₦airaland Forum

You stood before the mirror with tears in your eyes. You looked at yourself, naked. You watched your body, from your lips to your hips. You traced your succulent breasts, your nipples that pointed back at you, your tiny waist that rounded up at your hips. Ike called you an hourglass, the African kind of hourglass, complete with a sunbaked African colour. Nnamdi said your body was a blessing. You believed them, but now, you realise that this hourglass is just a curse.

When you told Nonso of how all men were brutish dogs, he replied, “Not all men”. Yet, where are men who think with their brains and not their rumpled sacks? Maybe Neil Armstrong left them on the moon in 1969.

Ahanna was the first. He was a sturdy guy with the colour of roast plantain. You gave him your number even though he was far beneath your standards. He had the habit of reshuffling his R’s and L’s. When he spoke, he said main load instead of main road, and when he called Jesus Lord, all you heard was rod.

You always gagged when you remembered his scent. Like stock fish. Sadly, Ahanna couldn’t spare ₦1800 to buy Nivea deodorant for men, but he could afford his bleaching cream quite well.

The first time Ahanna called you, he asked you to come cook noodles for him in his room at Hilltop. You imagined he lived in a pig sty or Eni Njoku hostel, and blocked the werey immediately.

Next, it was Nonso. Bespectacled, shy with a perpetual scent of car wash. He stayed in Odim, so you thought he was cool and timid like his area. He proved you wrong when he begged you to send nudes. And you both were still in your ‘talking stage!’

“Send it with view once, so I won’t be able to save it”, he taught you like you were a naive child. You imagined hitting him with a brick on the head, while blocking him.

Nnamdi came third. A radical Christian who believed in aggressive evangelism. He was gentlemanly when he asked you out. In Chitis, you refused to order anything except water which you paid for immediately. Nnamdi feigned anger but you knew men like the English alphabet. Even with his deceptively fluent English, he must arrive somewhere eventually. He was a man after all.

He carefully wasted your time, discussing the little he knew about literature till it was 10 pm. You had told the onuku that you stayed in Bello Hostel. He believed and had planned to delay you, till the hostel gates were locked and you had nowhere to stay. Men!

“Oh! I forgot about the time”, he said. “Time flies when you’re in the company of blessed souls. You could stay the night at my place, behind that flat”.

It’s beautiful to fool foolish fools. He didn’t know you had done a background check on him and knew how he drugged girls or lured them into his dirty room that reeked of olive oil and rape. You knew his pretext too, it was the devil!

He realized he got the wrong chick when you left him and walked back to your lodge with a smile on your face. For the first time, you had played the ace card.

Olisa was also a ‘player.’ He was gentle, kind and very generous. You very nearly fell for his trap and his great chess skills. He kept inviting you for chess games at Marlima. You would go, hoping that he was different, that he was the long awaited “Not all men” Nonso had talked about. You fell in love with chess and Olisa. He didn’t ask you to come cook for him. He wasn’t like that. Instead, he sent you money to cook Egwusi soup—for him. Men!

It was when the Egwusi began to boil that you realized you had been tricked, by a master of strategy and tactics. You realized that when the food was ready, you’d have to take it to his room in Odenigwe, or let him come to you in Odim. You realised you were stuck between the okpa and Moi Moi, two meals you detest.

You took the food to Odenigwe and he offered you a tumbler of prepared Hollandia yogurt from his small fridge to cool you down, but you had learnt chess. You too were a master of strategy and tactics.

All your skills meant nothing when he forced himself on you. He pushed you down on his soft bed, grabbing your long neck with his big left hand and unzipping his trousers with the other hand. You turned your right hand into a rock and struck him in the face. He let go of you. The kick you gave him to his groin was nothing compared to the unrefined joy you felt when you saw him in Marlima the next day with a black eye.

You drew it to a close. No dating. No entertaining of chykers, not ever. But your conscience keeps judging you whenever you turn a persistent admirer down.

Looking on the bright side, you’re a student of Fine and Applied Arts. A virtuoso in charcoal art and watercolour painting. But, they won’t buy your work until they smash you.

Oginidi? Kilode? Where did you go wrong? Is being a woman a crime?

Not all men are like that.

That is what they will tell you, but you can never engage in an hour’s discussion with a man without him subtly reminding you that he wants to smash you. They’ll always blame you for not dressing well, for not having nyash. But who checks them for having small brains?

“Sisters, don’t let them fool you with “not all men are like that”. Men of this generation are controlled by those balls, not the brain. Beware of them, they think us fools and won’t miss any chance to smash and pass. Stay safe.

— Gozie Nwabunwanne

📍Not All Men Are Like That was first published by 👤Gozie Nwabunwanne, a contributor in the Issue 1 of the One Sin Magazine.

For more short stories from the issue, visit ↘️ onesinmag.substack.com

Second tale dropping today.

You sat?