Moyo's Dilemma

Chapter 11--The Art of Making a Decision

If you’re yet to start from the beginning, feel free to start from here:

Chapter 1: Once Upon A Crush

Chapter 2: It Must Have Been Love

Chapter 3: Could I, Would I, Should I

Chapter 4: Breakaway

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Enjoy today’s episode :)

Dear Diary,

Four months after Jide and I started dating, we began talking about kids. Everything seemed perfect at first. He was the kind of man people noticed. Well-dressed, confident, always armed with that golden smile. Women liked him. And he liked being liked. I tried not to mind, but I did.

It wasn’t something I had to deal with when I was with Funmi.

Funmi didn’t entertain unnecessary attention. He could smile politely, sure—but he never lingered. Never entertained random conversations just because someone was being “friendly.” He was emotionally present, always honest with me. If he sensed a woman was getting too comfortable around him, he’d tell me, and the next time we were in that space, he’d quietly reach for my hand or ask me to sit beside him—no drama, just quiet assurance. Sometimes he wouldn’t even get up from the table until I returned.

Jide?

He touches me. Unnecessarily.

And not in a sweet, romantic way either. More like—constantly. Brushing his fingers against my arm, playing with a strand of my hair, kissing the back of my neck and grinning like he’s just told a funny joke.

He always says, “Relax, babe, I’m just teasing.”

But I don’t like it. I’m not that kind of person. I don’t like being touched all the time, especially not like that.

And maybe it’s not just the touching. Maybe it’s what it does to me.

His hands spark things I don’t want sparked. They awaken something… sensual. And deep down, it scares me because it feels intentional. Like he knows exactly where to touch, how to lean in close, what smile to wear when he wants my defenses to crumble.

He’s attractive. Painfully so. And sometimes I catch myself staring longer than I should. Then I try to distract us. Crack a joke, change the topic, anything to shift our attention away from the physical.

But somehow, it always circles back to that.

And I hate that it does.

I keep reminding myself: this man knows where I stand. We’ve had that conversation. We’re both Christians. Shouldn’t that count for something? Shouldn’t I not have to remind him all the time?

Sometimes he grabs my hand and kisses it. Not soft, reverent kisses. Wet ones. And my skin tingles, not in a sweet way, but in a way that makes me feel… vulnerable. Like my convictions are being tested more than respected.

Is it weird? Am I overthinking this?

And what happens when the fire dies down? When the kisses become routine? What would be left to hold us together?

Jide snaps me out of my thoughts while we sit in one of those exotic coffee shops on Victoria Island. The kind with gold-trimmed menus and croissants no one actually eats.

“How many kids do you want to have?” he asks out of nowhere.

I blink. “Two,” I shrug. “A boy and a girl.”

He almost chokes on his cappuccino.

I laugh because an’t help laughing at his overreaction. He dabs his mouth with a napkin and joins me.

“You’re joking, right?”

I tilt my head. “Why? Don’t you want kids?”

“With that body of yours,” he says, his eyes lazily trailing down the length of me, “I’d be careful with kids.”