Don’t touch me.

Precious Adeyemi
Nov 3 · 4 min read
Photo by Joshua Oluwagbemiga on Unsplash

I have no gun, so I’ll rather write about it.

This evening, I was on a bike headed to my house from the bus stop. I turned to my left to see this man on another bike close to me, stretching his hand, trying to touch me. I don’t know if he told the man driving the bike to move closer to me, but what I saw startled me, and once I figured out what was going on, it angered me. By now, our bikes were driving side to side. I was so upset and I asked him, “Are you mad?”

He flashed an evil smile and said, “No, I’m not mad.”

And then I confirmed it, “You’re actually very mad.”

He laughed and his bike driver who seemed to be enjoying the show all along, finally zoomed off. The driver on the bike I was on, an elderly man, kept sighing in irritation.


I was in Obalende one evening, trying to find my way home. It had rained heavily the day before, so some parts of the ground were still wet, while bodies of water had found homes in various potholes.

I was walking towards the bus park when I saw one of such puddles in front of me. A bus was loading to my left so I had to cross to the right to walk on dry ground. But the only place I could pass without walking many steps back was in between two parked cars. The space was narrow and there were two men talking there. So when I took a deep breath and walked between them, I knew. I knew that at least one of them would touch me. But what I didn’t know was that he would drag his hand from my forearm down to my elbow slowly, deliberately slowly. When I turned back to look at his amused face while rage was growing in me, and I hit him in his chest with my palm, I expected him to follow me and call me an ‘ashewo’ or tell me I wasn’t even that fine. But he didn’t and I did not turn back to find out why.


One Sunday afternoon, I was standing in front of my street, waiting to get a bike. A man shouted from a bar close by, “Sister!” and I pretended not to hear, but he came out to meet me, telling me how he had always wanted to talk to me. He was slightly drunk and I was uncomfortable. Maybe he planned it with the bike drivers, because none of them were approaching. He had enough time to ask if we could be friends and if he could have my number. I respectfully declined. He asked for my name at least, and promised he wouldn’t shout my name in public, but I told him he’ll do better without it. Still no bike. His voice was getting louder and I was getting embarrassed when a bike approached and I called it. I told him I was going to the bus stop and climbed the bike. The drunk man gave him money to cover my transport, asking the bike man for his change. I remember I had to tell the bike driver at least three times not to collect the money, and that I was going to pay before he agreed. As he was about to drive out, the drunk man rubbed my arm with the back of his palm, like how you would do when consoling a friend. A very good friend. I didn’t turn back or react, but what I really wanted to do was go back home and scrub myself.


I came back home this evening wishing I had a gun. Not to sound sinister, but since I moved to Lagos, I’ve imagined a story of a young serial-killer who goes around murdering abusers; from rapists to cat callers. This is what gives me some form of closure when these men annoy me. The girl in my story once fell in the hands of the oppressors, and when she killed those ones, she made it her life mission to kill them all. When people assaulted women, they would die mysteriously at night. Soon, people would connect the murders to the assaults and men would stop assaulting women for fear that they would die. Eventually, men would stop assaulting women because they had learnt to respect them.

I don’t think I’m any good at writing crime, maybe because I haven’t tried. If you’re reading this and you are, please do me the honours. But please, make her bad-ass!

Yesterday, I felt a certain joy when I watched the 1991 movie ‘Thelma and Louise’. If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, please go see it.

I won’t be getting a gun anytime soon, but I’ll like to hear about when you wished you had one.

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