ALL MEN ARE WICKED: SO THEY SAY

ALL MEN ARE WICKED: SO THEY SAY

Men are wicked was a sentence Amaka had learned early, repeated in hushed conversations and loud warnings alike. Aunties said it over peeling yams, friends whispered it after heartbreak. Even her mother, once gentle in tone, hardened around the phrase like it was both shield and truth.

Amaka believed it, at least, she thought she did: her first love, Kelechi, had been charming in the beginning, and he knew the right words, the right smiles, the right promises.  Somewhere between “forever” and “trust me,” things began to crack, lies slipped in, calls went unanswered, and one evening, the truth arrived uninvited, sitting boldly in a message she was never meant to see.

“Men are wicked,” her friends said, gathering around her like a chorus of certainty, so she wore the belief like armour. It made things easier, simpler, safer until Daniel arrived on the scene.

He wasn’t extraordinary at first glance, no dramatic entrance, no poetic confessions, just consistency. He showed up when he said he would, he listened, really listened without rushing to fix or dismiss.

When Amaka spoke, Daniel didn’t interrupt with solutions; he stayed with her in the silence, this unsettled her.

One evening, after weeks of careful distance, she asked him, “why are you like this?”

Daniel smiled faintly and said, “like what?”

“Patient, honest, different.” Choosing his words with care, “maybe because I’ve seen what happens when people aren’t.”

Amaka didn’t respond immediately, she wanted to believe him, but belief had betrayed her before.

Still, something shifted: not all at once, not like a sudden revelation. Slowly, like dawn pushing back the night, she began to notice the small things, the respect in his tone, and the steadiness in his actions.

 To her, if Daniel existed, then the sentence she had clung to wasn’t entirely true.

Weeks later, sitting with her mother over tea, the familiar phrase surfaced again, “my dear, just be careful, men are wicked.”

Amaka stirred her cup thoughtfully, then looked up,

“some are,” she said gently: “but not all.”

Her mother raised an eyebrow suprised,  Amaka smiled not naively, but with the quiet confidence of someone who had tested a belief and found it incomplete.

“Pain can make us generalize,” she added, healing teaches us to see clearly.”

The phrase didn’t disappear that day, it lingered, and for Amaka, it lost its power as it was no longer the truth, just a story people told when hurt felt easier than hope.

And hope, she was learning, required a different kind of courage.

Meet SissyAde, a renowned Sex Therapist & Coach dedicated to nurturing meaningful relationships and marriages.

With expertise in Sex Therapy, Relationship Coaching, and more, SissyAde empowers individuals and couples to build healthy, fulfilling connections that work globally, fostering love and collaboration.