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Gaya

You know that child who never really gives anybody trouble? The one who understands when things don't go her way, doesn't complain too much, and somehow always figures things out?

My older sister was the golden child in our family. Everything about her seemed to deserve attention. Her achievements were celebrated, her problems were discussed, and whenever something wasn't going right in her life, everybody wanted to know what could be done to make it better.

I loved my sister. I still do. But sometimes, I wondered what it would feel like to have people fuss over me like that.

With me, the assumption was always that I'd be fine.

My parents would say things like, “Agnes is very understanding. She doesn't give us any problems.”

And for the longest time, I took pride in that.

I liked being the responsible one. The one who didn't need anybody reminding her to do things. The one who could handle disappointment without making it everybody else's problem.

What I didn't realise was that somewhere along the line, I'd started believing that needing people made me difficult.

Even in secondary school, I was that friend everybody came to when something was wrong. I listened to relationship problems, family issues, and friendship drama. I remembered the little things people told me and made an effort to check on them afterwards.

But when it came to me, everybody seemed to believe I could handle whatever life threw my way.

There was a particular incident that made me realise how lonely that could feel.

I'd applied for a scholarship I desperately wanted. I spent weeks working on the application, preparing my essays and imagining what it would mean if I got it.

My friends knew about it. I'd told them how much I wanted it.

When the rejection email finally came, I was devastated.

I told my friends, hoping that perhaps someone would understand just how disappointed I was.

“Don't worry, another one will come.”

“You know you're a strong girl. You'll be fine.”

Nobody was being intentionally unkind. They genuinely believed I would be fine because, well, I always was.

But that night, I cried more than I had cried in a very long time.

It wasn't even just about the scholarship anymore.

I was tired of being strong. Tired of being understanding. Tired of always being the person who noticed when something was wrong with everybody else, while nobody seemed to notice when something was wrong with me.

I remember thinking that night that I wanted, just once, for someone to look at me and realise I wasn't okay without having to explain myself.

I didn't know how much that desire would eventually influence one of the biggest decisions of my life.

I met Moses a few years later, just before my 27th birthday.

One of my friends had insisted that we go out to celebrate. I wasn't particularly interested because I had a lot going on at the time, but she wouldn't hear of it.

According to her, I couldn't be turning 27 and behaving like somebody who had already retired from enjoyment.

He'd noticed me from another table and eventually came over to introduce himself. We got talking, and I remember how easy the conversation felt.

He asked about my work, my interests, and the things I enjoyed doing. And unlike some conversations where people are simply waiting for their turn to speak, Moses actually listened.

The next morning, he sent me a message asking whether I'd gotten home safely.

Then he called later to ask how the rest of my birthday celebration had gone.

We became friends, and over the following weeks, I began looking forward to our conversations more than I wanted to admit.

Moses was thoughtful in a way I wasn't used to.

If I mentioned that I had a meeting on Thursday, he'd call afterwards to ask how it went. If I sounded unusually quiet, he wouldn't simply accept my usual “I'm fine.”

And somehow, he always seemed to know when something was bothering me.

I remember thinking that he could see past the version of myself I'd spent years presenting to everybody else.

With most people, I was the strong, independent Aggie who had everything under control.

There was one afternoon that particularly stayed with me.

We'd gone out to eat, and I ordered fried yam with sauce. As the waiter was leaving, Moses called him back and asked him not to put too much onion in my sauce because I didn't like plenty of onions.

It was something I'd mentioned casually during one of our conversations, and he'd remembered.

It might sound like a small thing, but for someone who'd spent most of her life remembering things about other people, having somebody remember something so ordinary about me felt incredibly special.

He knew what I liked, what irritated me, when I needed space and when I needed somebody to listen.

He made me feel important without having to ask.

So when he eventually asked me to be his girlfriend, I said yes.

For the first time, I felt like I wasn't the only person putting effort into being understood.

When His Attention Started Feeling Like Control.

A few months into our relationship, I resigned from my job to start my own business.

Moses was supportive of the decision. He encouraged me when I was uncertain, listened to my ideas, and checked in regularly to see how things were progressing.

Because I now worked from home, my routine changed quite a bit. I spent longer hours sitting at my desk, and over time, I noticed some changes in my weight.&nbsp;

It wasn't something I'd been particularly worried about.

But Moses started paying attention to it.

Initially, it was the occasional comment about being careful with what I ate. He'd talk about the importance of healthy habits and how he didn't want me developing health problems in the future.

I understood where he was coming from, or at least I thought I did.

He even bought me some kitchen equipment to make preparing meals easier and healthier, which I appreciated.

But eventually, the comments became more frequent.

If we went out and I wanted ice cream, he'd remind me that I was supposed to be cutting down on sugary foods.

If I picked up a biscuit, he'd ask whether I really needed it.

Sometimes, he'd ask what I'd eaten throughout the day and start talking about my calorie intake.

It got to a point where I would think twice before ordering something around him because I didn't want another conversation about what I should or shouldn't be eating.

Whenever I complained, Moses would remind me that he was only looking out for my health.

And because he was still the same man who called to check on me, remembered the little things, and supported my business, I kept telling myself that perhaps I was overthinking it.

After all, wasn't this what I'd always wanted?

Someone who cared enough to notice things about me?

The Day He Met My Mother, Everything Changed.

I didn't realise how much his comments had begun affecting me until the day he visited my parents.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and we'd gone to spend some time with my family.

My mum was particularly excited to have him around. There was food, laughter, and plenty of conversation.

But on our way home, Moses was unusually quiet.

I asked whether something was wrong, and he initially said no.

After a while, he asked me something I wasn't expecting.

He wanted to know whether being fat ran in my family.

When I asked what he meant, he brought up my mother.

My mum is a plus-size woman, and apparently, Moses had spent part of the afternoon thinking about whether I would eventually look like her.

He said he hoped I wouldn't become that big because he didn't want a fat wife.

For a moment, I genuinely couldn't believe what I was hearing.

I left a man who remembered everything about me, supported my dreams, and made me feel loved. Now he wants me back, and I can't tell whether I miss him or just miss having someone care.

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