When I arrived home today, I dropped my bag on the couch and made straight to the kitchen. I was so famished; it had been a long day and I could not get to eat anything apart from the coffee I took in the morning. I stepped into the kitchen and I wrinkled my nose. Dirty plates and pots were lying haphazardly in the sink. No other person would have done it except Bola, my second flat mate, whom I had been exercising all patience in living with.
Bola was the weirdest person I had ever met. She could not be bothered to wash up her used plates or laundry, even down to her underwear. I remembered when we started to live together, and I asked to borrow her jar of mayonnaise. She was on her way out, so she asked me to get it from the fridge in her room.
When I entered her room, I stood at the entrance for some minutes in horror. Underwear, tops and used plates were strewn across the floor. Even though her curtains and bedspread were lovely, the musty smell that hung in the air tainted their beauty.
Then my eyes caught them and I cringed—obviously used sanitary pads rolled back into their pink wrappers were bunched in a corner. I forgot about my craving for mayonnaise and left her room. Since that experience, I made it a point of duty never to eat anything Bola cooked in my absence, and I never went back to her room. It had been seven months.
God knew I would not have agreed to have Bola be the third occupant if I had known she was this messy. Sara had introduced us (they had met during NYSC, became friends and lived together in the same lodge) and had talked me into considering her because it was easier to live together with friends than with newcomers. Obviously, to Sara, her friend, by extension, had automatically become my friend. Sometimes, I wished I had gotten a newcomer, maybe she would not be this dirty but who knew what else this new girl might get on her sleeves. So, I had resigned and lived with it, gently addressing this habit and praying and hoping that she would change.
I ignored the offensive contents in the sink; Sara would wash them when she got home. Bola's habit was her responsibility; after all, she brought her in.  I reached into the cupboard and started to put together my favourite after-work meal—sandwich, made with hotdog, cabbage, tomatoes and a generous spread of ketchup—when Sara's call came in.
Wait, did I remember to tell you that Sara's name was not Sarah of the Bible? Do not let the spelling fool you. Her name was Feyisara, a proper Yoruba name. My lovely friend obviously liked how the short form of her name looked like that of an 'oyinbo', it sure made well for her makeup business signature, and so she had stuck to it, and we have come to call her by that. 
Anyway, her call came in and immediately I pressed the green button, I wanted to press the red button because Sara was screaming into my ears.
“Oh God, you wouldn't believe what just happened to me, Awe.” She wailed. “I know you would tell me I told you so?”
“Wait, slow down! What is the problem?” I asked.
“Are you home yet?”
“Yes, I am. What—”
“I'm on my way right now,” she cut in. “O God, I'm beginning to hate men. I hate falling in love, I just...I'm on my way.” The line went dead.
I rolled my eyes. This was the fifth time (or was it?) that Sara had said she was beginning to hate men but she never did. I stopped counting after the third time. I would not bother my head with such frivolity but whom was I kidding? Sara was my friend and I was stuck to her daily drama.
Some minutes later, Sara burst into the living room and flopped on the couch across from me. I muted the TV and moved towards her, alarmed. Her eyes were puffy, and she was crying unashamedly, very unlike Sara.
“Ayoade has done it again,” she sobbed.
I frowned. What was it again?
“I met another lady in his house. This one was cooking in his kitchen this time. Can you imagine? She was cooking for him!” She threw her hands up. “When she saw me, she gave me the once over and went straight into his bedroom. Awe, we have been courting for two years and I have never been to his bedroom, just because I wanted to keep us. Why would he allow another woman, ehn?”
“None of these is your fault, Sara,” I finally said.
 “I was so angry that I couldn't contain myself,” she continued. “I started screaming at him. He told me to shut up and stay or keep screaming and he would throw me out. He threw me out, Awe, he threw me out!” She broke down into more tears.
This time, the pain was real. I could see it.
Like I did the last four times, I gathered her into my arms and rocked her. “It's okay, Feyisara. It's okay.”
To say I saw this coming would be an understatement. Although Ayoade was a fellowship brother during our undergraduate days, he was anything but a ‘Bro’. I warned Sara about this guy because his attitudes were nothing to write home about, but my friend was in love, and she was okay with him. Her spirit had said 'yes' and she had gone along with it, until issues started.
The first quarrel had been over phones—Ayoade forbade Sara to touch his phone but insisted on going through hers each time they were together. The second issue was for Feyisara not to go for her Master’s Degree studies now because he ought to go first as the man in the relationship, and he was not ready yet. The third issue was about a lady she had met in his house who had given Sara an attitude. Sara had suspected he was cheating but he had denied it claiming the lady was a long-lost friend. The fourth was about him being a hot-blooded brother who could not wait until marriage to have sex; he needed to satisfy his urges and now this...
Each time, they had fought. Each time, I had admonished Sara to quit the relationship because it was not a godly one. Each time, she had gone back and begged him and they had made up.
“I'm not going back to him, Awe,” she said with strong determination in her voice, pulling me out of my reverie. “This is the last stroke. I'm not going back.”
In that moment, I knew change has come into her life. I knew because she said it herself and she meant it.
Half an hour later, after some juice and cookies, Sara laid asleep on the big couch. Sitting on an armchair couch, a glass of juice before me, I glanced at her and my heart went out to her. I remembered my own past mistakes and shook my head, but that is a story for another day.
What kept coming to my mind was the question, why do we girls continually hurt ourselves? Why do we keep staying in relationships that lack peace, genuine love and respect for our person? Is it the fear of the ticking biological clock or the investment of time and money or the sex that has happened between both parties in some cases?
I thought about this and came to this conclusion: We lack knowledge about genuine love and it is because of that lack of knowledge that we suffer. We lack the concept of love—the one explained by the one who created us. He took his time to explain what love is. He took his time to tell us who and what we are. He also told us what we should not delve into so as not to destroy what we are. We go against these and expect a man to treat us right? I think we sell ourselves cheap. Yea, we really do.
Do not throw your pearls before pigs, or they will trample them under their feet, and turn to tear you to pieces.
The Scripture I read some days ago came into my heart. I think it was Matthew 7:6. Now, I finally understood what it meant. I should NEVER continue to offer what is of value to me (my person, my body, soul and spirit) to those who have no appreciation for it because it will be despised and my efforts will be spurned. Hmm, Light!
 I would patiently wait for Sara to wake up and share this with her but in the meantime, I reached out for my TV remote and settled back to enjoy my glass of juice.