Chapter 19 Moyo
Moyo
ANJOLA KUTI IS A HORRIBLE PERSON WHEN SHE THINKS she’s right. Her laughter echoes over the phone and through my apartment.
“And you wanted to give up on love” was the first thing she said after I let her and Sewa know about recent Niyi-shaped developments. After our first debrief, I avoided thinking about dating—which went swimmingly, thanks to work—until I ran into him earlier today.
“You’re doing too much,” I respond with a vacant glare.
Love? I’d only conceded to having a little crush and possibly wanting to kiss Niyi after our afternoon together.
Tangling tongues does not equal melding lives.
Love is out of the picture. Unimportant to this entire conversation.
Niyi isn’t part of the permanent equation, and he’ll never be.
When I said I’d use Cupid’s Bow, I meant trusting the app, listening to my coach, going on dates, and finding true love.
Not falling for my Cupid’s Bow coach. Attraction is one thing, but he’s not vetted, and I need someone who is. Someone I can be sure won’t hurt me.
“And you’re not doing enough,” Anjie retorts, folding her arms.
“What does that mean?” I snap.
She softens her voice, approaching me with the same caution one would use if they stumbled upon a skunk. “It means I want you to go for what you want and not only what’s on your grand list. I want you to be yourself. The Moyo we know and love.”
“I am going for what I want. I am being myself. That includes having a plan, and you know that. I’m open to the dates from the app.
I went to the mixer, and I’m even talking to the infuriating, assigned dating coach.
What more is there to do? How else can I be more Moyo? ” I swing my arms in the air.
Silence falls, leaving only the rhythmic sound of my clothes swishing in the washer. My breathing settles, and I wait for one of my friends to speak. Anjie and Sewa share glances, so clearly, there’s more to say.
“Babes, are you okay?” Sewa asks in an attempt to break the ice. Nothing is melting.
“You know we love and care about you,” Anjie adds.
Sometimes when they tag team, it feels like an intervention. I hate it.
“Get this over with,” I say, and Sewa’s lips form a line. Anjie takes a deep breath.
“You know you’ve never really spoken about the whole C-word situation,” Anjie says, and I almost laugh her off the phone. Cole? I haven’t spoken about him because there’s nothing to say. It happened, I cried and wallowed, and it’s done.
“And yes, I know we urged you to get back out there, but you haven’t seemed excited by any of it,” she concludes.
“Till now,” Sewa interjects with a smile.
“Till now.” Anjie nods. “Till this customer service guy, or dating coach, or whatever he is, popped up. Now you’re smiling as you tell us—in heavy detail, mind you—about how he ironed your clothes.
You’re back to spontaneously calling us, and you look happy.
Not apathetic like you did when you were getting ready the other night. ”
“I was excited,” I protest.
“You were excited about how you looked, which anyone would be,” Sewa says. “But you were very so-so about the date. We know you, babes, and that wasn’t you.”
“I’d even say the way you talk about this ‘infuriating consultant,’” Anjie says, using my words, which does force a smile, “sounds more exciting than whenever you told us anything about Cole.”
“I agree,” Sewa cuts in. “Since getting back into dating, you’ve approached it like a process, which is all good and fine.
But for the first time since college, you’re open and less methodical.
You’re being the Moyo who, while yes, plans a lot, also embraces her feelings.
When was the last time you felt the overwhelming desire to kiss someone? ”
I hope it’s a rhetorical question because the answer escapes me.
When did I last feel an all-consuming romantic urge? Unable to pinpoint a specific moment, I turn their soft words over again until they lose shape and become mush. I sit there silently. Words on the tip of my tongue threaten to escape, but I’m not ready to let the girls know they’re right.
My moments with Niyi, whether at the dance party, at the mixer, in the coffee shop, or in my own living room have been fun—different, but fun.
Unplanned. Spontaneous. Too much fun. Which is probably why I’m overthinking.
How can a man who’s been nothing but professional and is not even my match from the stupid app have me developing a schoolgirl crush?
What is wrong with me?
Moments with Niyi play in my head like a movie montage, making me smile with the same unfiltered joy I experience when the theater’s lights dim.
“This, Moyo babe!” Anjie exclaims. “See how you’re smiling?”
“Shining all her thirty-two,” Sewa chimes in.
The urge to shut everything down with Niyi overtakes my emotions.
“He’s my dating coach. I can’t. He’s just doing his job,” I say in quick succession. Trying to convince them and myself.
“You think he’d be at your house doing manual labor if he wasn’t interested?” Sewa asks.
“He’s been nothing but polite,” I counter. “I can’t take politeness as interest.”
Anjie says, “Maybe you should…”
“You’re so used to doing everything, maybe accepting someone being polite and helpful is a welcome change,” Sewa adds.
“Exactly!” Anjie cosigns. “Thinking about Cole, and hell, let’s take it back to Isaac,” she continues, dredging up the Ghanaian junior I was obsessed with sophomore year—and my first experience of being cheated on after I walked in on him with his “best friend.”
“Take what back to them?” I ask.
“They weren’t the sweet kind. In fact, they were guys you always had to chase. Now here’s someone doing the same thing for you,” Anjie explains, and Sewa nods in agreement.
“And what if Niyi’s not interested? Wh-what if this is all in my head?” While I’m beginning to recognize the type of partner I want, I don’t simply want to project onto my dating coach.
The girls sport matching pouts. “Then you try again,” Sewa says, at the same time Anjie says, “Then he’s misguided,” resulting in much-needed laughter.
“But for real,” Anjie says. “It’ll be okay. Things don’t have to be perfect.”
I understand where they’re coming from. I really do. But uncertainty breeds so much confusion and fear. And for the first time, I’m scared. Of being alone. Of being with the wrong person. Of heartbreak.
“Things won’t end up like Cole or Isaac,” Sewa says. “Even if it’s not with the dating coach, you can’t live forever in fear crafted by those douchebags.”
“Yeah, fuck them!” Anjie says, making us laugh once more. “Really, open your heart. You’re blossoming again, and we think you should hold onto that.”
“And as cliché as it sounds, keep following your heart. It’s moving you to a new place. A place where you’re excited to talk about dating. A place where you’re not stuck on plans,” Sewa says.
“So, as you get to that place, we’re here if you need to talk about those two assholes who should consider witness protection before I finish my Muay Thai classes,” Anjie jokes again, and I almost laugh, but memories of my time with Isaac and Cole hit me like a freight train.
A new wave of embarrassment washes over me.
I’m not embarrassed of who I was with them; I refuse to be ashamed of my loving nature. I’m embarrassed because even when the red flags resembled red sirens, I shut my ears and allowed myself to be lulled by sweet nothings. I’m embarrassed that I let them change my loving nature.
Never again.
My mind flashes to the extensive Cupid’s Bow questionnaire in my bag.
My girls and Niyi are right. I need to figure out what I want from a partner.
Not what I’m used to accepting or what is handed to me or what I think I need to have.
I need to realize what I, Moyo Adegbite, actually want and value in a romantic partner. Fears and all.
Looking at my platonic soulmates, Anjie and Sewa, I know exactly where to start.
“I love you guys,” I say, choked up by their care. I should be used to their love by now, but I’m beginning to think it’s impossible. Real love renews every morning like fresh dew.
“We love you too,” my girls say in unison.
I exhale a refreshing breath. “I think I’m ready to fill out the Cupid’s Bow questionnaire.”
Anjie raises a brow. “Not going for the dating coach?”
I shake my head. “I’m going to figure out what I want first. And, I’m still going ahead with my remaining two dates.”
Sewa opens her mouth to protest, but I continue talking.
“If I’m going to be me, then I still need to have some semblance of a plan.
I don’t know if Niyi likes me. He might simply be doing his job, but that doesn’t matter because I don’t want to throw all my emotions into one guy like I’ve done before.
I want to date, with an open mind, and see what I actually like.
No more hanging onto one guy for dear life just because he’s available and I’m afraid of rejection. ”
When I’m done, I receive thunderous applause.
“That’s what I like to hear,” Anjie says.
“Guess we’ll leave you to it,” Sewa says.
We sign off with blown kisses and even more I love yous.
I retrieve the questionnaire from my bag, throw my laundry in the dryer, and head to bed.
Soft pillows cushion my back, but still, knots form as I read the first question.
“Why am I dating?”
Despite the realization I had with my friends, the immediate response that races forward is clinical.
I want to find love because I’m supposed to.
It’s the next logical step in my life. After wading through the hard, self-defining years that are the late twenties to early thirties, I should be rewarded with a partner for all my trouble.
But that’s not all it is. That was mainly my fear and anxiety talking.
Right now, I’m dating because I’m ready to bring someone along on my journey.
I’m ready to share a life with someone. I want to share a life with someone.
I have my girls and always will, but they have their own lives.
We’ll always have brunch, but during the week, I come home to white noise and leave to white noise. I’m looking to fill the silence.
I might throw up as I admit it, but that year with Cole was one of my happiest. Having someone right there to share my wins, especially when Anjie was stuck at the restaurant or Sewa was buried in applications or her research job, was life-changing.
Even though the focal point of our relationship was physical and the rest highly superficial.
In the passive excuse of my relationship with Cole, companionship was the silver lining.
Recounting our days to one another against the soft background noise of a low-budget movie while he plastered me with kisses, walking the cobblestoned streets of the North End under starry skies, with clasped hands I thought would never untangle.
Even when I was upset at him or discontent with his distance, I thought we would never come undone because he was there. Not always mentally present, but he was there physically, and that gave me hope.
That made it okay.
I was ready to live below the standards set by my parents and the love I’ve received from my best friends because he was there, and I wasn’t ready to be truly vulnerable. I thought I was searching for true love, but it demands an openness I hadn’t accessed.
Aside from the true love testimonials, this is why I gravitated towards Cupid’s Bow.
Approaching love with detachment was my way of not getting hurt, but instead that left me with Cole, which was even worse.
Instead of going with my gut, like when I became friends with both Anjie and Sewa, I treated love like it was another thing on my checklist.
Love isn’t algorithmic. It’s dynamic. And dependent on people ready to make it work. Not one person, not just me asking for signs of commitment so I can feel less lonely, but people—a team.
The words I need to answer the first question graciously reveal themselves.
I pick up the pen.
“Why am I dating?” I repeat. “To find the one who makes me feel like my community does—loved, appreciated, and most importantly, supported. To find someone I’m ready to grow with and vice versa.
” I write, and the words flow, full of affirmations and hopes and dreams. It’s long and beautiful. Like love should be.