I've never loved a man

“You’re a tough person to love,” he said to me.

Not in the way they do in movies or books.

I’ve never felt the spark, the kind that leaves you breathless when he walks by, the kind that makes you spray every perfume in the room just because you know you’ll see him that day, the kind that makes you want to look your best.

I’ve liked men. I’ve admired them. I’ve wanted to be loved by a man. But to love a man? That’s something I have never possessed.

I’ve watched women around me speak of love in a way I’ve never felt or understood. I’ve watched them talk about it with so much devotion, with sparks in their eyes, and an emotional attraction that makes them choose him over and over again. But in my own life, love has been a distant thing, something I observe rather than experience.

I have been curious, numerous times, about how it must feel to love a man. Maybe I have come close, or I thought I did. All those moments I mistook affection for something deeper, when I held onto a man’s word and trusted the way he looked at me. “Maybe I’d love this one,” I’d say to myself, repeatedly. But I never did. Because weeks later, when he was done with me and I was done with him, I’d realize it wasn’t love I felt. It was something, but not love.

I thought I did with Kunle until he cheated, and I found myself walking away, feeling nothing but contentment. I didn’t realize how much I wanted to be away from him until he said those words: “Let’s break up.” There was no sting, no sharp pain in my chest, just a quiet relief, like I had been waiting for that statement all my life.

Maybe he expected me to beg him, to ask why, to remind him of all the happy moments we shared. Maybe he thought I loved him. But I didn’t. I never did. I only accommodated him.

“You’re a tough person to love,” Mike once said to me.

He was my fifth boyfriend, and just like the others, I convinced myself I loved him too. He was sweet, and compared to the others, I liked him. He did things for me effortlessly; he never asked, just did. Like he knew what I always wanted. Like he could read my mind. I smiled a lot when I was with him. He made me breakfast, lunch, and dinner every time I was around. He was perfect. I wanted to love him. I knew I was capable of loving him, but I didn’t know how. And he could tell.

“I’m sorry,” were the only words I could say to him.

He stared at me with teary eyes. He loved me. I could tell he loved me.

I watched as he picked up his things and left. Even the plant we bought together, the one we had promised to grow until we were older.

I wanted him to stay, but my mouth wouldn’t move. I wanted him to leave the plant behind, to leave himself behind, to try harder with me, to stay longer, and watch me learn how to love him to perfection. But all I did was watch as he threw his things into his bag with anger. As he stared at me one last time, waiting. Hoping I would ask him to stay, hoping I would cry and beg.

But all I did was stare back, emotionless.

I watched as he walked out the door and closed it with so much force I thought my house would crash down.

I thought I would cry, because that’s what my friends do when their men leave. I waited for the tears to come, but they never did. Instead, I walked into the kitchen to fry some plantain, because the only thing I felt was hunger. Not sadness. Not pain. Hunger.

I’ve had crushes. Or maybe I thought I did. Maybe I was just fascinated by them, curious about the things they did, how they looked. I’ve had crushes on a boy who laughed too loudly in class but had a dimple that made it forgivable. Another who drove recklessly but smelled nice, so I never minded that driving with him always felt like a near-death experience. One who smelled like oranges, with a voice like honey every time he called my name.

But love? Never!

I do want to love a man, so I can giggle with my friends when they talk about their relationships and all the things they do for their men. So I can understand what they mean when they say they’re in love.

Maybe I’m just a scaredy-cat, because I believe people leave no matter what, so why should I give my heart to someone who will eventually leave at the end of the day? Or maybe, I’ve just been waiting for a kind of love that doesn’t exist in the real world, the kind that makes everything feel right, even when nothing is.

There are days I wonder if love is waiting for me, too. Waiting for me to embrace it fully and give it to someone who deserves it.

Maybe, somewhere, in a quiet moment when I don’t expect it, it will finally introduce itself.

Or maybe, I’ll always remain a witness. A watcher. An observer.

A girl who has never loved a man.