Written by Oladoyin Alana
Precious* met Wale* on an evening train to Lagos. The conversation that ensued between the two of them was enough. She was convinced that Wale* was going to be the love of her life. They started seeing each other and within two weeks, their love story began.
“It felt magical. Divinely orchestrated,” Precious* reminisced. “At the start of the relationship, we would go out together, travel and go grocery shopping, and hang out with his friends, but everything just switched up all of a sudden.”
Six months in, Precious would call to check in, but he wouldn’t return her calls until he felt like it. “His excuse was that he was busy. I knew he had financial setbacks at one point and also I knew I had to be there for him. There were times when he needed money to pay his bills, and I helped him by giving him money, letting him stay at my place for a few weeks, and taking care of his needs.
For peace to reign, Precious kept quiet when his actions hurt her because she didn’t want to hurt him. It was the Sunken Fallacy syndrome playing out in real time. “He used to be nice to me at the beginning, so I didn’t want it to look bad if I left or said something to trigger his emotions. I kept on thinking about the good times we had.”
From not returning her calls, to a moment he decided to splurge on a wristwatch when he knew she had hit rock bottom and then the greatest of them all, his cheating.
As Black girls, we were taught early on how to perform for men in ways that were sure to guarantee their commitment and devotion. Cook for him. Dress nicely. You must learn to protect a man’s dignity. Don’t wash his dirty linen outside. And the infamous; pray for him. This script was handed to us before we could count numbers. We were taught to stick close to the male partner because that was the only way to ensure stability.
And then what? What happens when we follow this script and our devotion isn’t reciprocated? The list of what Black women should be is long and endless, but nothing was put in place to protect us in return. The man we built our whole world around could just decide to go away or, worse, stay and make you wish he hadn’t.
Precious is an example of a woman who abided by the rules. Megan Thee Stallion, a public figure, isn’t exempt from this feeling either, because before anything else, she is first a Black woman. The 3x Grammy award winner had, by every measure, followed this prompt as well. She loved Klay Thompson loudly and publicly, the kind of love that we are expected to perform as proof of our devotion and when the relationship ended some weeks ago on grounds of infidelity, the world, specifically Black men who had previously held her as the gold standard of Black love, turned on her immediately.
The truth is she followed all the rules except one. She refused to stay quiet about the emotional abuse. That refusal was met with misogynoir in full operation — the specific intersection of racism and sexism that ensures Black women are never fully protected, not even by their communities.
For Megan, it is a double wound. Mide Olabanji addresses in her essay, “Megan Thee Stallion’s Traumazine Has A Message: Sexy Women Have Bad Days Too,” how her physique contributes to how she is received. She is not the small, fair-skinned, dainty damsel in distress so people find it hard to empathise with her plight but also easy to dismiss her pain. All she wanted, Olabanji noted, was for someone to tell her it would be okay. That beneath the Hot Girl persona was a woman who was also allowed to have bad days. Sadly, she still continues to get punished for it.
Many men who try to reduce this issue to celebrity gossip or parasocial attachment simply do not understand or feel the weight of existing as a Black woman. We understand this feeling. It is universal. “Society expects us to be grateful for any crumb of raggedy male attention. We are also to carry shame because men are the prize,” says Elohor, 31, a writer and women’s rights advocate. And when we do not meet this standard, we find each other. “Black sisterhood, regardless of nationality, covers our own,” she adds.
From grinding hard to get to the top, losing both parents and her immediate family, the Tory Lanez shooting incident, and now this, we understand how hard it must have been for Megan to rise above every shot fired at her. Because for Black women, we are not afforded time to grieve or heal. “The economy doesn’t care if I am heartbroken. I need to keep my chin up and chest the hurt,” Precious* explains.
Statistics reveal that women, and Black adults in general, are less likely to seek and receive mental health care compared to white women. For example, only about 10.3% of Black women seek mental health services, compared to 21.5% of white women. Black women, specifically, are at least twice as likely to experience an episode of major depression as men. Because of conditions that can be traced to colonialism, Black women rarely share their traumatic experiences, are forced to project strength, suppress emotions, resist feelings of vulnerability, succeed despite limited resources, and prioritise caregiving over self-care.
Despite all of these, we have found each other. The alternative we have built is self-preservation, the one rooted in community, in the way we show up without being asked, and in ourselves. As Angel Reese tweeted in the wake of the pile-on, “You always have a little sister riding for you at dawn. I love you, sister.”
It also runs deeper than just online solidarity. For Precious*, talking to a female friend helped her to navigate the confusing thoughts. “I sought her when I needed clarity. She shared her story and it was then I concluded that I wasn’t looking for something to make me stay anymore, but to leave.”
When men tell us to keep quiet about our pain, or to stay out of other women’s situations, they are intentionally trying to dismantle the system we have built. As Elohor puts it, “The greatest weapon is an informed woman, so women-only spaces are incredibly important.” Men understand the power of our community and try as much as possible to talk it down, which is why it is necessary that we must build our spaces with intention.
“The Emecheta Collective, the women-only third space that I belong to, has held me when I cried, rejoiced, and mourned. Elohor continues. “I’ve also reciprocated the gesture multiple times. It makes one feel seen, like they matter.” It is also not enough that we belong. We must show up actively and consistently for one another.
For women navigating heartbreak and betrayal right now, the women who spoke to me had this to say. “Cry, scream and mourn the loss of your partner, because it really hurts.” Says Ada. “However, one day, you would look back at this memory with a smile.”
“It gets better,” Elohor assures. “One day, you’ll wake up, and it won’t hurt anymore.”
And Precious, who housed him, loved him, and waited, has one last word. “I won’t say the generic ‘let go’. Letting go is difficult. Instead, convince yourself that your partner has changed. Sit down and evaluate the person your partner was when you met them and who they are now. If the person you once loved is no longer there, then I think it is time to let go. Leave. You will be fine. And most importantly, get your money up!”
