They say finding a decent man in Lagos is like looking for a drop of water in the Sahara - or worse, trying to find a Danfo bus conductor who has change for a ₦1,000 note when your fare is ₦50. So when I met him through a mutual friend, I genuinely thought my ancestors had finally remembered me.

He was the complete package.

So foiiine. Like, “arrest me officer, I stole the stars” fine. Smart. Charming. Smelled like he bathed in expensive Oud and good decisions - and honestly, he got me there. Yeah, he absolutely did.

He spoke well, had a good head on his shoulders, and actually had direction in life. In Lagos? That combination is rarer than NEPA light during rainfall.

We started talking, and everything was smooth. Like Blue Band butter melting on hot Agege bread kind of smooth.

We planned dates. He was romantic. Attentive. Consistent. He texted and called several times a day just to check up on me. I was over the moon.

One night after one of our dates - a full day of premium pampering and princess treatment - I got home, laid on my bed, and all I could think was,

“Yes! You’ve finally bagged yourself a top-tier Yoruba demon. Your days in the dating trenches are over.”

I even called my girlies and told them,

“God don finally pick my call o. Your aso-ebi girl's time is here.”

At that point, I genuinely believed nothing and nobody could put asunder what we had.

But the Lagos plot twist nobody saw coming said, “Hold my beer.”

Because after months of talking, planning, and going on dates I thought actually meant something to him… bro went radio silent.

Not “I’m busy” silent.

I’m talking “has he been kidnapped by bandits?” silent.

I worried. I called. I texted.

Nothing.

This man evaporated into thin air.

Two months.

Sixty days.

1,440 hours of me refreshing WhatsApp like it owed me money.

Eventually, I texted the friend who introduced us, and she said:

“He told me last week that things were going well with you two.”

MA’AM.

Which “well”?

The well in my family house in the village?

Just when I had quietly accepted my breakfast and started my healing process, the unimaginable happened.

The plot twist of the century.

Months after his disappearing act, I looked through my keyhole one day and there he was.

Standing outside my door with a bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates, and a smile so bright it could power the whole of Lagos during a national grid collapse.

I was dumbfounded.

This man leaned in for a hug and acted exactly like we had seen each other yesterday.

No shame.

No nervousness.

Just one stupid grin capable of melting a girl’s heart - and his even more stupidly amazing-smelling self.

I hate that I noticed that part, but I did.

When I finally found my voice and asked what on earth happened to him, this man gave me a response that deserves permanent display in the Museum of Audacity.

“I was just busy with work and couldn’t afford any distractions. And yeah, my wife just had a baby, so things have been really tough. That’s why I haven’t been able to reach out.”

My jaw didn’t just drop.

It relocated to the floor.

Took a bus.

Filed for a change of address.

Distraction?

Moi?

And… wife?

WIFE?!

Newborn baby?

As in, a whole human being?

While I stood there trying to process the fact that this man had been off playing Daddy of the Year while I was here wondering if he was alive, I pointed out the obvious

“You never told me you were married.”

And this man - this actual human being with functioning lungs - smiled and said:

“You never asked. Besides, what’s the big deal? You Lagos girls love dating married men, and I don’t think you’re an exception. Don’t worry, I’ll spoil you silly more than any single guy ever will.”

Sir.

Sir?!

So “you never asked” is now the official excuse for forgetting to mention a whole wife and newborn baby?

And “I’ll spoil you silly” is the new Lagos discount code for deceit?

Where exactly do Lagos men buy this level of audacity? Because they are clearly getting the wholesale, premium-grade, import-only version.

With NAFDAC number.

At that point, my home training left the chat.

I chased him out with a speed that could rival Usain Bolt’s best and promised to set dogs on him if I ever saw him near me again.

I still don’t know whether I’ve fully learned my lesson about taking fine, good-smelling men with sweet mouths seriously, but here are my key takeaways from this talking stage:

“Good morning, sunshine” is not a legally binding contract. It’s just weather reporting.

Ask the important questions EARLY.

“Are you single?” now comes before “What’s your name?”

Yes. I said it with my full chest.

And lastly:

Talking stage in Lagos isn’t dating.

It’s an extreme sport.

No helmet.

No referee.

And sometimes your opponent is playing for two teams - and one of those teams just had a baby.

So now, my screening process has been updated.

Before I catch feelings, I’m running a full investigation.

LinkedIn. Instagram. Facebook . Snapchat. His grandparents. Former lecturers. His barber. His pastor. Maybe even his village people.

Plus one aggressive prayer point against hidden wives.

Because peace of mind is a luxury.

And I can buy my own friggin’ chocolate.