Dear Ify,

I will admit that when you knocked on my door that Friday night, I was not happy to see you. I knew what you were there for and I didn’t want you to know what I had done. So I apologize for slamming the door in your face. I have made a grave mistake. Actually, no. I haven’t. But I have done something and I do not know what to do about it.

I’m writing this to you to clear my head, and in hopes that when my door is eventually opened to you, and you see what I have done, you’ll understand.

If they had put a gun to my head and told me you would become everything you are now, I would have laughed in disbelief at the risk of getting shot. But there’s no gun to my head, and there is no laughter in my mouth. I am sitting now and watching in real time as you become everything you used to hate.

I watch you in church, running around, doing things. You stand at the pulpit and welcome the choir, dance the loudest during praise, kneel the longest during worship. After service, you share the grace, ruffle the hair of children that come to greet you, rub the cheeks of babies tied to their mother’s waists. You listen patiently to women’s complaints, and when men come to shake hands with you, you bow slightly. Just four years ago, we were students in Abuja who laughed loudly at the people who did all this.

Sometimes, when we were particularly happy, we would go to church on Sundays and sing at the top of our voices just to annoy the congregation. We would fake speaking in tongues during prayers and make up the most insane stories during testimony time. We would giggle at the silliness of it all. After church, we would walk up to members and tell them “dreams” we had about them. I didn’t know then that all of the pretense and fun we had at their expense was actually you practicing for your future reality.

You are the first and only girl I have ever loved, Ify. I remember the first day I met you. You sat next to me in a GST class and said, “You’re cute. Are you single?” I wasn’t. I told you so. But you just shrugged and started hanging out with me every day. You introduced me to everyone as your best friend. And when I finally broke up with my girlfriend—after she spat at me, “I hope you know that whore you’re besties with is sleeping with the whole English department lecturers”—you moved in with me.

That was the most amazing time of my life. We ate together, studied together, slept together. You introduced me to cigarettes, weed, drugs. I introduced you to reading and slowing down sometimes. We weren’t dating or being sexual, but we didn’t need to. I was okay with being anything to you, as long as I could exist in your space.

After university, my life was set. My father had gotten me a job at one of the biggest firms in Abuja. He bought me a car, gave me one of his houses. But no. Ify, you wanted to go to lagos. You said Lagos was where we were meant to be. You promised me that we would go, have our fun, and come back. You promised me that we would settle down together, that we would return to Abuja and finally build the life we always talked about. That’s what you told me. So we went to Lagos. 

Thanks to my dad, we got a beautiful apartment in VI, and then you started scaring me. We would go to parties and nightclubs and I would sit in the corner with a drink in my hand watching you dance with as many men as you could. Afterwards, sometimes, you’d follow them home and I would drive discreetly behind you making sure you were safe. I’d wait outside their houses or hotels till morning, when you called me to pick you up. 

And despite the fear, I was happy. I had you. I got to cook for you, listen to your rants, be dragged along to your parties, drive you home, make sure you were okay. I loved you so much that your presence, despite everything else, was enough. Until you met him.

I should have been worried when you started hanging out with him but I had a job at the time and I assumed he was like all the others, temporary, disposable. I had seen you chew men up and spit them out before. But then, you stopped coming home. You only came when you needed something. When he made you cry. When he ignored you. You let him reduce you into a version of yourself I had never seen before, a woman who begged. You stopped inviting me out, I didn’t need to drive you anywhere anymore. I stopped cooking for you and you started cooking for him. You broke my heart Ify. You really did.

I don’t know when I started to hate him. But I’ll never forget the day I started to hate you. It was the friday where you said you both wanted to come over and watch a movie. He arrived first, straight from work, while you were still at his house making “snacks.” Snacks. When had you ever made snacks?

While we waited, he suddenly leaned over and said, “Such a handsome, rich man like you. Always hanging around Ify like a lonely police dog. Is it true what she says about you? That you’re gay? That you like men?” The question shocked me to no end and before I could think of an answer, he kissed me. Before now, I had never thought of my sexuality. I knew I liked girls and I knew I loved you but at that moment, Kissing him didn’t feel so bad and I wanted to hurt you for telling him something like that. So I didn’t push him away and we created a routine.

After our routine started, you started talking to me more. Complaining. He’s coming home later than usual. He doesn’t find you attractive anymore. Did I think you were getting fatter? He didn’t come home all weekend. You’ve gone through his phone and he's not talking to anyone else. Is he cheating? Why would he be cheating? He was a man of God. Your rants annoyed me to no end because I had never known you to act like this over any man. Especially not him. Sometimes your texts would come in while we were laying together and he would look over at my phone and laugh. ‘Is it Ify again? Such a needy insecure bitch’. I almost slammed his head right then and there but I couldn’t. So I settled with sending him out of my house. Back to you. 

Last Friday. The day I slammed the door on your face. He had come to my house that morning and stood next to me while I cut up some chicken and showed me a ring. He said he was going to marry you. That you had been asking him to. Ify you had been asking him to marry you?? After promising me that we’d go back to Abuja and settle down after you’d had your fun. I started to wonder if this was part of your fun or if you had forgotten what you told me. You don’t forget anything Ify and it killed me that after all the waiting I had done for you. This is what you paid me back with. I was still cutting my chicken angrily when he said ‘I’ll marry Ify and we can be one big family. The three of us’. Forgive me Ify but I can’t remember when he became the chicken I was cutting up. But I do know this: I did it for us.

I still have the ring, Ify. The one he was going to propose to you with. And I’m asking you to take it, but not from him. From me. We can still have the life we were always meant to have. We can still go back to Abuja. We can still be together. I will call my father after this letter and tell him what happened. He will know what to do. I trust him. I trust you.

If I get your call after this, I’ll know what you mean. And if I don’t… I will still know what you mean. Please, Ify. Call me. I’d hate to do what I did to him to you and to myself.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon.

Love,