My first love. He was one that had so much potential and so much grace, when I first met him, he was young, I was younger. He was promising so I kept thinking about our future together. It had to be great.

As time passed, I noticed he stopped paying attention to me and spent all his time and resources on very few of his friends. They all became rich with his help, I remained poor and hungry. They bought mansions abroad with his money and we stayed in “face me, I face you” with no electricity.

I wanted a proper education, I wanted to live a better life but he would have none of that. I too had potential, I dreamt of flying to the moon. Sometimes. Regardless, I knew I could be great, I just needed support. I got nothing. 

He would come back home with his new friends, all well fed, belching with satisfaction derived from isi ewu and beer. All laughing and cheerful as they shared the yield from our toil. It was as if I was invisible, just standing there like a “white-faced” ghost. Whenever I tried to speak up for myself, they would together beat me, sometimes lock me up for days without food or water. Same goes to anyone that tried to stand up for me.

As I grew older, we fought over everything. What to wear, what to drink. How to talk, how to think. Who to judge, who to respect. It was as if we were incompatible in all things, I didn’t like the way he did his things, in my opinion he always did things the wrong way. In his words, I just didn’t understand the way things are done around “here”. I was done! He was a self-absorbed, confused, gullible, over-religious, homophobic, abusive pedophile. 

I moved out and moved on.

I started doing better. I was with someone that took me in and took care of me. Appreciated my potential and made my moon dreams seem possible. I was happy but only for a moment. 

I couldn’t help but remember all the good times I and my first love had together. We shared so many. No matter how good my life is right now, I still don’t feel at home. I still feel like an important part of me is missing and that spare part can only be found at his shop. I find that I always check up on him. I always stalk him on the internet, wanting to know what he has been up to lately. Usually nothing to write home about. 

When my friends and I meet, he is all we talk about. When my parents and I speak, he is all we discuss. Somehow, despite all his shortcomings, we all wish him the best but most have lost hope that he will ever change. I remain hopeful. 

I will be honest with you; I think I will go back to him someday. I just want to help him become better. I am sorry but this is the nature of my abuse. My abuser is NIGERIA

Oluwadia Sporah

Written by : Samuel Shobowale

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