My Love Life: Questions Without Answers (The Story of the 28-year-old Nabou)

I wake up every morning at the crack of dawn, around 5 a.m., the world still shrouded in darkness. The routine is etched into my soul like a well-worn path: a quick shower to shake off the remnants of sleep, a simple breakfast, maybe some bread with jam or a bowl of porridge, and then my prayers. I recite my wird, those sacred words that ground me, before stepping out into the bustling streets of Dakar. By 6 a.m., I'm on my way to my internship, weaving through the chaotic traffic, the honking taxis and the scent of street food vendors firing up their grills. It's a grind that lasts until evening, sometimes as late as 9 p.m., when I finally drag myself home, exhausted. Another shower to wash away the day's dust and sweat, more prayers to seek solace, and then bed. Lights out. Repeat. This is my life, day in and day out. No boyfriend to whisper sweet nothings into my ear. No romantic dates under the stars, no candlelit dinners at a cozy restaurant where we'd share secrets and laughter. Nothing to spice up the existence of a young woman who's just turned 28. Yeah, I'm getting older, don't I know it. All around me, friends and acquaintances are tying the knot, building stable lives with partners who adore them. Weddings announcements flood my social media, engagement rings sparkling like taunts. But me? Nothing. Zilch. Rien du tout. Why? That's the question that haunts me every single day. I've had boyfriends before, some relationships that burned bright and lasted a while, others that fizzled out like a match in the wind. I'm loyal to a fault, attentive, understanding, and I pour my whole heart into it. Yet, every time, it ends in disaster. Splash, right into the water. Over and over. The last one? It's been almost two months since it crashed and burned, but the wounds feel fresh. Before him, I'd been single for over a year, deliberately so. I needed to clear my head, to step back and regroup, like recoiling before a big leap. Then, through his older brother, a guy who'd become like a confidant to me, we connected. It started innocently: chats, text messages that grew longer and more intimate. We started dating, and oh, how I convinced myself he was The One. The man who'd slip a ring on my finger, as the foreigners say. But it turned into the worst nightmare of my romantic history. He was distant, moody, unpredictable. One day affectionate, the next a ghost. I loved him too much, way too much, to walk away easily, but eventually, I couldn't take the emotional whiplash anymore. Being treated like an afterthought? No more. Nights are the hardest. I lie there in the dark, tears streaming down my face, soaking my pillow. Sometimes, even during the day, the loneliness hits like a wave, and I wonder: Don't I deserve happiness too? Why do my relationships never last? Am I too nice? Too naive? Too clingy? These questions swirl in my mind like a storm, no answers in sight. I've even toyed with the idea of playing the field, doing the "mbarane" like other girls, casual flings, no strings attached. But I can't. I'm not built that way. I don't fake my feelings; when I love, it's real, deep, consuming. I try to distract myself with work, focusing on my career in public health, but it always creeps back. Especially when my circle won't shut up about their weddings. Pfft... I'm genuinely happy for them, but when's my turn? God, when? I'm new to sharing like this, I'm reserved by nature, not one to spill my guts. But here I am, venting, hoping it lightens the load. Maybe I'll keep going... or maybe not. The adventure calls me back, so here I am, continuing my solitary monologue to unburden my heart and mind. I just got home a little while ago, it's nearly 10 p.m., after battling the infamous Tata minibuses. Those drivers handle them like the old Cars Rapides: reckless, no regard for life or limb. "Ah, kéne meunoul wakh lépp nak!" as we say, no one can say it all! Now, tucked into bed, the loneliness amplifies. Wouldn't it be divine to hear a lover's voice on the phone, murmuring tender words before sleep? That's love, C.C.A., c'est ça l'amour. But alas... I cling to hope. Every morning, I wake believing today might be the day I meet my prince charming. Humm mm, I'm a hopeless romantic, and I own it! Shifting gears, my life hasn't been all heartbreak. I grew up sheltered, the eldest in my family, spoiled because I was often sickly. My parents doted on me. School? I was a good student, fighting through life's ups and downs. Teenage years were wild: beaches, restaurants, nightclubs with my sister and best friends. We'd dance until dawn, laughter echoing under the neon lights. But I've mellowed with age, become more homebound, though I always was, deep down. Now, my faith is my anchor. I strive to live by its precepts, even donning the veil, and I've never felt more at peace. I started working at 22, for three years, before diving back into studies. Now, with my Master's in Public Health, I'm interning, job-hunting, waiting for brighter days. The only missing piece? A good man, sincere, attentive, understanding, pious. By my side forever. I believe he'll come. Until then, I carry on serenely... There were others who left their mark, but... My first boyfriend? I was 15, in secondary school. He was this cocky guy I initially despised, too much swagger. Handsome, a star footballer, everyone called him Fadiga for his resemblance to the legend. I ignored him, barely spoke in class or the courtyard, even as he tried charming me. But when he confessed his feelings, something shifted. We started dating, and Ndeyssaneeee, it was magical, my first love. We shared a desk, chatted during breaks, held hands constantly. He'd wait with me until my ride came, no drama, just pure teenage bliss: poems, late-night calls, innocent kisses stolen in hidden corners. Love like rosewater, sweet and uncomplicated. We lasted almost three years until other girls interfered, poisoning our paradise. He tried crawling back years later, but I'd moved on. I get nostalgic, though, those simple joys: being happy with so little. "Di béguééé koi." Why can't I recapture that now? Glued together, weekend outings to cozy spots like Bou BEUKHH, small gifts, mutual understanding, deep talks about life. A man who's first a brother, a friend, Bilay walay! That's all I crave. Sure, others marked me too. One, I met in my mid-20s while studying midwifery. He spotted me in a club, pursued relentlessly for my number, the usual chase. He won me over; we dated. But he dumped me, claiming I was too shy and wouldn't sleep with him. I cried rivers that night, thought I'd shatter. Turning the page was agony because when I love, it's from the soul, no half-measures. We reconnected months ago via Facebook. He's divorced now, and I've become his confidante, people call me a failed psychologist; strangers pour out their lives to me. But romance? No way. Friend, yes; lover, never again. There were others who etched scars, but... Weekends: time for relaxation, recharging, and for lovers, reunions. Today, I ventured out aimlessly, craving fresh air. I'd promised my cousin a visit but bailed, couldn't handle her complaints, her secrets weighing like stones. Instead, I found a quaint spot, ordered food, and worked on my laptop, analyzing data while soaking in the ambiance. Gradually, the place filled with couples: holding hands, whispering, laughing, some desperately mending fractures. Me? Solo, spying on them, my heart twisting with envy. Scrolling Facebook, because everything happens there, right?, I saw my little sister's friend got married today. Forgot the date; she'd emailed me. Ndeyssane, honeymoon, wedding night, receptions, vive les mariés! But the sight stirred something primal: I want a baby. Nakkk, a good husband first, then a child. Strolling like those families I passed on the way home, new dads cradling infants like treasures. Adorable, papa poules. Mine better be like that. I've held thousands of babies as a midwife, shared parents' joy. Now, I yearn for my own: that glow on my face, my husband's proud eyes. Blissful moments! I dream of a husband: attentive, kind, pious, gentle, all the virtues. Recently, I confessed this to my ex, begging for our future, a family. But it crumbled. The question lingers: When's my haircut turn? Good or bad stylist, I need stability, a beautiful relationship leading to marriage. The rest? We'll handle later. Not rushed, just steady. Enough for tonight; I pack up, pay, head home. Good weekend to all lovers, only lovers, nakkkkkkk! "I Couldn't Take the Masquerade Anymore": My Love Life: Questions Without Answers (5) Today, I rose with a fierce need to hibernate, rest after two grueling weeks, meditate in solitude with a book or film. So here I am: up, cleaning my room, lighting incense to scent the air, settling into my nook. The week was mellow: routine of work-home-sleep. At this pace, I'll die an old maid, especially since folks assume veiled women are married. Ndeyssane, two people said it in one day: "Here, ndékétéyo, they thought I was hitched, big deal!" Lately, fear grips me: fear of loving again, of another breakup's sting. Each rupture scarred deep; I healed, but slowly. This dread envelops me, especially now. Men approach, show interest, but I retreat. I'm terrified of falling hard again. My last relationship? Brutal. I suffered silently, memories flooding back, cracking my facade. I seem tough, but inside, I'm shy, fragile, utterly romantic. This man, I met him via his big brother, my pseudo-sibling confidant. Through faith talks, he mentioned his little bro shared my religious zeal, gave me his number for discussions. It started platonic: prayers shared, deep chats on life. He quizzed my tastes; I dodged, evasive, especially while traveling outside Dakar. Back home, with big bro abroad, we planned a gift for little bro, always caring for others. I texted for his address: "Surprise from your brother!" That Saturday, I delivered it. He struck me as simple, modest, courteous, kind. We chatted briefly; I left. Texts continued, casual, until one exchange: Me: Hey footballer, how's it? (Football's his passion.) Him: Lol, great, you? Me: Good, thanks. Hi from M... (big bro) Him: Ah, that jerk! You know, I dreamed of you the other night. Me: Mdrrr, really? Spill! Ba diam rék?? Him: Maybe later. Me: No, now! Him: Okay, if you insist. I dreamed you carried my twins. Me: Affair bou graw! Me??? Ah ca. Him: Sorry, didn't mean to say, but you pushed. Now I want to know you better, maybe you're my future wife. Sorry if shocked. Me: No need to apologize; nothing bad. Just weird, especially since I've been told I'd have twins before, moyy lolu dale... Him: Really? More than once? Me: Yeah, but ignored it. Terrified, as a midwife, I know the drill. Tapette la lol. Him: Me too, that's why the dream's odd. My dreams rarely lie. Me: Dunno what to say. Seen me once, and this... But who knows. Bedtime, goodnight. Him: Night, sorry again. I couldn't wait to tell big bro next day. Booted my computer early; he logged in at 9. Me: Hey sis, sleep well?? Wait, no, him: Hey frangine, well-rested? Me: Yes, but perturbed. Him: What's up, spill. I recounted; he was stunned: "Wawwwwww, serious??? I can't believe, joking?" Me: Do I look like it? Stop. Him: He never errs on dreams. What he sees happens. Me: Hummm, maybe, but intriguing. Him: Told you he's special. Family knows about the twins prophecy from a khalife général. Wawww, thrilled if you're my sister-in-law. Me: You crazy? What're you saying? Stop! Him: Not mad, teasing. But I sense something brewing, you're close, so many commonalities. Me: Change subject, you're nuts. Days passed; as predicted, we grew closer, fell in love. That dream sparked it all. Weeks later, we dated. Bliss at first: constant talks, learning each other (big bro helped, since neither opened easily). Rare meets, but intense, laughs, hugs, tender moments. As time wore on, my love deepened; he withdrew. Distant, sparse replies, always me initiating. Days silent. It hurt, I’m clingy. Big bro urged patience: he'd lost his fiancée three years prior, withdrawn, meditative, solitary. I tried, loving fiercely, but he made no effort, raged at reproaches. Everything ends; I couldn't suffer more. Told him: "This isn't a relationship, no effort from you." He was shocked but agreed. Worst night ever, agony, regrets. Two months later, second chance. He admitted faults, wanted progress. I shouldn't have, but did. Nothing changed. Worse: claimed he hated post-breakup retries, and during our split, rekindled with an ex, who thought they were back, harassing him. Lies! He swore only one girl before; now exes? Masquerade unbearable. I ghosted; he got it. Talking helps, first time opening up. Tears flow, but relief. Alhamdulilah. I believed he was different. Now, scars make me wary of men. What's wrong with me? Venting heals; I feel lighter.