A Bolt love story

I rang the Buddha bell at Indigo maybe that's why

I saw a reel on Instagram the other day—one of those aesthetically pleasing, soft-lit videos where a man was speaking to his love in the gentlest, most reverent tone.

The Buddha and its love bell at indigo restaurant

His voice as lovely as melted caramel, all warmth and smoothness, and the comments for that reel were in shambles. One person, in particular, stood out to my heart when they wrote:

"God, when I pray to You, do I shout?"

And I have never related to anything more in my life because I literally shout when I pray.

That comment took me straight back to my last Bolt ride on Sunday.

Hmm! Bolt rides—the unpredictable lucky dip of transportation. You never know if you’ll get a silent driver who acts like he’s an undercover agent on a classified mission or if you’ll end up trapped in a vehicular TED Talk you never signed up for. My Sunday experience, unfortunately, fell into the latter category with intense cringe.

I was exhausted. I had spent the weekend at a farm with my friends, soaking up nature, pretending to be a soft-life farmer, and trying not to get pecked by cochin chickens.

All I wanted was a smooth, silent ride home. A bit of peaceful reflection. Maybe scroll through my phone, maybe close my eyes, maybe just exist quietly. But peace was not on the agenda.

The driver, who I will now refer to as The Auditioner, wasted no time. The car hadn’t even left the pickup point when he turned around slightly, gave me a once-over, and immediately started toasting me.

"Madam, you are a very fine woman," he began.

I barely mustered a polite nod, hoping that would be the end of it. But no, no, no, this man had a mission, and it was one he was determined to complete within the span of this ride.

"You see, I have been praying to God for a wife. Not just any wife, but a wife who is beyond me in every way. A woman I can brag with."

This is where I should have asked for clarification. Beyond you how? Like spiritually? Intellectually? Financially? Physically? Does she need to be an Olympic-level sprinter while you take two breaks climbing a flight of stairs? What’s the metric here, sir?

But I didn’t have the energy to engage, so I simply hummed in non-committal acknowledgment. He took my silence as active agreement and continued.

"You know, a woman that when I walk with her, people will respect me. Because a man is respected by the woman he marries."

“Sir, please. We are in traffic. Face your front,” I screamed in my head, hoping the message gets to him.

He then proceeded to tell me his entire life story in the next ten minutes. I don’t remember half of it because my soul had started leaving my body, but I do recall that he went into great detail about his past relationships, how he lost his mom, how he lost his ears in an accident in Lafia, his dreams of owning hectares of lands, his financial struggles (why would he share this while advertising himself as a husband?), and his strong faith that God would bring him the right woman—who, from the way he was looking at me, he possibly believed was sitting in his backseat that very moment.

It was a bizarre moment.

But really, this is why I like men. Not for romantic reasons—lol, as we are beyond that. I like for sheer comedic value.

The way they approach relationships is like a job application where they tell you all about what they expect from you but never quite disclose what they bring to the table. No qualifications, no references, just vibes and demands.

They will say things like, "I need a woman who will hold me down," but if you ask, "Sir, what exactly are you holding down?" the response will be vague. The job description is crystal clear, but the benefits package? A mystery.

They say, "You will see how I treat my women." See what? Where? When? Is there a PowerPoint presentation? A documentary series? Will I need a subscription to an exclusive viewing platform?

It reminds me of my ex. A medic. A man who weaponized the phrase "Listen to me" like it was a finishing move in Mortal Kombat. He spoke a lot.

In monologues, in soliloquies, in endless, looping streams of consciousness. If I so much as dared to drift off mid-speech, he would dramatically wave his hand in front of my face and go, "Hellooooo? Focus on me. Listen to me. Put your attention on me."

Sir, you have had my attention for three whole hours. I have nodded in ways I didn’t know my neck could function. I have given verbal affirmations at well-timed intervals. What more do you want from me?!!!!! I would scream in my head hoping it teleports to him and he stops.

In hindsight, I should have billed him for my time.

Looking back, I laugh because maybe—just maybe—Lolo was right. Maybe, when I pray to God, I do shout. Because explain to me why my life is an ongoing script filled with these talking stages, dating partners, and unsolicited Bolt driver auditions.

But at the end of the day, it all works out. How? Well, everyone will find their person—or not. And honestly? It doesn’t even matter. What matters is what matters to you.

Getting married looks easy. The way society frames it, it seems like a natural, expected milestone—like turning 18 or paying taxes (well, unless you’re a billionaire). But marrying well? Marrying good? That’s where things get blurry.

Because choosing a life partner is feels like serious work beyond the wedding dresses and hashtags. It isn't meeting a quota or fulfilling a societal expectation. I think it is choosing someone whose voice doesn’t make you want to jump out of a moving vehicle after 10 minutes of conversation.

And that, my friends, is the real challenge.

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Thanks for reading ♡ I hope you're well.