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I write a blog about relationships and sensual topics, and my dedicated followers eagerly anticipate my words. What they don’t know, however, is the irony of it all: I’m a virgin. Kind of. And I have never been in a relationship.
It’s not a moral or spiritual decision, and I’m as straight as an arrow. I’m just one of those hopeless romantics who believe in fairy tales, who dreams of being swept off her feet by “the one,” the person who will hand me the world and love me unconditionally.
“That’s nonsense!” my best friend, Bidemi, declared one day, hurling a pillow at me. I caught it and placed it on my lap, shrugging.
“What if you marry someone who loves you at first but cheats on you later? Or worse, marries another wife, like so many men do? Won’t you regret not having fun while you could?” She pressed. “Marriage, motherhood, youth, it’s all just one cycle of mortality. You only live once, so why waste it?”
“It’s my choice, anyway,” I said as I opened a pack of sweets.
“Abi you are being delulu and thinking one of those Chinese boys you like will come and marry you? Gu Jun Pyo of BST or what do you call them again?”
I threw the pillow back at her. “Korean not Chinese and BTS not BST,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Dey play, you go marry Femi or Emeka last last.”
“Wait, aren’t those the names of your exes? Eeew!”
She laughed.
Bidemi, my best friend, is someone you’d never forget; someone I never forgot. She’s the quintessential party girl who somehow aces her exams without ever opening a book. At home, she’s the perfect pastor’s daughter; a choir girl, a youth ambassador, and the sweet girl in berets and midi skirts who kindly guides newcomers to their seats at church.
But at university? Bidemi is a different person. There’s nothing she hasn’t tried.
I first caught a glimpse of her double life back in secondary school. She was one of the senior students caught jumping the school fence to attend a carnival. When her father was called to the principal’s office, he stood stoically, hands clasped behind his back, nodding along as the principal accused her of falling into the wrong crowd despite being a good girl. Without a word, he walked her to his car.
Bidemi didn’t come to school for a few days after that. When she finally returned, she greeted me with a bright smile. I hugged her, but she winced. I dragged her to the bathroom and when she lifted her school uniform, her body was a canvas of bruises. There was a drying burn with a piece of cloth stuck to it.
Tears welled in my eyes as I stammered. “Bidemi… what…what happened, not again… ?”
She laughed it off. “Oh, c’mon, Lara. It’s not the first time. I’m used to it. At least he doesn’t touch my beautiful face!” She winked, trying to tease me, but I slapped her arm lightly, horrified.
“Ouch, ouch!” She yelped dramatically.
“Oh my gosh! Are you okay? I am sorry…”
She pouted before breaking into laughter.
A few days later, she was caught with a boy in the girls’ toilet.
Both teaching and non-teaching staff pointed fingers and spat as they – she and the boy – knelt in the middle of the staff room.
“A whole pastor’s daughter.”
“Look at her, so shameless!”
“Ashawo oshi!”
“She will never amount to anything in life!”
“She would get pregnant soon!”
Throughout that term, everyone sneered at her, pointed fingers, and laughed mockingly, but Bidemi would walk with her nose up. As her only friend, I started to keep my distance at a point. I didn’t want people to think I was like her.
One day, I was on my way to the tuck shop when I heard the boy talking to his friends. He mentioned Bedemi’s name.
“Omo, that girl useless die, I don chop her finish aje. I will lick girls like her finish and marry the confirm wife material” He laughed.
“Kingsley, abeg how does her body look like? She be B or D?
Kingsley chuckled, “She be B. Ah, her body fresh die!”
A sudden realisation struck me as I clenched my fist, stepping closer to him. Without hesitation, I swung and hit him square across the face.
Later, I turned my anger towards her as we stood on the second-floor balcony. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I yelled, my voice trembling.
She sighed deeply, her expression weary. “We were caught in the toilet, together. It doesn’t matter whether we did it or not.”
I glared at her, the sting of betrayal bringing tears to my eyes. She noticed and stepped closer, smiling softly before pulling me in for a hug. “I’m just glad you’re back,” she whispered.
I couldn’t help but laugh through my tears, wrapping my arms around her. At that moment, I remembered the first time we became friends.
_
It was my first day at school. She was so warm and welcoming, making me feel like I belonged. We became fast friends, but the news about COVID-19 had started spreading.
“We might not come to school for a long time,” she said one afternoon as we walked home.
“It’s just rumors; it’ll blow over. China is so far from here,” I replied confidently. But a few weeks later, the world came to a standstill. Schools shut down, workplaces closed and the streets became eerily silent.
Months later, when the virus was finally under control, I accompanied my mom to visit a relative. Bidemi’s house was nearby, so I begged to visit her. When we saw each other, we screamed in excitement and ran into each other’s arms.
“I brought you something,” I said, handing her a stack of books I thought she’d love. She grinned with joy, clutching the books tightly before hurriedly tucking them under her bed. I was confused. “Why would you hide books? They are just harmless teen novels,” I said.
“That’s precisely why.”
When school resumed, I saw the root of the fear for the first time. As I waited outside the restroom for her, she emerged, tugging her skirt into place. That’s when I saw the bruises. Without thinking, I lifted her skirt to see red welts crisscrossing her skin.
“What? Who did this to you? What happened?”
She said, as if quoting someone, “Apparently, our screams disturbed the neighbours. Oh, and making friends? Definitely the reason I got an F last term.”
“This is wrong, Bidemi! My mom beats me when I do something wrong but this, it’s… it’s too much!” I protested, my voice shaking.
She laughed bitterly. “I’m a bad child, Lara. My father’s just trying to set me straight.”
Years later, I learned a deaconess had reported her injuries to the church elders, but nothing came of it. “He’s her father,” they said. “He wants the best for her. No father can hate his daughter, it’s for her own good”
When we both got admitted into the same university, it felt like a fresh start. Bidemi embraced freedom with open arms. She partied, experimented and lived life to the fullest, enjoying all the flavours of youth.
I, on the other hand, was a reluctant guest in her world. In our third year, she convinced me to attend a party with her. I had a test the next day by 2 pm, but she promised we would only stay an hour.
I sipped a soda at the party, only to realise too late it had been spiked. I blacked out and woke up the next day with a pounding headache. When I checked my phone, I saw dozens of missed calls and messages.
The test had been moved up to noon, and I had missed it. To make matters worse, someone had posted videos from the party on social media and I was in all of them.
When I went to plead with my lecturer, he laughed sarcastically. “You must be a genius to skip a test for a party. Albert Einstein junior, eh?” That semester, I failed one of my core courses.
But I couldn’t shake the fear that something terrible had happened during my blackout. Bidemi swore she’d locked me in a room to keep me safe, but how could I trust her when she’d been drinking herself? The thought of losing my virginity to some stranger during a drunken haze haunted me. It planted a seed of extreme morality in me, self-consciousness and fear.
After that, I began distancing myself from Bidemi. She tried to reach out; calls, texts, and even waiting outside my hostel but I avoided her. I felt that I should have let her go a long time ago, she was a bad influence on me. Slowly, our friendship began to dissolve. When we pass each other, we won’t even say hello.
And I couldn’t help but wonder how my blog followers would react if they knew the truth: that I’m not the wild, carefree person I pretend to be. Bidemi was the embodiment of youth’s recklessness, while I remained on the sidelines, writing fantasies I was too afraid to live.
Many years later, we would meet at a book launch of a mutual friend. I tried to approach but couldn’t. I masked my nervousness by mingling with others.
“What? You don’t even want to say hello,” she teased, coming closer, looking so different in her tailored pantsuit and heels. I noticed the ring on her fourth finger.
“I. uhm, nice to meet you. Nice look…”
She smiled. “You too, Lara. Glad to know you are doing well.” She said and walked away.
I sighed as my husband approached me. “You know her?” He asked, sipping a glass of wine.
“She’s an old friend,” I said.
***
Feature Image Segun Jana for Pexels
The post BN Prose: Will I Get Extra Points in Heaven if I Die a Virgin? by Raheemat Olaore appeared first on BellaNaija – Showcasing Africa to the world. Read today!.
