IN THE LIFE OF A SINGLE

In the Life of a Single (A Romantic Coming-of-Age Story by [Gladys Nwadire]) People often say love is simple, but I have learned that in Nigeria especially as an Igbo girl love is rarely allowed to be simple. It must follow rules: rules of family, of religion, of gender. You are told who to love, when to love, and how to love. And if your heart dares to beat differently, you learn to hide its rhythm. My name is Akudo, from Abia State. I grew up in a community where a woman’s life is measured by marriage who she marries, when she marries, how many children she bears. As a child, I heard the same proverb repeated at every family gathering: “Nwanyi bu di ya.” A woman is her husband’s. But even as a little girl, that idea never sat well with me. I loved to dream. I wanted to go to school, travel, and live on my own terms. I didn’t want to rush into marriage; I wanted to understand myself first. What I didn’t know was that the journey of understanding would take me somewhere I never expected into a love I couldn’t speak of. A New Beginning The year I entered junior college, everything changed. Our school sat on a quiet hill, a mixture of old and new buildings, painted in faded purple and white. I was shy but observant the kind of student who listened more than she spoke. On my first day, our teacher stood in front of the class and said, “Class, this is Akudo, your new classmate. Make her feel welcome.”Her name was Aunty Benny. She was tall, brown-skinned, and graceful, with eyes that carried both warmth and intelligence. Her smile had dimples that deepened when she laughed. She taught Cultural and Creative Arts, and something about her voice calm, kind, and full of purpose caught me instantly. That day, as she spoke, I barely heard her words. My chest tightened. I had never felt that before not admiration, not fear, but something in between. It was confusing, yet strangely beautiful. The Quiet Admiration From that day, I tried to make sure my uniform was spotless. My socks were white, my hair neatly plaited, my shoes shining. I wanted to be seen not by everyone, but by her. I sat where I could watch her without being noticed. The way she walked, her laughter, how she tilted her head when she listened I memorized all of it. I told myself it was just admiration for a good teacher, but it was deeper than that. When she smiled at me, it felt like sunlight cutting through harmattan fog. At home, I wrote her name in the corners of my notebooks, surrounded by small hearts I would later erase before anyone saw them. I didn’t understand what I was feeling, only that I wanted to be near her to make her proud of me. The Question One day, during art class, she asked a question I knew the answer to. But my hands trembled, and my voice wouldn’t come out. She turned to me gently. “Akudo, what do you think?”My throat went dry. After a long silence, I muttered an answer shaky, incomplete. She smiled. “You’re right. Don’t be afraid to speak up.”The warmth in her voice made my heart swell. It was the smallest thing, yet it carried me for days. I replayed that moment again and again the way she said my name, the encouragement in her tone. For the first time, I felt seen not as a daughter, or a student, or a future wife-to-be, but simply as Akudo. The Cultural Festival At the end of the term, our school prepared for the annual Cultural Festival. Each class had to present a performance representing a Nigerian tribe. Naturally, Aunty Benny was in charge of the Igbo presentation, and I joined her group immediately. We practiced dances, songs, and short plays after school. She moved among us with quiet authority, guiding, correcting, and smiling. Sometimes, when the others had gone, I stayed back to help her tidy up paints and costumes. We would talk about art, books, the future. She always asked, “Akudo, what do you want to become?” “I don’t know,” I’d say, though secretly I wanted to say, someone who can love freely. “You’ll figure it out,” she’d reply. “Just promise me you’ll never let anyone tell you who to be.” I didn’t know it then, but those words would one day save me. Whispers In a school like ours, eyes were everywhere. People noticed things, even when there was nothing to notice. Soon, I heard whispers. “Have you seen how Akudo follows Aunty Benny around?” “She just wants attention.” “Maybe she thinks she’s special.” The laughter that followed burned my ears. For the first time, I felt shame not for loving, but for being seen loving in a way the world wouldn’t understand. I started keeping my distance. I stopped volunteering, stopped walking near the staff room. But the emptiness that followed was unbearable. Aunty Benny noticed. One afternoon, after class, she called me aside. “Akudo, what happened? You’ve changed.” I looked away. “Nothing, ma.” She sighed. “Don’t let people make you smaller. There’s nothing wrong with caring for people, you hear?” I nodded, but tears filled my eyes. I wanted to tell her the truth how my heart raced whenever she smiled, how I wanted to be like her, near her but the words stayed trapped inside. Because how could I say such things in a world that had no name for them except sin? The Summer of Realization During the long holiday, I spent a lot of time alone. I read novels, listened to love songs, and wondered why all the stories only spoke of boys and girls. I wanted to find myself in those pages, but I was nowhere to be found. One evening, as the rain fell softly, I caught my reflection in the window and whispered, “I’m different.” Saying it out loud felt like a small rebellion. For weeks after, I wrestled with guilt and curiosity. Was it wrong? Was I broken? Or was I simply discovering who I was?Sometimes I prayed for the feelings to go away. Other times, I clung to them like the only thing that made me real. Years Later Time passed. I left secondary school, then university. Life moved forward, as it always does. I grew into a woman people admired independent, hardworking, and confident. But in quiet moments, when the world slowed down, I thought of her of that smile, that voice, those small kindnesses that shaped me. I never told her how I felt, and maybe that was for the best. Yet a part of me knew that my heart had spoken in its own language, even if the world refused to listen. I met other people along the way some who made me laugh, some who broke my heart. But love, for me, has always felt like walking through a crowded market holding a secret no one else can see. The Bittersweet Peace Now, years later, when people ask why I’m still single, I smile and say, “Because I’m happy.”What I don’t say is that I have loved deeply, silently, differently. I have known what it means to be afraid of your own heart, and what it means to forgive it. I have learned that not all love stories are meant to be told aloud. Some are meant to live quietly in our memories, shaping us from within. Aunty Benny never knew the full story of what she awakened in me, but she gave me something greater than romance the courage to see myself and not be ashamed. So I live quietly, lovingly, and freely in my own way. I walk through this world as Akudo not half of someone else, but whole in my difference. Because even if I cannot shout it from rooftops, I have accepted who I am. And in a world that once told me I shouldn’t exist, that acceptance is the most beautiful love of all.