Every week, Zikoko spotlights the unfiltered stories of women navigating life, love, identity and everything in between.
What She Said will give women the mic to speak freely, honestly and openly, without shame about sex, politics, family, survival, and everything else life throws our way.
This week, Natasha*, a 35-year-old Nigerian queer woman, reflects on her romantic history and her decision to stop dating studs. From an early attraction to masculinity in women to the emotional and physical abuse she endured in her first serious relationship, she walks us through how a pattern of pain shaped her desires, and what it’s taken to break the cycle.
How did you know you were into women?
I’ve always known.
Even as a kid, I was drawn to girls. Not in the “best friend” way, I mean, I had crushes. My heart would race when certain girls looked at me. I found them beautiful in a way I didn’t have language for yet. It was never confusing for me. If anything, the only confusion was: Am I allowed to say this out loud?
As I grew older, I started realising that my attraction leaned a certain way, toward more masculine women. Women who didn’t wear pretty earrings or sway their hips when they walked. Women who entered rooms with presence, not prettiness. That was what held my gaze.
I’ve never dated men. Not really. I’ve had a few fake boyfriends, mostly other queer guys who were also trying to survive family expectations. And sure, I’ve gone on some dates with men, especially in my early 20s. But it was never deep. I’ve never had penetrative sex with a man. It’s just not something I ever desired.
What was dating like for you in your early 20s?
Performative, mostly.
I grew up knowing I had to be careful. You couldn’t just go around saying you were queer in secondary school; we didn’t even call it that then. So I played the game, smart, discreet, quiet. I had a few childhood friends who knew. Sometimes when I went back home, we’d see each other. But in school? I kept my head down.
When I was in SS2, there was this one girl. She was the first person who made me feel that breathless kind of desire. She was tall. Carried herself like she owned her space. Nothing about her felt traditionally feminine except maybe the softness of her skin. We liked each other, but nothing really happened. Still, she shaped something in me. After her, I knew I was locked in: I liked women like that.
In my 20s, men still asked me out. I’d entertain them once in a while, maybe a dinner or a casual hang. But it was always surface-level. I never labelled those situations. They were placeholders. Comfortable sometimes, but never real. I always knew who I wanted, and it wasn’t them.
What made your first real relationship different?
Beulah* came to me.
I was 21. She wasn’t tall, maybe just a few inches taller than me, and I am like 5’2, but she had the kind of energy that made height irrelevant. She dressed well. Tied her scarf with intention. Spoke like she always meant it. I hadn’t even noticed her on campus until the day she walked up to me.
I was with friends. She came straight over, told me she’d seen me around, and said she wanted to introduce herself. I told my friends to keep walking so I could talk to her. I could tell immediately that she wasn’t being friendly. She was serious. Direct. She told me I was beautiful and said she’d like to get to know me.
I gave her my number.
We texted for a few days. Nothing intense. Then she asked if I wanted to go out. We didn’t do anything fancy, just walked around a park, played games, and talked for hours. It felt easy.
Until it didn’t.
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When did things start to go wrong?
The first time she properly yelled at me, I thought she was joking.
I was at her place. We were getting ready to go out, and I wore a short dress. It was fitted with an opening in the back. I walked into the living room, and she exploded. “Where do you think you’re going dressed like that?” She said it like I had disrespected her. Like I belonged to her.
I laughed. It came out of nowhere, and I thought it was a bit ridiculous. I rolled my eyes and turned to leave.
She grabbed me. Hard.
Pulled me by the back of the dress so roughly that I fell. Hit the floor. I turned around in shock and saw her face. It was cold and angry. Like she could do more. And would.
I got up, locked myself in her room, and didn’t go anywhere that day.
That was the beginning. From there, things escalated very quickly. Verbal abuse turned to full-blown physical violence. She’d tell me I was hers. That I was stupid. That I needed to be taught how to behave. It was like dating someone who thought they were a man, not in gender, but in the way patriarchy teaches men to control.
I stayed for seven months.
I don’t even know how I lasted that long. She was never sorry. Just manipulative. Just… possessive.
What made you leave?
Fear. Exhaustion. And a deep, deep loneliness.
I was shrinking every day. I couldn’t recognise myself. And I think a part of me realised: “If I don’t go now, she might actually kill me one day.” Maybe not on purpose. Maybe just in a moment of rage. But it could happen.
So I left.
What happened after that?
For months, I was just by myself. I wasn’t looking for anything. I was also getting ready to move to Canada for school, so I didn’t want to start something new.
But then I met her.
Zee* was an artist. I met her at a small gallery. She was showing her photos, portraits of people that somehow felt like mirrors. I was staring at one of them when I felt someone step beside me.
She didn’t even touch me. Just stood there.
And I felt it.
The electricity. The quiet attention. The weight of being seen without being assessed. She didn’t ask me what I was. She didn’t ask if I was single. She just talked. About light. About eyes. About how the photo was really about longing.
We didn’t have much time. I was leaving the country in a few weeks. But the night we spent together before I left? It reminded me what tenderness felt like.
Did you fall in love again?
Yes. And no.
I gave her my number that night. I didn’t think there was time for anything lasting, but I was open to taking what I could get. It turns out she actually stayed in Canada and was just in Lagos visiting family. Still, I didn’t expect things to become what they did.
I moved to Canada a few weeks after that night, and she came back a month after to resume work. We picked up right where we left off.
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When did things start to change with her?
Not for a year. That’s the thing. With her, it wasn’t instant. She made space for me. She listened. She cooked. She helped me find my feet in a new country. She showed me soft masculinity, or so I thought.
But slowly, it crept in. She started calling me names during sex: “my bitch,” “mine,” “no one else gets this.” At first, I thought it was dirty talk. But there was always something behind it. A possessiveness that lingered.
Then came the questions: “Who were you texting?” “Why did you wear that to work?” “Why do your colleagues know what you sound like when you laugh?”
It didn’t feel like love anymore. It felt like ownership. We were together for almost five years. I stayed until I was 29. And when I left, it wasn’t with screaming. I packed my bags and left the apartment we shared together. I just stopped answering her calls.
Did that change how you dated after?
Completely. For a while, I tried men. I thought: maybe what I need is something different. Something outside of the queer community. Maybe I had just been choosing the wrong type of woman.
But with the men? It was abuse and invisibility. They didn’t see me. Not really. They wanted to be seen through me.
I dated another stud. It didn’t last long, three months. But within weeks, she was saying the same shit during sex: “You’re mine. You’re not going anywhere.” I realised I had started ignoring red flags again.
What have your relationships looked like since then?
Scattered. Messy. Mostly situationships. I’ve had a couple of intense connections with non-binary people and femmes. Nothing lasted. Not because they weren’t kind or because I wasn’t attracted to them. But because I was scared. I keep waiting for the switch to flip. For the sweetness to rot into something sour. For their hands to turn cold. For them to say, “You’re mine,” and not mean it in a romantic way, but in a warning.
I haven’t been in a proper relationship since I was 29.
Why did you stop dating studs?
Because I realised I was in a cycle and it was killing me.
Not all studs are abusive. I’ll never say that. But the kind I kept choosing? They all wanted to own me. They saw femininity as something to control. They needed to be the one in charge, the protector, the provider, but that came with punishment. With dominance. With silence.
And I let it happen because I thought I had to. Because I thought: This is just how love works when you’re into masculinity.
But it’s not. Love isn’t control. Love isn’t fear.
I stopped making masculinity a requirement for desire. I had to or I was going to disappear inside someone else again.
If you could speak to your younger self, the one who stayed, what would you say?
Baby girl, run.
Run even if your heart is breaking. Run even if you think no one else will ever love you. Run before the push becomes a punch. Before the apology becomes a lie. Before you lose your voice.
You deserve tenderness. You deserve to be looked at like you’re a whole galaxy.
Don’t settle for anything less.
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