When we first met, he told me he was living with his parents. His father’s house had many rooms, so he didn’t need to rent. The girl I was five years ago would have said, “Thank you, but I don’t date a man who lives with his parents.” But there’s one thing that comes with maturing or experiencing different shades of life: it makes you understand that the same situations can bring different stories.

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I said yes, hoping our story wouldn’t be like that failed relationship story I read on Silent Beads.

He would come to my place bearing gifts and smiles. He would help around while telling me stories of how it feels to live with your parents at thirty. “They don’t respect your age ooo. They can send you to go and buy charcoal when you’ve just returned from buying pepper from the street.”

After three months of dating, I realized he’d met my friends and my mom, but I hadn’t met anyone from his side. He told me he didn’t have friends. I said fine. He told me he would take me home to say hi to his parents one day. I said okay.

It didn’t sit well with me that I would date a man for three months and not know where he lived, so I started pressing him to take me home. He gave me excuses. He said his father hates to see him with a woman and that once he takes me home, his father might think he’s going to sleep with me and won’t respect me or our relationship again.

I said, “That’s fine, but I want to see the brick-and-mortar you live in. I want to know the area, the color of your building, the color of the gate. Do you have a dog in there? I want to hear how it barks.”

Six months later, he decided to take me home. Not only to see the color of the building but to visit his room and spend the night.

The Uber stopped right in front of his gate. He said, “You see, it’s a brown gate and a yellow house. Easy to see.” He walked in as I followed. It was around 8 p.m. Immediately, we stepped into the compound, his demeanor changed. He murmured something loud enough for me to hear: “Why’s the light in my parents’ room on?”

He asked me to wait while he went in to check. I was standing in the compound when a man walked up to me from behind the house. He asked who I was looking for. You look at his face and the way he walks, and you realize it’s the father. I answered respectfully, “I came with Kojo, but he’s inside.”

He changed from nonchalant to concerned. He asked, “Kojo is in the house?” I nodded. He asked again, “Who are you? Who are you to him?” I answered while bowing, “He’s my friend.”

I said friend, but he got angry. Then he shouted Kojo’s name. When Kojo was coming out, his mom followed, and then a boy, and later a girl. His face didn’t look cheerful—like he had encountered a ghost and wanted to run. His father said, “So you thought we hadn’t returned, so you were sneaking in your new victim, right?”

His mom asked who I was, and I said a friend. She asked, “A friend, and you’re being sneaked in at this time? What kind of friends are you?” I stood there watching while those two kids kept calling him Daddy and asking him a series of questions, like children always do. I was getting the message. All was not well.

His mom said, “These two kids are his. I hope you know that already?” His dad added, “He had them with two different women. I hope you also know that? He impregnated the women in the same month, so these two kids were born days apart. Do you know all that?”

I started smiling shyly. His dad wasn’t having it. His mom kept smiling. She said, “If you know all that and you’re still happy, then welcome home.”

I took two steps backward. I looked at Kojo’s face, but he avoided my gaze. I thanked his parents and told them I didn’t know all that because he hadn’t told me. I mentioned his name and said goodbye to him. I walked out of the gate with a heavy head and a heart that was falling apart.

When I got home, I texted him, “Thank you for letting me know your house. At least, I now know which house to avoid the next time I’m in the vicinity.”

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He said sorry. He said he was going to tell me the truth but slowly. He said he didn’t want to lose me and that he was serious when he said he was going to marry me.

My response was, “Do me a favor. Please lose my number and miss your way to my place. I can’t be your third baby mama.”

End.

—Angie

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