He staggered but held her back, his grip tight around her arms. In the chaos, he turned to me, eyes darting toward the exit. A silent command: Go. Now.
She screamed, thrashing. “Let me see her face!”
I didn’t wait. I grabbed my slippers and ran, breathless, blindly taking another route just in case she followed. I didn’t stop running until I was home, until the gate closed behind me, until I knew I was safe. Phew! I don't wish such a date for my enemies.
That night, my phone rang over and over. Sunny.
I ignored it. Blocked the number and deleted it.
The next day, another call from a different line. Stupidly, I answered. He begged to explain.
“It’s not what you think,” he pleaded. “She’s my ex. I was trying to break up with her.”
I almost laughed. Almost.
“You were trying to break up with her?” My voice was eerily calm. “But she’s your ex? And didn't tell me you weren't in any relationship?"
Silence.
I ended the call. Blocked him and deleted the number.
That night, I swore I’d never make that mistake again. And six years later, I still haven’t. Oh! Thanks hubby who boldly took me off the singlehood.
Because some lessons? My friend you only need to learn once.