In Nigeria, virginity is supposed to be a virtue. But only for women under 25. Once you cross that invisible line, you become a curiosity. A specimen. A problem to be solved. I am 30, female, intentionally celibate, and the way society treats me ranges from patronizing to outright hostile. My married friends speak to me like I am a child who hasn't discovered candy. "Don't worry, when you meet the right man, you'll understand." My male friends see me as a challenge. "I will be the one to change your mind." My own mother has started praying against "the spirit of frigidity" in my life. Frigidity? Because I choose not to share my body casually? Here is what nobody understands. My virginity is not a lack of opportunity. I have had offers. I have been in love. I have felt desire. But I made a covenant with myself at 18: my first sexual experience will be inside a committed marriage, not because of religion, but because of emotional safety. I have seen too many women give pieces of themselves to men who were never worth the memory. I refuse to be a collection in someone's highlight reel. But the dating pool is a nightmare. Nigerian men want "experience" but also want to marry purity. They want a woman who can perform in bed but has only slept with them. The hypocrisy is suffocating. I have been ghosted by three men this year after I told them my stance. One said, "I can't buy a car I haven't test-driven." Am I delusional for wanting to wait? Is virginity after 30 a red flag or a standard? And men, why do you demand sexual history transparency but hide your own body count? Let's argue.
