Becoming Me

Three Girls and A Crush

“This was me before that year ever came”

Some things in life are so simple they almost feel magical.

Like having three best friends who understood you better than you understood yourself.

In Nigeria, it was me, Mide, Ayo, and Chioma.

We were inseparable, loud, always giggling about something — dancing in the dusty school compound till sweat glued our uniforms to our backs. But Mide was my person. My ride-or-die. The one I told everything to, even the silly crush I thought I’d keep buried forever.

His name was Ayomide.

He and his two best friends, Joel and Femi, were the boys every other boy wanted to be. They strutted through SS1 like they owned the place, uniforms sharp, voices already dropping lower than most guys our age.

Sometimes I caught myself sneaking glances at Ayomide, thinking I was being discreet — only to realise later that apparently, I wasn’t. Not at all. Everyone knew I had a crush on him. Even he did.

The thing is, I never thought he’d actually like me back.

Why would he? He was Ayomide. Popular, playful, forever surrounded by people. I was just me — the shy girl who hid her nerves behind chatter with her friends.

Then one night, out of nowhere, my phone buzzed.

It was Ayomide.

He said he just wanted to say hi, and my heart started pounding so loud I could hear it echo in my ears.

A couple hours later, another message popped up:

"Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"I like you. A lot. Will you be my girlfriend?"

I stared at the message so long the screen went dark.

Could this be some joke? Was he and his boys trying to prank me?

So I told him I’d think about it.

Not because I didn’t like him — oh, I liked him too much.

But because there was this voice in my head saying, there’s no way this is real. That he was probably just playing with me. That boys like Ayomide didn’t actually like girls like me.

A few days later, I said yes.

But not without making sure.

"Hope it’s not like you’ll play me o," I typed, thumbs hesitating over the keypad.

"I’m serious. I won’t."

It felt like stepping off a ledge and hoping there was ground below.

I was only thirteen — way too young by Nigerian standards to be having a boyfriend. In our homes, dating was practically illegal. It wasn’t like I was a bad child, just… curious. Wanting to be close to someone who made my heart race.

Our relationship was innocent, almost childlike.

We mostly talked after school, passing notes, laughing about teachers we didn’t like. The only thing he ever asked for was a kiss on the cheek.

"Hah! God forbid," I’d said, half laughing, half scandalised.

"We’re too young for that. It’s bad."

He teased me, but he didn’t push.

We dated for two weeks. Then one day, he broke up with me.

And the funny part?

I wasn’t even hurt.

Instead, we stayed friends — even closer than before. I became besties with the boys, and our group of six was like a small universe of inside jokes and playful shoves.

Of course, the rest of the school noticed.

People started shipping us like it was a soap opera — Ayomide and me, Femi and Chioma, Joel and Debbie. They’d make little chants in class, point and giggle whenever we all sat together.

Debbie, by the way, had the biggest crush on Joel. But that’s a story for another day.

I didn’t know it then, but all the while I was dating Ayomide, Chioma had been talking to him behind my back.

Apparently telling him I wasn’t good enough, that he should be with her instead.

He shut her down.

When I found out — from Ayomide himself and from Peter, another classmate — it stung. Not because I still liked Ayomide that way, but because Chioma had been my friend. The way she used to complain every afternoon on our way home, badmouthing Ayomide nonstop… I realised she just wanted us to break up.

Still, it didn’t destroy us.

We were kids, still learning how messy feelings could get.

And besides, there was always something new to gossip about.

Whether it was dancing competitions at break, who was wearing the neatest socks, or who got caught sleeping in Civic Education class.

Looking back, that was the best part of being young in Nigeria:

The drama didn’t last.

Tomorrow was always another day to laugh like nothing happened.

And that’s exactly what we did.