What made me date this lady?

What Made Me Date This Lady? In the bustling heart of Lagos, where the air hums with the rhythm of honking danfos and the chatter of street vendors, Chike sat in his cramped office in Yaba, staring blankly at his laptop. The ceiling fan whirred lazily above, doing little to cut through the humid afternoon heat. His mind wasn’t on the code he was supposed to debug for his fintech startup. Instead, it was on Ada—or rather, the slow, sinking realization of the red flags he’d ignored when he first fell for her. Chike wasn’t the type to chase women. At 32, he was focused, driven, the kind of guy who’d rather spend his evenings tweaking algorithms than clubbing on Victoria Island. But Ada had been different. Or so he thought. They’d met six months ago at a friend’s owambe in Ikeja, a vibrant affair with jollof rice so good it could make you forget your surname. Ada had walked in, her Ankara gown hugging her curves, her laughter cutting through the noise like a melody. She was confident, witty, and had a smile that could disarm a soldier. Chike was hooked before he even knew her full name. It started innocently enough. She’d asked him to dance, and though Chike’s two left feet were no match for her fluid moves, her playfulness put him at ease. They exchanged numbers, and soon, their WhatsApp chats became the highlight of his day. She was a content creator, always posting about her travels, her fashion, and her “soft life” aspirations. Chike, a practical guy from Enugu who grew up hustling, found her energy refreshing. She was bold, unapologetic, and seemed to know exactly what she wanted. He admired that. Or maybe, he now realized, he’d been dazzled by it. The first red flag came early, but Chike brushed it off. They’d gone on their first date to a buka in Surulere, where Ada spent half the meal scrolling through her phone, barely touching her pounded yam. “I have to post this for my followers,” she’d said, snapping a photo of the food she hadn’t eaten. Chike had laughed it off, thinking it was just her “brand.” But it wasn’t just that one time. Every outing became a photoshoot—whether they were at Tarkwa Bay or grabbing shawarma in Lekki. She’d pose, filter, post, and check her likes obsessively. Chike, who valued presence over performance, felt like an extra in her carefully curated life. Then there was the money thing. Ada never outright asked for cash, but the hints were loud. “Babe, my hair is due, but my account is red,” she’d say, batting her lashes. Or, “I saw this dress on Instagram, but my tailor is stressing me for payment.” Chike, raised to believe a man provides, didn’t mind helping out at first. He sent her 50k here and 100k there, thinking it was temporary. But it never stopped. She’d thank him with a voice note dripping with sweetness, but the requests kept coming. He started noticing she never offered to split a bill or even buy him a bottle of water. Still, he told himself, “She’s just going through a phase.” The biggest red flag, though, was her temper. Ada could be charming, but when things didn’t go her way, she’d switch. Once, at a restaurant in Ikoyi, the waiter mixed up her order, and Ada unleashed a tirade that left the poor guy trembling. Chike apologized to the waiter, embarrassed, but Ada shrugged it off. “He should know his job,” she said, as if her outburst was justified. Chike ignored it, convincing himself it was a one-off. But it wasn’t. She snapped at her friends, her driver, and even Chike when he dared suggest she chill on the social media flexing. “You don’t get my hustle,” she’d say, dismissing him. Sitting in his office now, Chike replayed these moments, each one a brick in a wall he hadn’t seen building. The final straw came last night. They’d been at his apartment in Yaba, watching a Nollywood movie on Netflix. Ada got a call, stepped outside, and stayed on the phone for an hour. When she returned, she was cagey, saying it was “just a friend.” But Chike overheard enough to know it was a guy, someone she spoke to with a familiarity that stung. When he asked, she flipped, accusing him of being insecure. “If you don’t trust me, why are we even together?” she’d yelled before storming out. Now, alone with his thoughts, Chike realized what had drawn him to Ada wasn’t love—it was the idea of her. Her confidence had seemed like strength, but it masked a need for validation. Her “soft life” dreams were less about ambition and more about entitlement. Her charm was a performance, one she turned on and off depending on who was watching. He’d ignored the signs because he wanted to believe in the version of her he’d created in his head. He sighed, shutting his laptop. The Lagos traffic roared outside, a reminder of the chaos he’d let into his life. Ada wasn’t a bad person, but she wasn’t for him. He deserved someone who saw him, not as a prop or a provider, but as a partner. As he grabbed his phone to block her number, he felt lighter, like he’d finally debugged the glitch in his heart. The next time he dated, he’d keep his eyes open—no more ignoring red flags, no matter how dazzling the package.

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