*Fikayo, 22, thought dating apps would be a harmless way to meet people — maybe even find love someday. Instead, what started as casual talking stages spiralled into flings, endless choices, and a cycle of emotional emptiness she’s still trying to heal from.
In this story, she shares how Bumble fed her insecurities, why validation became addictive, and the moment she knew she had to walk away and start over.
This is Fikayo’s story as told to Adeyinka
Before I ever downloaded a dating app, I was just a shy girl trying to survive university life in Benin Republic. I didn’t have much of a social life — no parties, no cliques, not even many friends. I was always indoors, buried in books, moving between my classes and the hostel. Dating wasn’t even something I thought much about.
One day, someone suggested Tinder. I was almost 18 and bored out of my mind, so I thought, why not? The excitement hit immediately. I loved chatting with different people, even if I wasn’t meeting anyone physically. It made me feel less isolated.
But it didn’t last long. I got banned after a while, probably because one of the talking stages reported me for being underage. No matter how many new accounts I tried to open, Tinder wouldn’t let me back. Their system flagged my device. It stung at the time, but it led me somewhere else.
One random afternoon, while scrolling through the App Store, I found Bumble. It came up as a suggestion after Tinder. I downloaded it out of pure boredom, curious to see what it was about. That was how my Bumble journey began.
Initially, I wasn’t meeting anyone in person. I was back in Lagos for my industrial training and still living a very introverted life. I started chatting with a guy from Lekki, and we got along well. We had planned to meet, but due to my work schedule and general busyness, it never happened. Eventually, he stopped replying to my messages. When I asked if I’d done anything wrong, he just ignored me.
I returned to Benin Republic after completing my training. Sometime later, the Lekki guy finally responded and explained that he had pulled away because I was too young — I was 18, while he was 30 — and because it was clear we weren’t going to meet.
Back in Benin Republic, I jumped right back on Bumble. This time, I was determined to meet people in person.
And I did — a lot of them.
There was a wild period when I was casually dating several Beninese men. Some of them couldn’t even speak English properly, but that didn’t stop me. We’d use Google Translate to have conversations, laughing awkwardly over miscommunications and trying to bridge the gap.
In hindsight, it was crazy — building casual flings with people I could barely understand. But in those moments, I didn’t care. I was young, free, and knew I wasn’t staying long in the country. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. It was about the experiences.
When I graduated and returned to Lagos, I deleted Bumble for the first time. I had gotten into a long-distance relationship and didn’t want any distractions. But eight months later, the relationship crashed, and I found my way back to Bumble.
This time, it was different.
I had gotten a place to stay on the Island for NYSC, and meeting people became ridiculously easy. I was meeting three, sometimes four, different guys every week. If we vibed online, we met. If we met, there was almost always intimacy. It got so bad that at one point, I couldn’t even tell you what my body count was anymore.
Sometimes I met guys who weren’t my type, and it was easy to move on because there were always more options. Other times, I’d meet a guy who was exactly my type — rich, tall, good-looking — and still move on because neither of us was looking for attachment. I wasn’t looking for love, I just enjoyed the thrill.
After a while, though, it started to eat at me. I realised I had built an unhealthy mindset: If anyone showed a flaw or did something I didn’t like, I instantly told myself there were hundreds of better people out there. The sea of options on Bumble made me impatient and unrealistic about people. Relationships began to seem disposable.
And then there were the scary parts. One day, I met a guy off Bumble. We decided to have a movie date indoors. I wasn’t worried because I was on my period and didn’t expect anything to happen. But halfway through, he tried to force himself on me. I had to scream and fight him off before he stopped and started begging. I left his house feeling disgusted, scared, and deeply ashamed.
That night, I told myself something needed to change.
I didn’t delete Bumble immediately. I was too addicted to the excitement, the easy company. But I became stricter with my rules: no more meeting people immediately. At least two weeks of chatting before any physical meetup. No more indoor meetings either.
Still, even with stricter rules, the cycle continued. I’d meet someone, we’d hit it off, a week later, they’d vanish, and I’d move on to the next. It felt endless, like I was stuck in a loop I didn’t know how to break.
Eventually, I deleted the app for real. Since then, I haven’t spoken to anyone new. No talking stages, no casual hook-ups, and for the first time in years, I feel at peace.
Looking back now, I understand why I threw myself so deeply into Bumble and those endless talking stages. I’ve always been a little chubby, and from a young age, people made me feel like I wasn’t enough. Like slim girls were the ones who got chosen first, while people like me just had to manage. That narrative stuck with me longer than I realised.
However, on Bumble, the story took a different turn. Suddenly, it was rich guys, handsome guys, gym bros — all giving me attention, choosing me, chasing me. And not just virtually. Even when we met in person, the energy remained the same. It was like every insecurity I’d grown up with was being wiped away, one match at a time.
I wasn’t settling. I was being desired by the exact kind of people I thought were out of reach. And for a long time, that made me feel powerful. But power built on endless validation doesn’t last. Eventually, it left me feeling empty. Like I was always searching for something more, like no one was ever enough.
Today, I’m trying to rewrite that story.
I’m celibate now — three months and counting. I’m learning to lean on God, to lean into friendships that don’t come with ulterior motives, and to find fulfillment outside of who’s texting or matching with me.
It’s not always easy. There are days when I miss the thrill of it all. Days when loneliness creeps in. But I remind myself why I started this journey, why I needed to pause and heal before trying to love anyone else.
I want to get married within the next two years. I genuinely believe I’m capable of a long-term commitment. But this time, I’m preparing the version of myself who can build something healthy, not the girl constantly looking for new faces to fill a space.
For now, I’m holding on to my peace, my growth, and a quiet kind of happiness I haven’t felt in a very long time.
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