Sometimes You Got to Lie ‘Coz This Is Love

We met at the ATM, where I struck up a conversation with her just to confirm that the machine was dispensing cash.

It was minutes to seven in the evening. Wearing a baggy sweater over her nightgown, she stood inside the gallery of this notorious ATM station, infamous in the University of Nigeria, Nsukka community for swallowing cards.

She replied to my greeting with a smile, a smile that seemed to say, “I know you’re looking at me.”

With her petite stature, around five-five, and youthful appearance, she looked rather like a student, early twenties. Not that I wasn’t a student myself. I was — but a postgraduate, with likely a decade or so separating our ages. Although I tried to brush off my interpretation of her smile, I couldn’t help thinking that, even if my intentions changed, she seemed mature enough to handle it at least.

“I actually did a transfer and didn’t withdraw,” she said in response to my question. “But I think the machine has cash.”

Her voice had a high pitch, in contrast to her calm demeanor. I wanted to ask how she knew it had cash in it, but I hesitated. Perhaps she’d seen the previous person before her leave with cash, I thought. Besides, wouldn’t it sound somewhat argumentative asking that question?

So I went ahead and slotted in my card, my heart racing. Thankfully, it turned out to be a needless worry. But as I pocketed the notes, I was surprised to find her waiting outside.

“You’re still here?”

“Yep.”

“Okay… okay… you’re waiting for your commission for answering me earlier or something?” I said, trying to fill the silence.

She laughed. “Not really. I just wanted to make sure it went as I’d said it would. I’d feel really bad if your card got stuck because of me.”

“It wouldn’t have really been because of you. But I admire your sense of responsibility. It’s rare.”

“I know, right?’ She laughed. “Let’s just say that in a world where people increasingly shirk responsibilities, I like to be among those who step up.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have blamed you if it happened, like I already said. But then, it made me wonder how much farther ahead this country would be if more Nigerians shared your mentality. Everything would improve — our government, leadership, religions. Even everyday relationships, including dating and marriage.”

“How do you mean everyday relationships?”

“Oh sorry. Did I say something? I didn’t mean to…”

“No, I’m not offended. Just curious. What did you mean by it’ll improve things in relationships?”

“Okay. What I mean is that all too often, people make sacrifices for their partners in the beginning, only to resent them later when things go south. For instance, I find it really frustrating when people share stories like ‘he left me after having sex…’ That kind of talk, you know.”

She doubled over. I had thought she was laughing before, but now I knew better. “But that’s usually what happens, isn’t it?”

“Okay. Hold on now… Yes, that’s what happens. But shouldn’t she also admit that she let it happen? Shouldn’t she accept some, if not all, of the responsibility rather than playing the victim?”

She continued to laugh.

“Well, keep laughing. But to be honest, I’m fed up with people saying they did this or that for me, and then that I used them. So I’ve kind of stopped looking forward to relationships.”

At last she raised her face, wheezing. Her eyes glistened with hints of tears. “You’re no longer into women?”

“I am.”

“So if not relationships, what do you want from us nowadays?”

“Not that I’ve actually thought about it.”

“Think… Tell me.”

“After a long pause, I said, “I think I want the adventure, the passion, the romance — the flow. I’m not ready for anything else, and I won’t be among those who’ll lie…”

“That happens to also be what I want.”

That was it.

…

Our eyes locked, and though the darkness descended faster now, in those seconds, I knew the color of her pupils, and was sure she knew mine. It felt like a scene from a Spanish romantic drama. There existed the prospect of “a happily together ever after.” Or at least, the prospect of an attempt at it.

Her name was Mma. Contacts were exchanged, and the next day was a date day. Followed by another the day after. Conversations flowed naturally, covering everything from studies to life to the state of the country. However, she kept circling back to her past relationships and the efforts she’d made to rebound.

“Men ended up wanting my body one way or another,” she said. “But I’ve decided to only give it to someone I truly desire, instead of out of an expectation of his commitment.”

Her unblinking eyes burned with such certainty that when, without warning, her somberness transformed into laughter, and, in a frisson of spasm, her hand knocked over a Coke bottle on the table, I started from my chair. Which only interrupted her amusement temporarily.

When the waiter finished tending to the mess, I asked what was so funny, and she leaned in. “The truth is,” she whispered, “I’m horny all the time, so I wonder why I used to make it look like it’s the guy who wants us to… you know.”

I couldn’t breathe. Such candor. Nobody had ever confessed something like that to me before. To know that I was with a woman who knew what I wanted and didn’t feel violated by the thought of it. Because she also wanted me for the same reason I wanted her!

I’d hit the jackpot. Finally.

…

The next time we hung out, Mma arrived with gifts: a loaf of bread and some fruits. She’d made a short trip, she explained. I wasn’t used to this kind of gesture from her, didn’t think it was on the menu either, which made me wonder if things had changed between us.

Another warning sign came days later when she called, lamenting that she was stranded and needed money. But through it all, I managed to convince myself that her giving me gifts and me sending her money was just a friendly gesture. Not a sign of something more.

Then, one Saturday night, after receiving her text that our planned hotel meet the next day was off, I voiced my reservations. I knew she was lying. Not because it was impossible for her to have fallen so ill, considering we’d met that same afternoon, but because I believed I could sense deception.

A man knows when a woman’s bullshitting him. Or so I thought.

I told her that whatever was going on, I had a gut feeling that things had changed levels and I probably missed the memo. “And just so we’re clear, it’s still okay, but I’m sorry that I won’t be able to continue. I told you from the beginning that I was tired of this situation where I’m chasing the woman down and she’s playing hard to get.”

“Oh, that’s not it,” she said. “But anyway, I’ll find a way and make it.”

…

Mma is somebody I’ll always remember fondly.

I know it’s because of her high-pitched laughter, her kinkiness, her apparent rashness, and her generosity.

I also know it has something to do with the way the road ended for us. One evening, our bodies sprawled out on a crumpled sheet, spent and sweaty, she inched her head and said, “I love you.”

I felt my heart flutter. Not just because her words came out of the blue. But because they were carried on her breath. I locked gazes with her, saw that characteristic color, and knew she meant it.

I searched for a reply… I tried to swallow down…

“I said I love you.”

“Yes, I heard you. It’s just that I don’t know what…”

“It’s fine,” she said, but the speed with which she rose, reached for, and untangled her underwear, said everything wasn’t fine.

“See, Mma, I just don’t…”

“Victor, don’t worry about it. I understand.”

“No, please, just hear me out.” I sat up beside her, and placed my hand over her shoulders. She let it stay there. I could feel her quivers easing out.

“It’s just that I don’t know how to say these things… do these things. I’m not a relationship person.”

“Yep, you said that from the start. But what I know is people change for people they feel something for. Since you can’t change, it means your interest isn’t in me. So…?”

“But my interest isn’t in anyone else. I’m not acting this way because there’s somebody else.”

She shook off my hand. “That makes it even worse.”

Both the irony and truth of her statement were lost on me until long after she was gone. She was right. It was bad enough that I didn’t feel for her the way she felt for me. But it would’ve been easier for her if I wasn’t reciprocating her affections because of someone else. I couldn’t even be with her when I was single!

I know now that my behavior was too much badness. Even though it stemmed from my knowing, and fearing, that I wouldn’t measure up to the proportions of love she was willing to offer, my behavior was still too much badness.

Who says that when two people are together, they have to love each other equally?

And who says that their relationship will still be termed a failure, even if they find a way to love each other, when this love doesn’t lead to the altar or endure over years?

I know now that while some relationships will vow “till death do us part,” some may well last like the beautiful, delicate wings of a butterfly.

But so long as they find a way to love each other while it lasts…

So long as they find a way to give themselves to each other in the best and most meaningful way they can…

So long as they are sincere in their efforts, willing to thread outside their comfort zones, and be vulnerable…

Their relationship can be said to have worked, lived, endured, regardless of its duration.

Saying “I love you too” when your outward enthusiasm doesn’t mirror that of the other person can be seen as dishonest. Yet, considering that love is absolute and immeasurable, doesn’t it imply that everyone experiences and expresses love in their own unique way?

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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