You Are Not Mine.

My mother named me Oluwadarasimi, which means God has done me well. A powerful name, full of hope and divine assurance but sometimes, I wonder if God skipped the romance department when He was doing me well because my love life has been a consistent cycle of confusion, comedy, and unsolicited character development.

I am 5’6 on a good day, 5’7 if my wig has volume. I have a decent job, pay my taxes (most of the time), and have been told that I am a great person by men who were too afraid to say, “I don’t want to be with you.”

My mother often reminds me that my name is a prophecy. That one day, love will make sense. That the men I have encountered are simply a test of patience. But patience is expensive, and honestly, if love is taking this long to arrive, it better come with a cash-back policy.

I have met all kinds of men. The holy ones, the toxic ones, the busy ones, the unavailable ones, the broke ones with confidence, and the rich ones with wahala. I used to think the problem was them. Now, I am starting to wonder if it’s me.

But let’s start from the beginning.

David.

I met David in church. Or rather, I was told that God had selected him for me.

“Your husband is in this church”, Sister Esther whispered with the kind of confidence only people who see visions at night have. He is in the choir. Tall. Dark. Deep voice. I looked around and sighed. The only person that fit that description was Brother David, the assistant music director, who always dressed like he was in a committed relationship with the same three cotton shirts.

But fine, I thought. Let me be obedient.

David and I started talking after Bible study. He was charming, funny, and intense about theology. He didn’t believe in holding hands before marriage, which I found amusing. “You see, physical contact is a gateway”, he explained, clutching his Bible. I nodded, pretending to agree, but my spirit was weak.

A week later, he took me out for suya. My lips were burning, the moment was perfect, and I innocently touched his arm. Brethren. That was the end.

David ghosted me for two weeks, then reappeared with a four-page letter about how he had fallen into the sin of desiring the flesh and needed to focus on his spiritual journey.

I was dumped in the name of the Lord.

Emeka.

Emeka had money. I won’t lie, that was the first thing that caught my attention. He had the full big boy starter pack; Three iPhones, a MacBook, a nice ride, an amazing apartment that makes you consider cohabiting and a suspiciously flexible work schedule that required him constantly asking for updates from certain people. “You see, it’s FinTech”, he tried explaining his work one evening. “Several deals with international transactions.” He didn’t need to say much. Like everything else, your guts tell you whatever you need to know.

But Emeka was fine. And generous. One random Tuesday, he sent me money for my hair. The next week, nails. Then a spa date. My feminist principles were shaking, but my scalp was grateful.

Then one other day, he called me.

“Babe, can I use your account to receive something small?”

And just like that, my senses came back to me.

Fred.

Hnmmm. Fred was a consultant. The first time I told him he was ignoring my messages, he replied, “Babe, let’s optimize our communication channels.”

I was dating a PowerPoint presentation.

Fred was always busy. Meetings at 6 a.m., strategy sessions at midnight, and somehow, he was always circling back to my requests for quality time. Then one day, he sent me an email.

Subject: Love & Affection

Dear Dara,

I wanted to take this opportunity to express my deep admiration and affection for you. I am truly looking forward to our continued partnership.

Best regards,

Fred.

Best regards? For?

What partnership?

I left him on read.

Tunde.

Tunde was a doctor, which meant I was automatically impressed. Stability, intelligence, a respectable career. I thought I had made it. We were doing long-distance while he was abroad for his residency. At first, it was cute. I swore never to do distance but if God decided to give me a smarty pants with great prospects who am I to say no?

Good morning, my love texts. Late-night calls. Random I miss you messages. Everything nice and good until, the calls reduced. Then, they stopped.

“Work is just so demanding”, he explained.

“I am always on call.”

I was understanding, until I sat up.

I sent him one message two months to his birthday:

“Doctor, I am discharging myself”.

Femi.

Femi. Lol. Femi. Femi was an artist. Not the successful kind. The upcoming kind. Femi had talent, but he also had delusions. Every date was at a friend’s studio. Every conversation was about the industry and it made sense.

Why did you need to get a girlfriend though?

One day, he played me a song he wrote about me. The chorus?

“Girl, you be my oxygen, but love no be my budget.”

Faints…

Sigh.

You can never be mine.

The Aftermath???

Well to be honest, at first, I thought maybe I was doing something wrong. Maybe I was too picky?Was I not spiritual enough? Did I miss the memo about making my requirements list on a vision board? But after a few late-night calls with my friends (mostly to complain, but also to eat popcorn and laugh), I came to a realization: It wasn’t just me. It was them too. All of them.

David, with his divine calling and choir-boy uniform, was obviously the chosen one for someone else. Emeka was ‘too rich’ lol. Fred was basically a walking LinkedIn profile, and Tunde? Don’t even get me started on Tunde, because now I never want to hear of doctors much more distance relationships.

I realized that I wasn’t the only problem sha. I was simply out there doing my part in the reality show called Who Can Survive These Men? And guess what? I am winning.

I am winning a lot. Some people spend years trying to find the one, while I am over here collecting experiences like they re limited-edition sneakers. Honestly, I should be charging for these stories. Heartbreak? Take a seat.

But hey, it’s not all bad. Because even though none of these guys were mine, they gave me something important: clarity.

Now, when someone asks me what I am looking for, I don’t give them that I am waiting for the one speech. Instead, I say:

“I am looking for a man who has his own life together, knows how to communicate, doesn’t ghost me for weeks, and can handle the fact that I have zero tolerance for vague text messages, and most importantly, a man who actually wants to be with me without me having to decode it like a cryptic Bible verse or a corporate email…”

So, where does that leave me now?

Still single. But not in that hopeless, woe-is-me, let-me-cry-into-my-pillow way. No, I am single with a refined taste. Single with standards. Single, but unavailable for nonsense. And maybe my mother is right. Maybe my name is a prophecy, and one day, love will make sense but until then, I will keep living, keep laughing, and keep dodging men who think cheesy afro beat lyrics is the most appropriate way to confess their feelings.