Cloak and Dagger

Cloak and Dagger I told her Lagos has an abundance of ill-mannered, loud-mouthed, stupid girls who think they are woke but are on a journey of self-destruction. I told her the men she fucks keep quiet because it's not their business. Nobody cleans and arranges a room that isn't theirs alone. But in that feminine way female logic works, she told me, "If money, vacations, and shopping ain't proof of love, what is?" It was a valid question. I thought for a moment before asking her, "Does your father love you?" I must have struck a nerve, because her face changed immediately and she called me a sexist and an asshole. It crossed my mind briefly—as I registered that it was also a flawed example, because oftentimes fathers don't love their daughters properly either, and that usually is the first haunting—that we all look at specific problems as isolated instances. But all life is just one long chain of events and choices as a result of them. People are allowed to pick their villains just as easily as they are allowed to pick their heroes, and everyone's favorite version of events is the one that looks to everyone else like they are winning. I kept quiet and listened until she fell silent, then asked if I wasn't going to justify myself or take a step back from my earlier statement. I didn't. I doubled down instead. You see, I'm a man used to having uncomfortable conversations with women, and that very checkpoint we just passed was where every other conversation like that usually ends. "It's not fair," I said in an almost inaudible voice. She leaned in closer, as if it would help her hear me better. "It's not fair," I repeated. "Men get to do all these things to you people. Destroy you under the guise of care and affection, and they get away with it. While still leaving the door open. You all call a man double-texting you, constantly calling, wanting to know your plans, trying to know everywhere you go—love-bombing. But a man rushing you with gifts and all those things you said you liked is called a show of affection?" I paused briefly while she brushed strands from her wig off her face. "You see, Sophie, I have sat close to tables like that long enough to know that this full and brimming table is almost always a smokescreen to cover up for what goes on under it. No one who truly loves or cares about you will give you everything you want when you want it." The phone vibrated. She picked it up, stared at the screen for a while, then set it down again. "You have chosen what works for you, and one conversation with me isn't going to end that. But do not pretend that every action you take does not have an alternative and a consequence. At least men heading down a path of fire know and accept that they will be burned. You will be fine—and I wish I could tell you how long that would take, but I can't. I wish I could tell you it'll last, if that time shows, but I can't either. We are, after all, just doing this life thing for the very first time." She looked up with teary eyes and asked, almost inaudibly, "What do I do?" "More than half of your knowledge of men comes from stereotypes, and half of what's left comes from personal experiences which could have been ruined by protecting yourself from actual experiences themselves." "That is a question we all have to answer eventually." "You are honest. Why can't you answer it?" "Yes, I am honest. But it would be dishonest of me to accept that description." "Why?" "Because now, I am both a dagger and a cloak."