I don’t think anybody has ever overthought a train journey the way I am currently overthinking this one.
I’m sitting by the window pretending to enjoy the scenery, I am not enjoying anything. In fact, if anxiety had a physical form, it would be sitting right beside me, asking if I packed my passport.
I check my pocket.
The passport is there.
Good.
I don’t know why I checked, it’s not like I’m crossing a border. I’m literally just going to meet a woman. Yet my body is reacting like I’m going to negotiate peace between two countries.
I check my phone, no new message.
Last message from her: *See you soon 😊*
Somehow my mind has turned it into a life-or-death situation. I put the phone away, then take it out again, still the same message.
Good.
At least she hasn’t cancelled.
That would actually be the best outcome.
No.
No, it wouldn’t.
Or would it?
God.
I need help.
I have been in the UK for four months now, four whole months. Do you know what four months without female interaction can do to a healthy young man?
I didn’t know either but now I know. At first, I was focused…school, assignments, settling in and finding accommodation. Then after a while, the loneliness set in. I haven’t even held anybody’s hand, not even accidentally.
I tried.
I really did.
There are plenty of African girls in my school, beautiful girls, successful girls, ambitious girls but somehow, every conversation felt like a job interview.
“When do you graduate?”
“Do you have post-study plans?”
Madam, can we at least discuss the weather first? Then there were the social events, the Nigerian gatherings, and the parties. I attended all of them and nothing.
I even met someone at the African shop. I was buying plantain, she was buying yam and I thought destiny was speaking. But destiny was minding its business, the conversation died before we reached the cashier.
Then one evening, out of boredom, I downloaded a dating app. I wasn’t expecting anything, in fact, I was mostly there to look around and then I matched with her.
Emily.
British.
Twenty-nine.
Works in publishing.
Loves books.
Loves traveling.
Loves terrible jokes.
The terrible jokes part is actually what got me. Anybody who voluntarily enjoys terrible jokes can’t be a bad person.
We started chatting, then we kept chatting and then somehow, two months passed.
Every day.
Messages.
Voice notes.
Pictures of random things.
Conversations about food.
Family.
Life.
Nigeria.
Britain.
Everything.
And if I’m being honest…
It was nice.
Really nice.
A breath of fresh air.
For the first time since arriving here, I stopped feeling like a stranger. Then she suggested we meet to which I said yes to immediately and very confidently. The kind of confidence that only exists before reality arrives. Now reality is here and I’m on this train questioning every decision I’ve ever made.
I look outside, we’re getting closer. My heart starts beating faster and my mind begins its nonsense.
What if this is a setup?
I sit up.
No.
That’s ridiculous.
Then again…I’ve watched documentaries. I suddenly remember all those stories online. The news, I remember stories about immigrants getting into trouble, stories about misunderstandings, horror stories about people meeting strangers from the internet…
Fantastic.
Very helpful.
Another thought enters my head. What if I get there and she doesn’t like me? Online and real life are different.
Then another thought. What if she likes me too much? That’s also a problem.
Then another.
What if somebody sees us together and assumes something?
What if I hug her and she thinks it’s weird?
What if I don’t hug her and she thinks I’m rude?
What if she takes me somewhere expensive?
What if she asks me to pronounce Worcestershire?
I still can’t say that word.
Then my mind goes completely rogue.
What if she invites me to her house?
What if her neighbours don’t like Black people?
What if they call the police?
What if I become one of those stories people discuss online?
I check my phone again, still no new message. I wipe my hands on my jeans. Why are my palms sweating? I haven’t even met her.
I suddenly remember my tuition fees.
Thousands of pounds.
I remember my student visa.
I remember my future.
I remember my mother’s prayers before I left Nigeria. “Face your books.”
Simple instructions.
Yet here I am on a train going to meet a woman whose favourite biscuit I know but whose surname I still can’t pronounce. I lean back, maybe this is a sign, maybe I should get off…go home, cook noodles, read, graduate and become successful, then find love later.
Much safer.
Yes.
Very sensible.
I nod to myself.
The train slows, people start standing, I stand too, mostly because everybody else is standing.
The doors open.
I step out.
The platform is quiet.
I take a deep breath.
Right.
Decision time.
Do I continue?
Or do I go back?
I finally look up.
Then I blink.
Twice.
I look around.
Then at the station sign.
Then around again.
And suddenly I realize something.
In all my overthinking…
In all my anxiety…
In all my imaginary court cases, deportations, racial incidents and future family meetings…
I have gotten off the train at the wrong station and halfway to my destination. The doors close and the train begins moving again. I stand there holding my phone and staring at it.
On one side of the platform is the exit.
On the other side is the train timetable.
One takes me back home.
The other takes me to her.
I laugh because maybe this is exactly who I am. A man so busy worrying about the future that he accidentally steps out of the present.
My phone vibrates, it’s a message from Emily. *”Almost here?”*
I stare at the message.
Then at the timetable.
Then at the exit.
Then back at the message.
The train to her arrives in three minutes.
The train home arrives in five.
I put my phone back into my pocket, take a deep breath and for the first time all evening…I genuinely have no idea which train I’m about to board.