I just started university, feeling clueless and naive. I had never interacted with anyone of the opposite sex before. I attended a single-sex Christian high school where I was taught that talking to a guy would get me pregnant, and I certainly wasn’t willing to test the validity of that statement. It was always a struggle for me to talk to guys; I never felt comfortable around them no matter the conversation. The closest I had to male friends were my brother’s friends from high school, who were basically like my brothers and were explicitly instructed to look after me. So, here I am in a new environment, wondering what is going on and thinking about how I will survive in this place. One morning, I went to do my departmental registration, dressed casually in jeans, a top, and fancy slippers (okay, I lied, the slippers were nothing fancy).
Me: Oh, nice. Name’s Cynthia.
Him: You didn’t strike me as an Igbo girl.
Me: That’s because I’m not Igbo.
Him: oh my bad. Which faculty are you in?
Me: Education. Studying English language and Education.
Him: Nice.
Me: Yeah, I know. What about you?
Him: Music.
Me: You’re really into it, or it’s just a course?
At this point, we had gotten to the front of my hostel, and I was too ashamed of my slippers to continue the conversation. So I knew I had to wrap it up. I said “Oh, that’s cool. I should go in though. It’s been lovely chatting with you” and he responded, “Haha, nice to finally meet you, Cynthia. I’ll see you around like I always do.”
We didn’t exchange contact, but I’d spend the rest of my week testing my FBI skills, asking anyone I knew in the music department about him…
I’d finish this story right now, but I don’t want to bore you. Why cut a long story short when you can tell the entire thing? I need to give you the explicit build-up to the kiss that opened the way to other kisses. So, there will be part 2.
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