It was our first date after two weeks of talking on the phone. I wanted to meet him at the venue but he insisted a gentleman doesn’t allow his date to go alone to the venue so he came to my house to pick me up. I wasn’t even ready but he waited in his car for me.

When I got there, he came out, opened the door for me, waited for me to sit down, closed the door before he came to sit down. I swooned. No man has ever opened a door for me. When we got to the venue, he opened the doors for me. He made me feel like the most important person on the planet.

The date was fine; good food, good drinks, plenty of laughter and a night full of connection. When he was bringing me back to my house, I saw a friend at my junction, Freda. I quickly rolled down the car window, screamed her name and waved. I tapped him to slow down so I could deliver a message to Freda. He didn’t stop. He looked shocked about my request, which I didn’t understand.

When I alighted, he drove off as if we were fighting. Freda walked from the junction to my place but the mood was so bad I couldn’t talk to her.

The next day, he sent a message after he’d missed plenty of my calls. He doesn’t understand why I would shout from a car to call a friend from the street. That single act, according to him, meant I wasn’t the kind of woman he thought I was. “I’m sorry, but I got it all wrong about you.”

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That was the end of whatever we had. He didn’t propose verbally but in the weeks when we talked, he made it obvious through actions that he wanted a relationship. The proposal never came. The relationship didn’t happen all because I rolled down his car’s window to call a friend at my junction.

I have to intensify my prayers and fasting because this has a smell of village operations smeared all over it.

— Albertina

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