We met when I was twenty years old, and he was thirty. He was still on the job market, looking for work. He said he was a computer tech, one of those computer wizards, with a diploma. But he was always looking for a job, or so he said.

Half the time when he called, he would complain about being hungry. He complained about his high electricity bill. He complained about the transport fare for running around to interviews. And more than request, I would say he demanded. The audacity he had was astonishing. He knew about my family situation, that I was helping with my father’s medical expenses, his drugs, the nurses’ home visits, the therapy. He knew how herculean the expense was. My father was battling a serious illness, and my mother had taken on the role of his primary caregiver. With my mother having no income and my father’s medical bills mounting, it was a heavy time.

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One day, he even asked me to give him nearly half of my salary so he could pay for a course. A course he promised would help him get a job. It made no sense. He was not being considerate toward me. He treated me like a child who didn’t know what to do with money.

I asked him about the small money he earned from the minor gigs he did. He said it was only enough to keep him afloat, but that my salary would help him a great deal. He said a lot of sweet things over the phone, so I sent the money. And it did not stop there. The next month, he asked for money for another need. At the end of the month, it was either to change his wardrobe to look good for interviews, or for good shoes, or expensive bags to make him look sleek for the interview panels.

Later, I found out there was no course. He just spent the money lavishly on something else. Maybe on other girls, or drinks, or food.

Another time, he told me I should quit my job. He meant it in what he called a good way, so I could help him manage a business center he planned to establish once we got married. A family business, he said, one to feed our generations to come. It sounded sweet, even thoughtful. But when I asked how much I would be paid, his response was, why would I be paid for working with my husband? He said he would provide food, so I would be just fine. He didn’t think about my family or my responsibilities at all.

When I started saving my money with the company’s cooperative, it made him furious. The scheme allowed me to save a portion of my salary, and I only took home half of it because that was the option I chose. He was so vexed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “What are you saving the money for? Why didn’t you bring it for me to save for you? Why don’t you trust me?”

It was at that point the mask fell from my eyes. I had become his source of income. He was not supporting me in my life. He was not providing for me, as one might think. Dating him was of no benefit to me at all.

When I finally called it off, he said it was because I had money. He said this was why women should not have money, because they would not submit to authority. He said that because of my salary, I felt bigger than him. He said I would see. Maybe he thought life was a Nollywood movie, one where I would come crawling back to him for help while he sat in his air-conditioned office with lots of folders in the cupboard, wearing a tuxedo.

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Thank God I did not regret that decision, even after over twenty-five years. When I saw his wife later in life, I didn’t need to be told she was not happy in that marriage.

Dating an older man can be fine, but dating a broke older man whom you will end up catering for? Run.

—Jaella

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