I remember my first proper relationship (or so I thought) in my first year of university. I had a close black male friend whom I had met through a scholarship we had both been awarded. We were almost inseparable and so naturally I assumed that we would make an equally amazing couple. Long story short, he was emotionally inept and at times that ineptitude would turn abusive.

I will never forget the day I reached out to him, just a few months after my father had passed away, and he told me that I ought to stop expecting everyone to feel sorry for me. It had been four months already and I needed to get over it. But I was so determined to love him, young as I was, so determined to prove that like the many strong black women in my family, I too was one of them. The failure of my relationship was not an option.