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Con Artist

Heels

I feel rather fraudulent being here. This slot is meant for a “single Nigerian girl”, yet I contradict the definition of every word in that phrase.

The single part feels false because, no, I am not “tearing up” clubs on the arm of numerous interchangeable toasters. The Nigerian part because, no, I have never pounded yam before, nor am I fluent in any Nigerian language. Finally, we get to the crux of the matter.

Why I Am Not a Real Girl

= I do not wear make up… makeup??? How is it spelled? :-s I quite simply have no interest in it on myself, maybe I’m just lazy.

= I don’t make small talk. This is a statement and a warning to all.

= I do not wear heels. No, they are not for me. Perhaps in a fit of boredom, I may steal a pair to take pictures in, but that’s it.

= I am never as well put-together as real girls; my hair out of place or generally just too casual-looking.

= My girlfriends once joked that, knowing me, I would probably get married in jeans and slippers if I could get  away with it. For some reason, they looked horrified when I said, “Why not? There’s always white jeans.”

= When it comes to guys, I am not at all lady-like. If I like you, I see nothing wrong in walking up to you and saying hi. I have a long list of good friends, stalkers and pests to prove this.

= I travel light. Unlike many girls I know who look like greedy pirates making off with precious booty (all for a two-week trip), two medium-sized bags are more than enough for me.

= Handbags are sooo not my thing. I lug them around when I must, but that’s it. We are not friends.

= When it comes to anger, I do not explode on the spot, hair, nails and breakable objects flying. I walk away and then, when you least expect, sit you down and calmly inquire as to what exactly drove you to piss me off.

= Finally, when a guy presents a cut finger to a real girl, she will fawn over him, soothing and massaging, crooning on about his strength and bravery, all the while feeding his eyes with acres of cleavage. I, however, will probably ask how it happened, poke gingerly at it, lean back and say, “You’re a big boy, don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

All these concrete reasons notwithstanding, Single Nigerian Man has decreed me worthy of the title of Single Nigerian Girl, so here I am. His majesty has spoken.

Jane Singleton

 

I’m a single Nigerian girl. Forget the fact that my command of Nigerian pidgin is shaky at best and I couldn’t find my way to my village to save my life; all that is by the way. I think… English is the only language I’m fluent in; it what we speak at home and what I speak with my friends. That doesn’t make me any less Nigerian; I love my country. It helps that it’s the only country I know.

As for being single, hmmm. that aspect is purely my fault o. Sure, I know lotsa guys with at least some of the traits I seek, but the thing is, I refuse to “manage” any of them. No way. As a girlfriend of mine recently said, “I’m waiting for my Mr. Right o, no one else will do.” I agree and will hold on for that one dude who can crack my code (no innuendo intended), who will understand me and all my weird (cute) ways.

And so I find myself single, not necessarily looking to mingle, but not left with much of a choice either. Sure, there are always guys hanging around, they have a sixth sense for unattached females and girls in stable relationships. Frankly, I find their attempts to impress highly entertaining. Choosing not to grant any of their more incriminating requests is the definition of being single.

The life of a singleton is similar to being let loose in a crowded, rowdy market. Schlepping from shop to shop looking for the perfect outfit. So many great possibilities, but always with one unforgivable shortcoming or other. I have never been a girly girl. This, coupled with the panic of a fast-approaching unwanted birthday, make for a very long, tiring shopping experience for me.

Good thing I don’t wear heels, then.