He said, 'Me, No Girlfriend'

I was tired of staying in my hotel room all day and night during what was supposed to be a vacation. Half the time, I crash-studied for an important exam; the other half, I spent tossing from one end of the bed to the other, staring out the window from my apartment on the seventh floor of a ten-storey building.

That ended the day I decided to dress up and go out.

Where to? I didn’t know. But I was done being numbered among the furniture in the room.

Unsure what to wear, I scrolled through Instagram until I found an outfit that clicked — Ankara cargo pants, sneakers, and a blazer. Cool, effortless. I wore it, not forgetting my most admired asset: my smile.

I checked my list of places to visit and was alarmed that I hadn’t ticked off a single one — with only five days left before heading home. The national museum was a stone’s throw from my hotel, so I settled for that. My Uber arrived just as I reached the reception, and on the way, I wondered how I’d fare alone in a city where barely anyone spoke English.

When I arrived, the museum’s grandeur left me a little unsure of where to start. To my left, a group of white tourists were taking photos. I wanted pictures too but didn’t want to intrude on their fun. I stood there, frozen between confidence and shyness, when I caught sight of him.

A man — medium height, tanned skin glowing like honey under the afternoon sun, dark hair slicked neatly back, and a trimmed beard that framed a face almost too well-sculpted to be real. His eyes had that desert calm that says little but notices everything. He walked with quiet grace, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal veins that hinted at strength. There was something disarming about him; not just his looks, but the soft confidence that trailed behind his steps.

I hesitated, then summoned courage.

“Hi,” I said.

He smiled — and that alone was a relief.

I asked if he could take a few photos of me, and he gladly agreed. I posed as gorgeously as I could manage, aware that I wasn’t much of a “girly girl.” When I thought he’d taken enough, I thanked him and reached for my phone. But he wasn’t done yet.

He motioned for me to follow him to a better spot — “nice view,” he said, smiling — and offered to take even more photos. I was thrilled. My biggest hesitation about sightseeing alone was not having anyone to capture the beautiful views with me in the frame. But this man seemed heaven-sent.

As we walked, he grinned and said, in his heavy accent, “Me, no girlfriend.”

I blinked, unsure I’d heard him right.

He continued, “You… be my girlfriend? Because me, no girlfriend.”

I wanted to laugh, pause, run — all at once. Where I come from, people don’t talk like this! I pretended not to hear and asked, “Where are you from?”

“Pakistan!” he replied, eyes brightening. “You?”

“Nigeria.”

He looked like he’d just won a lottery. Like, somehow, Nigerians had done him a great favor in a past life. He took more pictures, kept insisting I become his girlfriend, and I told him, gently, “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Any marriage?” he asked.

“No.”

“Children?”

“No!”

He smiled. “No problem!”

He had more to say, but his English — and Google Translate — weren’t helping much. Then, out of nowhere, he declared, “Me never marriage! I am twenty-five, not marriage!”

He said it like at twenty-five, he should have a child heading to university. I couldn’t help laughing. That was when I knew this conversation was dead on arrival.

I told him I had somewhere to be and started to leave. He asked for my number and begged to walk me to the bus stop. He tried to hug me; I declined. He said he’d call — and call he did, countless times — but that was the last time he saw my face or heard my voice.