I dumped Daniel ten days before my birthday.
Not because I wanted to. But because my sanity required it.
Have you ever dated someone who thought "romance" was letting you have the bigger half of a meat pie? That was Daniel. A man who believed the perfect birthday gift was "good vibes" the same vibes he recycled every day like an old WhatsApp sticker pack.
Ten days before my big day, reality slapped me. If I stayed with him, the only thing I'd be unwrapping would be a pixelated sticker of a cake with "Happy Birthday, Dear" typed in Comic Sans.
So I ended it.
We were in his car, parked outside a fast-food joint where he refused to order anything because "the prices are ridiculous." Ridiculous? Daniel, you drive a Toyota Corolla with tinted windows like you're auditioning for Fast & Furious: Small Town Edition, and you're crying about meat pie inflation?
"Babe, you don't need all these things," he was saying, leaning against the steering wheel like a philosopher. "Love should be enough."
Love? From a man who flinched every time I suggested Jollof with chicken instead of fish? Please.
So I smiled, nodded, and with the calm of a woman whose last nerve had been deep-fried in palm oil, I said, "You're right, Daniel. Love should be enough. Which is why I'll let you love yourself. Alone."
He blinked at me like I had just recited Mandarin poetry.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." I paused for effect, then delivered the line like I'd rehearsed it. "Babe—no, scratch that—Ex babe. You're single. No refunds, no exchanges."
The silence that followed was delicious.
He sputtered something about me being "materialistic," which was hilarious, because I was literally breaking up with him for being spiritually allergic to spending money. Then he raised his voice, the way Nigerian men do when they're trying to win an argument by volume.
"You women! You just want money, money, money!"
I got out of his car, slammed the door, and walked away like a heroine in a Nollywood blockbuster. Except instead of dramatic background violins, I had okada horns blaring and a suya seller shouting, "Customer! Two hundred naira suya remain!"
By the time I got home, the breakup felt less like heartbreak and more like liberation. For the first time in months, I didn't have to pretend that watching Netflix on his cracked iPad counted as "date night."
But here's the tricky part about dumping a man ten days before your birthday: you immediately remember you're about to be giftless. No bouquet, no cake, not even a card. Just me, myself, and vibes.
And that realization sat heavy in my chest.
Honestly, I wasn't sure how I felt about all of this. I had mixed feelings. Was I doing too much? Did I demand too much from him?
But then I remembered who Daniel was.
Daniel, the self-proclaimed forex trader. Daniel, who took every opportunity to announce his "five million naira bank account" like he was reading the national budget. Daniel, who acted as though mentioning dollars and yen automatically made him the Wolf of Wall Street, while in reality, his biggest trade was buying shawarma and splitting it in half.
Nigerian men are sensitive about money, yes. Most of them assume every woman is a "gold digger." But was it too much to expect my boyfriend to spend something on me?
In the three months we dated, I had never once asked him for money. Not once. The one time I tried—subtly, gently, diplomatically—he cut me off mid-sentence with, "Babe, I'm having a bad day."
And like a dignified woman, I shut my big mouth.
Let's not even dive into the gaslighting. This man suffocated me with "I love you's" but totally ignored me on Girlfriend's Day. And when I confronted him, he shrugged and claimed, "I had a bad day." Always a bad day. Always a reason to avoid giving.
That was the nail in the coffin for me.
I couldn't keep living in the heartbreak of unmet expectations. If he couldn't buy me flowers on Girlfriend's Day, what miracle was I expecting on my birthday? A private jet? A cake? Even a simple teddy bear? Please.
So I strengthened my resolve. Better to end things on my terms than sit around hoping for crumbs dressed up as romance.
And that's how, one lonely night, I ended up on a video call with my best friend, Sophia, ranting about my tragic love life.
Sophia answered the call with her usual flair, wearing a silk bonnet and a face mask that made her look like a character from a horror film.
"Ah-ahn, see my sister in suffering!" she shouted before I even said hello. "What's the matter? You look like somebody whose bride price got refunded."
I rolled my eyes. "Please. I just broke up with Daniel."
Her mask cracked as she tried to laugh. "Finally! Thank God, oh. I've been fasting and praying for you. That boy was anointed with stinginess."
"I know, I know," I sighed dramatically. "But Sophia, my birthday is in ten days. Ten! And now I have no boyfriend, no cake, no gifts, nothing."
Sophia tilted her head. "And you would've had something with Daniel? Abeg, let's be serious. The boy would've sent you one balloon emoji and maybe written 'Happy Birthday' on his WhatsApp status, then felt like he did you a favor."
I chuckled despite myself. "You're not wrong."
"You deserve better. In fact, you deserve a man who'll shut down a whole restaurant for you. Daniel couldn't even shut down his mouth when you mentioned chicken."
We both burst out laughing. It felt good. Healing, even.
But when the laughter faded, a wave of uncertainty washed over me. Had I been too harsh? Too quick to judge? Maybe Daniel really did love me, just... in his own way?
Sophia must have seen the doubt in my eyes because she leaned closer to the camera. "Listen to me, Amara. Love is not suffering. It's not rationing affection like garri in a dry season. If you have to beg a man for little things, you'll be begging forever. Do you want that life?"
"No," I whispered.
"Good. Then stop romanticizing nonsense. Your birthday will still be amazing—with or without a man. We'll plan something, don't worry."
Her confidence soothed me. Sophia had always been like that—my anchor, my reality check, my hype woman rolled into one.
Still, when we ended the call, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my thoughts swirling.
The truth was, I wasn't sad about losing Daniel. I was sad about losing the idea of Daniel. The idea that maybe, just maybe, this birthday would be different. That this year, I'd finally be celebrated the way I wanted.
Instead, I was back at square one—single, broke, and bracing myself for yet another round of self-sponsored birthday festivities.
I sighed. "Happy almost-birthday, Amara," I muttered to myself.
But somewhere deep inside, a little spark lit up. A whisper that said: maybe this birthday would surprise me after all.