When Love Is A Game - by Bibi Ire

Men don’t dump me. I end it before they ever think to. That was the creed I lived by. Cold. Calculated. Confident. But it wasn’t just arrogance. It was my way of shielding myself. My sister, Zara, once drank a full bottle of insecticide because her boyfriend broke up with her. I was only in JSS3 at the time, but the image of her foaming at the mouth and trembling on the bathroom floor has never left me. She survived, but something in me didn’t. That was the day I promised myself: no man will ever get that kind of power over me. A few months later, I begged my parents to transfer me to SouthGate College ,the same school the boy who dumped my sister attended. They thought I wanted better WAEC prep. I wanted revenge. The boy's name was Dimeji. Final year student. Fine, arrogant, and used to girls crying for his attention. So I flipped the script. I dated his best friend for two weeks, then another classmate. Dumped both with cold precision. Word spread like wildfire. Some said I was using guys for money. I didn’t care. Soon, Dimeji himself approached me. I made him work for it. Notes, gifts, attention, I let him invest. Then, when he was head over heels, I gave him the coldest breakup ever, right after the school assembly. A slap. A whisper: “Now you know how it feels.” I walked away as the crowd gasped, transferred schools, and never looked back. It felt like justice. After that, I played the game like a master. From campus to NYSC, I broke hearts the way a butcher handles meat ruthlessly, and without remorse. That was until I met Leon. He was the new head of our department's tech support at the bank where I worked. Quiet. Brooding. Sharp-dressed and observant. The kind of man who didn’t speak unless it mattered. One morning, our regional manager embarrassed him in front of everyone. Files tossed to the ground, voice raised, fingers pointed. Leon didn’t fight back. He picked up the papers slowly, nodded, and walked out. Two days later, the manager was suspended. That was when I saw it: power wrapped in silence. I decided to get close. At first, it was to be protected, maybe even admired by extension. Then curiosity bloomed. Then obsession. Leon never made advances. But the way he brushed past me in the hallway, the way his voice dropped when we spoke, it ignited something in me. One rainy evening, I was waiting for a cab when his grey car pulled up beside me. He didn’t say a word. Just unlocked the door. I entered. That was the beginning of everything. Soon, I found myself staying over. Cooking for him. Shopping for him. Buying him perfumes, socks, wine glasses. All with my money. I, who once scammed a boyfriend out of his birthday savings. I, who once dated a married lecturer just to get his Rolex, was now playing wife to a man who hadn’t even asked me to be his girlfriend. We were intimate. Everywhere. His house. My house. The office car park. The cinema. Even the beach. But still, no label. Every time I asked where we stood, he’d dodge the conversation with a kiss or a trip. Then, one evening, while we lay on his couch, he looked me in the eye and said, “There’s something I need to tell you. But not yet. When the time is right.” My heart stalled. I begged him to tell me. He refused. Still, I stayed. On his birthday, six months in, I cornered him and asked again, “Define us, Leon.” He smiled, held my hand, and said, “Why settle for a girlfriend tag when I see you as my future wife?” Those words broke me. I had played this game for years, but suddenly, I wasn’t in control. I was in love. A few days later, I noticed I was late. I took a pregnancy test. Positive. I couldn’t wait to tell him. Monday came. I got to work early. Leon wasn’t there. His line? Switched off. His desk? Empty. Confused, I asked around. My coworkers avoided my eyes. Whispers floated past me. I logged into my WhatsApp. That’s when I saw it. Leon was married. Three years. Two kids. He had resigned silently the previous week. No farewell. No goodbye. No explanation. I collapsed in the break room. The pregnancy held. I tried to get rid of it, but nothing worked. It was like my body had made peace with fate before my mind did. Today, I have a son. His name is Leo Jr. He looks like his father. And me? I’ve stopped playing games. I still wear confidence like perfume, but the arrogance is gone. I now understand something I didn’t before. Some people walk into your life, not to teach you love, but to teach you humility. When you turn love into a game, expect the rules to change. You might be the hunter today, but tomorrow, you may fall for someone who was never even playing.

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