By Oladipupo Aminat
PenMadame.
(When Innocence Met Experience…..)
The second year of my National Diploma Program (ND 2) came with a different kind of freedom.
Not the freedom of having money; because I still didn’t.
But the freedom of finally leaving home and moving into the school hostel.
I used to leave from home to school daily throughout ND 1. It was stressful and challenging, so my mother advised i moved there.
Hostel life is another country on its own.
If you survive it, you can survive anywhere.
I stayed in a small room with two other girls:
Toke; the innocent one.
Soft voice.
Soft spirit.
Soft everything.
The kind of girl who read on her bed, whispered her prayers, and arranged her clothes like someone expecting angels to visit.
She reminded me of myself…
Or at least the version of me that life hadn’t scattered yet.
Then there was Shalewa.
Shalewa was the exact OPPOSITE.
Bubbly.
Bold.
Pretty in that dangerously careless way.
She knew all the big boys on campus:
the ones with cars, expensive perfumes, and suspicious money sources.
Her life was a movie.
Mine was a documentary.
Still, somehow, we blended.
One evening, Shalewa burst into the room wearing lip gloss and confidence.
“You this Igi Ìwé,” she said, tapping my leg, “you don’t go out at all. You’ll soon turn to a textbook.”
I laughed, but she didn’t drop it.
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” she said.
“He’s an HND 2 guy. Very calm. Very mature. He even reads like you. Abeg, no dull una sef. Na big catch the guy be.”
Normally, I would have said no.
Guys weren’t part of my goals.
But something about that evening… the cool air, my tiredness, and maybe the fact that I wanted to feel normal for once… made me agree.
That was how I met Bolu.
Tall.
Dark.
Handsome.
And very calm.
He had a smile that didn’t rush.
And a voice that didn’t force itself.
He looked like the type of guy mothers prayed for.
He didn’t flirt.
He didn’t brag.
He didn’t behave like Shalewa’s other “big boys.”
In fact, he seemed almost too calm.
He listened when I spoke.
He asked thoughtful questions, most especially about myself.
He praised my intelligence in a way that felt genuine.
For the first time in a long time, I felt seen.
Not because of my struggles.
Not because of my mother’s story.
Not because of pity.
He saw me.
Or…
at least, that was what I thought.
Weeks passed, and we grew closer.
I found myself looking forward to his messages, his advice, his presence.
He was everything I believed my father wasn’t.
Stable.
Gentle.
Protective.
Understanding.
Perfect.
Finally, I began to feel at peace around him and let my guard down. I told him my story and would advise me to rise above my struggles. He became my go-to person that I could not do without.
Until little things started to show…….
Things I didn’t understand at first.
Things my mind dismissed as “maybe he’s just concerned.”
Things that didn’t look dangerous… on the surface.
I didn’t know I WASN’T being loved.
I was being studied.
Carefully.
Quietly.
Like someone trying to memorize my weaknesses one by one.
Manipulation is not always loud.
Sometimes, it’s calm.
Soft.
Patient.
And Bolu mastered that art.
How exactly?
You’ll find out in Episode 3.
Because that was the chapter where the perfect man………showed his real face.
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