Diary of A Disgruntled Igbo Woman…Part 5

Almost a year ago, I arrived Netherlands via Amsterdam Schipol on a cool October day, excited but exhausted from traipsing round West Africa in fulfillment of the Schengen visa requirements for temporary long stay in The Netherlands. Like Alice in Wonderland, I was in awe of the beautiful city of Amsterdam and dumbstruck from staring at beautiful golden men with tight abs, men built like Michelangelo’s David (or is the apt analogy, Greek Adonis?). At 31, a single mother, feminist, lawyer, Nigerian, I was fed up with the sexism oozing out of the arrogant asses of the many Nigerian men I had come across, and was really looking forward to meeting a blond Adonis who is wholeheartedly in favor of gender equality. I was looking forward to falling madly in love (the sort of love that makes you memorize his phone number and sees you staring into space thinking about his sweet kisses). I was looking forward to settling down and birthing three additional lovelies. I had already picked their names – Adanna/Obinna, Christabel/Christopher, and Summer/Charles. I was in paradise, or so I thought. You see? Ever since I was in my teens, I had been telling friends and family that I was going to marry a handsome, sexy-as-sin, feminist white man – a Monsieur Charles with blue eyes, I once jokingly told a friend. My mom kicked against the very idea of her only daughter marrying soooo far away, plus, according to her, the white man’s love doesn’t last long: see the divorce rate in the West. But, abeg, if I hear…!
Anyways, I arrived NL and was introduced round town by friends and soon was about my business: studies. But, after a couple of months living in NL, I was still pathetically single, with nary a chyker/toaster/suitor in sight. White men don’t just stop you on the road to chat you up and ask for your mobile number; that is a Black man’s forte. Here such an action is considered street harassment, so very different from being grabbed on the streets of Onitsha by Omatta boys, yeah? In NL, everyone is on the move, literally, eyes to the front, no admiring, no stopping to chat up strange women because they look good, no accidental meet ups. In alarm, I asked a few friends what was up and the general response was: “oh! Just sign up to dating sites. The good ones are Tinder, OkCupid, blah blah…” And so my online dating experience began. Just like when you sign up on Twitter or Instagram, signing up to a dating site requires that you be cool but classy, have tons of beautiful photos and appear sophisticated. But, be prepared to receive eons of unsolicited dick pics and lewd messages from strangers telling you how they would love to get down with you and suck your down under dry. It was a disconcerting introduction to dating in NL; sex is not a biggie, hook ups are as casual as jeans. However, the Dutch honesty is a good thing: no false pretenses, no side chic v. main chic drama. Everybody knows what they mean to the other, because everybody discloses his or her intentions and expectations.
Sa sa, my first date with a white, Dutch man went somewhat nicely, but the rapport was not so smooth, he didn’t understand some of my jokes, and I didn’t understand some of his jokes. He didn’t like food cooked with pepper – like seriously, who doesn’t eat pepper?! White people, that’s who. Plus, he – the date – had a cat named Oprah who was black as sin and very unfriendly, and possessive. So, we mutually agreed to break up. After him, I met a couple of nice, white men, but I never did fall like a ton of bricks, plus it felt like I was tiptoeing around them most of the time. IMO, I think many white men have fragile egos and sensitive natures. So not turn-ons. And the whole online dating thingy was off-putting. After a while, I closed the accounts and tried to be Jane Austen, all about books, no time for frivolities. But, without friends, family, boyfriend drama, I was bored shitless! Soon I was missing the easy humor and unbreakable confidence of Nigerian men. So, I dated one. He was not at all what I would’ve gone for in Nigeria. He was not college educated – for someone who is unapologetically sapiosexual, that is a huge minus, and even though he had been living in Europe for nine years, he was still a sexist at heart. Kept on harping about how lucky I am to have a son and how a man must have a son to carry on his name. Eziokwu, ike gwuru m for that dude. Anyways, I am back to square one. Tired of online dating and wondering if I will ever find a man to love, a man like the heroes in Lynne Graham’s and Kiru Taye’s novels. Reading romance novels might have spoiled me for many men, but they sure make me want a love that lights me up when I’m in my 80’s and sends me reminiscing about our courtship days, wedding day, honeymoon, and years spent together in love and harmony.


About Egoyibo Okoro

Beautiful. Friendly. Opinionated. Feminist. Scholarly. Political. Christian. Sometimes, I write in Engli-Igbo and/or pidgin English. Just so you know, I am naturally disgruntled about a lot of things, most especially gender inequality, human rights abuses, racism and corruption. #EndChildMarriage. #EndTerrorism. #EndPoverty. #EndRacism. #EndImperialism. The Igbo say, "egbe bere, ugo bere, nke si ibe ya ebena nku kwa ya" - Live and let live!
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6 Responses to Diary of A Disgruntled Igbo Woman…Part 5

  1. I believe love finds us when we least expect it and I wish you happiness, happiness and more happiness in your life!

  2. spacyzuma says:

    Thanks for sharing. I know too well the frustrations with online dating.

  3. Obiageliaku says:

    Beautiful Piece. Had me smiling thru it all:) The romance novels we read voraciously does not help at all. Don’t worry my dearest, love will always find a way!

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