Pull-Out Method Scare: How Guesswork Nearly Stole My Degree

There are two versions of me.

The first one had colour-coded calendars, Google Drive folders for everything, and a five-year plan that included a Master’s degree abroad; a decent apartment with plants I probably wouldn’t water enough, and maybe, just maybe, a golden retriever.

The second version of me sat on the bathroom floor of my student apartment in Ogudu on a Tuesday morning, counting the days since my last period on my fingers. Then I started over. Then I counted again. 35 Days! 

It all started with one sentence. “Babe, don’t worry. I’ll pull out.” He always said this like it was a credential. Like there should be a certificate on the wall. Certificate of Pullout Excellence, awarded to this man, who has never once considered that he is not the only variable in this equation. 

At the time, though, I believed it. Or maybe I wanted to believe it. It felt easier than having an awkward conversation about contraception. Besides, we’d been together for almost two years. He loved me, and I loved him. Surely love came with good judgment?