Old wine tastes better?
The one time I dated an older man
They will advise you to date older men, claiming that they will be less stressful and will mostly focus on their business. If you’ve experienced relationships where all you did was clash with a man because you forgot to text him “good morning, baby,” you might find some wisdom in their words.
Seated in front of the oversized standing fan in my room, clad only in my bra and pants, I watched the blades of the dusty fan lazily rotate. As my phone rang, I rummaged through the pile of clothes on my bed, searching for it.
It was Peter, my ex. Letting out a groan, I tossed my phone back onto the bed, humming to the tune of “Way Too Big” by Burna Boy until the call ended. Peter was the third man who drained the life out of me under the guise of a relationship.
When I met him, everything seemed perfect. I still recall how I giggled on the phone as he talked me to sleep and the moments we spent holding hands and strolling around the campus.
It was truly amazing, until it wasn’t. Besides his love for me, he didn’t have much to offer. I loved him; I wasn’t materialistic, and I saw his potential. We were fine. Until that ‘potential’ turned into a drain on my existence.
At one point during my final year, my roommate kicked me out, accusing me of trying to steal her man. Her man smelled like onions and wore a flat plate on his head, calling it a trendy haircut. What use did I have with such a person? Nevertheless, I left without causing a fuss.
Peter had a small off-campus apartment at the time, and he seemed pleased when I told him I would stay with him until I sorted things out. I was pleased too, or at least in the beginning stages of our cohabitation.
But then he stopped seeing me as his girlfriend and transformed me into his maid and cook. After enduring a long day at school, I would return home to find the apartment in a constant state of disarray. I’m not sure if he waged war against himself the moment I stepped out the door, but the room was always in chaos, with clothes, food remnants, and books scattered everywhere.
The most infuriating part was that I used my own money to cook for both of us. He claimed all his funds were going into some online investment, about which he refused to share any concrete details.
Since his graduation the previous year, he had spent all his time glued to his phone, moving from one failed investment to the next. The little money I managed to squeeze out of my parents, this man devoured while I simply cleaned up after him.
At some point, I lied and told him I had resolved the issue with my roommate and needed to return. It was a terrible lie, considering Eguono was still spreading rumors about me. But being in her clutches seemed more appealing than living with my boyfriend. Every time the topic of going back to the hostel arose, we would have a massive fight, and he would accuse me of leaving because I didn’t love him or some other rubbish. And I would choose to stay a little longer.
The day I finally returned to my father’s house after our final exams, he revealed his plans to marry me after my NYSC. As soon as I boarded the bus, I took out my phone and deleted all the symbols of attachment and endearment I had associated with his name, saving it simply as Peter.
It took me about three weeks to gather the courage to tell him I was no longer interested in continuing the relationship. He cried and begged me relentlessly, every single hour of the day, until I finally mustered the strength to stop picking up his calls.
And so I moved on to my next love interest, Ikechukwu. I encountered him at one of my mother’s catering events. I hurried past him, clutching a cooler filled with jollof rice that my mom had instructed me to hide in the car. But when he spoke to me, I sensed he would be different from all the men who had brought frustration into my life.
He stood just an inch taller than me, his perfectly fitted attire accentuating his well-defined muscles. Despite his receding hairline, it didn’t bother me much, as I had an abundance of hair to compensate for both of us. I shared my number with Ikechukwu, and that marked the beginning of our conversations.
He was a man ten years my senior with no sense of humor whatsoever. Every time I tried to crack a joke, he found it disrespectful. There were no movie dates or any other form of fun. He was solely interested in eating grilled fish and drinking beer after work.
I consoled myself with the fact that he didn’t stress me out; we had little to talk about, so we barely spoke. He was a businessman who took care of himself, and I didn’t have to clean up after him.
However, I must clarify that this is not a love story, so I hope that’s not what you’re seeking. During one of our customary evening outings, as we relished a flawlessly grilled tilapia fish in a cozy lounge, immersed in the serene melodies playing in the background, Ike’s phone abruptly chimed. My gaze shifted towards him, catching a glimpse of the word “daughter” illuminating the screen. He engaged in a conversation for some time before concluding the call, leisurely sipping from his glass, and then posing a question.
“Babe, did you know I have a daughter?”
My hand, covered in spicy sauce, froze in mid-air as I stared at him.
“A daughter?” I echoed.
“Yes, she’s with my ex-wife. I thought I told you?” He responded casually.
“An ex-wife?!”
“Yeah, we’re working on getting divorced,” he explained.
I couldn’t decide which was more infuriating — his unnerving calmness or the fact that he had hidden his family from me.
Suddenly, the fish in front of me tasted as if it had been infused with bitterness, and the juice I was drinking turned into a bitter herbal concoction. I told him I needed to go home. Throughout the ride, he assured me that I had no reason to worry about his ex-wife. He claimed marrying her had been a mistake and expressed his desire to build a new family with me. I looked at him with tenderness, assuring him that his past should remain in the past.
He embraced me upon dropping me off at my gate, whispering words of love. I sent a message telling him to never look for me and deleted his number as soon as I entered the compound; it could not even be me.
And that, my friend, is how another failed relationship concluded. Now, I’m curious to hear your perspective on dating older individuals. Did my story resonate with you? If you found this narrative engaging, I encourage you to show your appreciation by pressing and holding the clap button until it gets to 50. Don’t forget to follow me for more captivating short stories and whimsical musings. And if you’re up for something truly remarkable, click here!
