BEWARE! THE YORUBA DEMON IS GAY TOO

It was a fine new year. I was doing my IT at a lab on the island. I had just gotten out of a relationship where I had unwittingly done a number on the guy and was feeling guilty. I was reevaluating how I was going through boyfriends, so I decided I had to stop to take a breather before I did irreparable damage to myself.

The universe cackled manically at my resolve as she stirred her pot.

My dear friend, John, added me to a certain group. Upon my introduction, this fine hunk of a man slithered – sorry – slid into my inbox and started calling me a rock star, saying how he loved my music covers and my smile and shii. And my 20-year-old self was flabbergasted by the attention I was getting from him. I was also suspicious.

But mehn, this guy was GOOD! Like, he had a way with words and he knew he did and he used words that cut right into my soul like a hot knife penetrating butter. From calling me a rock star, he was talking about the house we would live in when we got married and how many kids we’d have and what their names would be, and then he was combining our surnames to fit our eventual coupling. It was all so sweet and charming. I’m a sucker for sweet and charming.

But I wanted to take things slow and I told him. He didn’t let up though. I’d go to bed every night thinking of him and how he seemed too good to be true.

Anyway, we decided to meet on my birthday at The Palms. He was just as handsome in person, if not handsomer, and he towered over me, and he had such kind brown eyes. I was taken in. We made out in the cinema (don’t ask me how) and made out in the visitor’s bathroom of the house I was staying.

A week later, we had sex at a friend’s place. It was nice. But the after-sex cuddle was amazing. Imagine holding someone that could pass as an underwear model in your arms. We slow-danced to no music and when we walked to where we’d take buses home, he held my hand and said he didn’t care if people saw us.

The bus ride home, I was Taylor Swift singing “You’re in love.”

Sigh.

A week later, it all turned to shit. Like shitty, shittiest shitty of the shittiest order. Attempts to see him again were met with excuses. The texts didn’t dwindled, and then abruptly stopped coming.

But I said it was in my head. Surely a person couldn’t just transform from baby names and hand-holding to this Harmattan breeze I was feeling in the space of a week. But it became ever-so-glaring that something was wrong. What I thought was my last bus stop was acting like a stopover flight.

So I asked him. And he told me he’d found someone else he wanted to share his body with. He said he had to move on since I wasn’t ready.

Mehn, I was fucking confused. I wondered where I’d missed a beat. I had to ask my friend whose house we fucked in if I’d imagined all those things that happened. That was when my friend revealed that he knew the guy and it was apparently his modus operandi. He’d get guys to fall for him and then leave them high and dry.

I was depressed for a week because I wondered how I could have been so foolish.

Some years later, I met someone else who knew the guy. Someone else who was suffering psychological trauma from what exactly happened to me. The story was basically the same. The only difference was that I had moved on but this guy was still suffering from it a year later.

So niggas, beware of handsome men with kind eyes who could pass for underwear models. They will feed you sweet, sugary things day and night. But don’t forget that too much sugar causes diabetes and sometimes what is too good to be true is exactly too good to be true.

Written by IBK