love is dead, men killed it.

There's nothing left on the streets...

There are no good men left, just demons and they don’t come with horns, not at first. No, at first, they come with sweet words, the kind that can sweep you off your feet and laughter that makes you forget you ever cried over a man before. They come in kaftan, in plain shirts, in suits. Smelling like the lies they spew out.

They listen-pretend to, at least. Some even try to act like they understand the things you say. Other times, they act like you’re the one they’ve been looking for. Their perfect one! And then when you think, Maybe, just maybe, this one is different, the mask slips. And you see the demon staring right back at you.

The dating world has become hell. A battleground, a lying contest where everyone brings out their best deceit, and the other decides who wins. A den of fornication. No sincerity, no love, just men looking for the next woman to lure into their bed with empty words that mean nothing.

Like a curse has been placed on them.

The good women have married the good men, and the rest of us are left with demons straight from hell.

No, genuinely!

Like the ones who have no interest in you as a person, but crave your body and time. You can be having a convo with them about your dreams and aspirations and sharing your thoughts about the “economic and financial state of the world,” and they’ll hit you with the, “What’s your sexual preference?” “How would you like me to raise your leg in bed?” Or the classic, “What will you cook for us when we get married?” Are you cursed?

All we have left are demons, demons in human clothing. Horny, hungry demons.

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I remember Akin. I met him in Lagos on a girl’s trip. We bonded immediately. He looked like the type of man I’d want to make my husband. He listened. And we went on dates. He was sweet but the performative kind of sweet. He knew I was a feminist, so he pretended to be one too. Talked about things he knew I’d love to hear. He acted like the man I wanted him to be, based on what I’d said about my ideal man. And every night after our dates, he’d ask me to follow him home so he could show me his art collection. But I knew him, and I knew men. His art collection was one of the few things he had no plans of showing me. He laughed every time I told him I was celibate like it was a joke and I wasn’t being serious. After three failed attempts to get me to come home with him, he ended our last call by calling me a “boring ashawo”.

Emeka was different. Emeka wanted a cook and a housemaid in the form of a girlfriend. The type who said yes to everything, no matter how wrong it was. He never understood why I wouldn’t let him touch me just two days after we met. “A woman is made for a man, and your body belongs to me,” he’d say in his Igbo accent. And anytime I slapped his hands away, he’d laugh and say, “I know your type ehn, it’s your type that loves to play hard to get.” Then he’d smile in a way he assumed was attractive. But in my eyes, he looked like a hungry chihuahua. (Apologies to all the fed and pretty chihuahuas)

Kunle hurt the most. He was a close friend-or so I thought. We were both writers, and we bonded over so many things: music, movies, food, Twitter bants, TikTok gossip, even our exes. For a while, I believed I had finally found a male friend who genuinely wanted a platonic friendship. Until one night, when he got drunk and spilled the truth. He didn’t actually confess his feelings—he confessed his fantasies. That all those nights we stayed up talking, laughing, debating—he was only waiting. Biding his time until he could have me in bed. In response, I wanted to tell him that I would’ve broken his teeth if he brought his face close to me, but I held my tongue.

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Men have turned sex into the currency of their affection. If you’re not giving, you’re not worth keeping. That’s the foundation of their love language: transactional, empty, with a lack of actual connection. It’s not about companionship, understanding, or even the bare minimum of human decency. It’s about access. Access to your body, your time, your energy, and your fucking kitchen.

Anything else? A bonus they’ll tolerate until they get what they really want.

Because to them, affection costs extra but sex? Sex is free.

The ones who would’ve loved you fully, actually listened when you spoke, and saw you as a person instead of an opportunity? They’re either taken or… dead. (And if you’re a good man who is somehow alive and single, my deepest apologies to you and your family in these trying times.)

Men have normalized so many things that shouldn’t be normalized. Disrespect disguised as honesty. Emotional unavailability dressed up as masculinity. And when you refuse to play along, they hit you with, “Ah, you too dey form innocent.”

And then you ask what the solution is. Lower your standards? Oh girl, you’ll regret it. Trust me.

Pray harder? Lmao eww, you think this is War Room?

At this point, the only real solution is divine intervention… or a reality show where men compete to prove they have functioning brain cells. And honestly? I wouldn’t bet on any winners. (But wait, imagine how funny that’d be lmao.)

Imagine expecting sincerity, intelligence, or basic human decency from men who think treating their own partner with love and attention is “simping.” We are in hell.

Yet, they’ll be the first to say, “You’re single because you’re too picky.” Or the classic, “You dey find wetin no dey market.”

Yes, dear. My mistake. Next time, I’ll lower my standards to the depths of hell, where you and your fellow demons reside.

Prince Charming? Oh, he exists. He’s just already married—to one of the good women who found him first. The rest of us? Well, we’ll just have to make peace with the demons. Or we become nuns. Or get a cat and live happily ever after.

Also, when I become President, my first executive order will be to ban incels and force-feed romance on everyone. You either fall in love or you enter jail.

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New music plug for the week-

SZA, Kendrick Lamar - 30 for 30

J-hope feat. Miguel - Sweet Dreams

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ICYMI: Check out my latest post