B the writer
Hi!
My name is Nalo, and today, I’m going to tell you the story of how my life went to shit.
Now don’t get me wrong, at some point I think I deserved what was coming, but at some point I think I didn’t. Anywho, I’ll let y’all be the judge. But first, let’s make some chai. Because trust me, you will need it—or something stronger, ’cause this story is juicy.
You will need:
Ingredients
A cup of water
A cup of milk
Loose tea leaves (tea bags are also okay)
4 tablespoons of sugar
Spices of your choice — I like ground cinnamon and ginger (¼ teaspoon of each)
A saucepan
A ladle for stirring (or a spoon, knife, fork—honestly, at this point you can use whatever)
We start by caramelizing the sugar: add it to a saucepan over low heat and let it melt into a rich, amber liquid. Keep stirring occasionally for even caramelization.
Then carefully add the water. The caramel will bubble, and some may solidify before dissolving as you stir. Add the spices, bring it to a boil, and let it simmer for 5–10 minutes to infuse the flavors.
Next, add the tea and simmer for 3–5 minutes. Follow with the milk, then stir and bring to a gentle simmer for 2–3 minutes until it’s creamy and dark caramel in color. If you used loose tea leaves, strain the tea through a sieve into your comfort cup.
And that’s that.
Now that we have our tea in hand, let’s begin the story.
#01
So today, I had a profound realization: I’ve never had a healthy relationship with love. Dating. Romantic relationships with men. Courting. Whatever you want to call it.
I realized that my whole romantic life has been disorganized and distorted; me always giving too much, or diving in headfirst with men who offer only fragments of themselves.
I often find myself attracting men who seem into me… I think. Their body language hints at it, but their mouths never articulate the words. Or men who constantly take from me: my money, my emotional support, my time. Men who come to my place for shelter or to get something from me, always taking.
I’ve always wondered what women with good men do differently.
The women whose partners offer a shoulder to cry on without irritation; men who don’t just hear, but listen. Men who spend time with a woman simply because they enjoy her company, not because there’s the promise of sex lurking around the corner. Men who buy flowers, plan dates, and actually pay for them. Men who drive you home and wait to make sure you get inside safely, or at least order you an Uber. Men who show up when you’re sick or on a bad period, hold your hand through it, buy you chocolates or whatever, and are simply there for you. Men who stand up for their women and for women in general, even if it costs them approval among other men.
Where do women find men who publicly claim their partners not as trophies, not for the title, but because they genuinely feel honored to be associated with their women?
I’ve looked east, west, north, and south, and all I find is people who exhaust me.
I don’t think I’m a doormat, first of all. I don’t say yes when I mean no.
Sure, sometimes I don’t say things exactly the way I want to, but I can stand up for myself when I need to.
I like to think of myself as diplomatic and non-confrontational. Not in a pushover way, but in a way that knows what’s worth fighting over.
I don’t tolerate disrespect. I don’t take back men who cheat, or men who talk to me once every five business days because they were “busy.” I don’t tolerate rudeness, and I don’t put everyone’s needs before my own or apologize for everything.
Sometimes I think men have no hearts and are the worst creation of God.
From how they’ve imposed themselves as gods and even assigned God their own pronoun, to how they’ve made themselves the “heads of everything,” to the way they’ve treated women cruelly throughout history across continents, cultures, generations, eras. The cruel standards of patriarchy have always been dehumanizing for both men and, even more so, for women.
And in romantic and family settings, women have been expected to carry the domestic, mental, and emotional burdens of everyone because “men provide financially.” And because women’s labor has always been invisible, it has always been dismissed as unimportant or lesser.
Let’s not even start on the cruel stereotypes meant to make women feel less than human, or the medical injustices throughout history.
But nothing makes my blood boil more than this: it’s 2024, and on top of all that invisible labor, women are now expected to carry the financial burden too. Some men view this as punishment for wanting rights, free will, choice, and financial freedom.
Keep in mind, I am still in a developing country, so feminism and equality are still far behind what I see in developed nations. Women get “punished” for wanting equal rights or for wanting to be seen as more than just women, for wanting to be seen as human. Some people even treat the word “feminist” like a slur.
But then I look at some of my male friends and the way they love, or I see some of my female friends with amazing partners, and I think… maybe not all men.
These men love without the limitations of tradition or culture, without the biases of religion, without the hateful stereotypes meant to degrade women. They see their partners as human beings worthy of care, empathy, consideration. They show up because they genuinely want the women they love to exist in their world forever.
Which makes me think: maybe I just attract the wrong ones.
The angry, bitter, lazy crowd of men. The ones who feel the world owes them something and believe they’re entitled to a throne in a woman’s life.
Men who want to punish women for the ways life hurt them. Whose deadbeat fathers are somehow the fault of women, whose abusive uncles are the fault of women.
Men who feel women shouldn’t be happy without attaching themselves to a man.
Men who get mad when women travel alone, spend their own money, get an education, or have hobbies that don’t revolve around motherhood, wifehood, or daughterhood.
Sometimes I think I am unlovable and that’s why I attract this kind of man.
It’s God’s way of punishing me.
Which is funny, because my name is Nalo, which apparently means lovable somewhere on this beautiful continent.
My father named me after a woman he had a crush on while stationed as a police officer at one of the country borders. Pathetic.
Sometimes I wonder why my mother didn’t fight it.
I know I’d be furious if my husband wanted to name our child after a woman he once fancied.
But my mother is submissive. Deeply religious and traditional too. She believes a man’s word is final since he’s “the head of the household.”
I wonder if she remembers she’s the one who destroyed her body to bring life into the world, the reason we’re even a family. My father contributed two seconds to nature, and suddenly he gets the final say?
But what do I know about marriage? I’m only, in Bill’s words, “a desperate whore.”
Anyway, back on track. Where were we?
Oh yes, my name. I remember googling it once out of curiosity and learned that in Hawaiian, it also means lost, hidden, or forgotten. And honestly? That resonates more.
Right, right. Enough of my feminist rants and self-pity parties. I’m far from the original topic: the story of how my life went to shit.
Forgive me for leaving you confused without explaining exactly what happened that led me here.
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