When She Said She’s 'Different' and Blocked Me After Eating

 

 

It all started when I met her on a dating app. Her name was Ama, and her profile picture made her look like a beautiful angel who had just descended from a heavenly cloud. I could already imagine us sharing sweet memories: me, her, and a bottle of chilled pineapple juice on a Sunday afternoon.

Her bio was simple: “I’m different, get to know me." Now, I’ll admit I was curious. What exactly did "different" mean? Was she a magician? Did she have a pet lion? Could she fly?

I quickly swiped right, and within a few minutes, we were chatting. Her messages were polite but playful, and I found myself looking forward to every conversation. We talked about our favorite movies, the best jollof rice in town, and what we liked to do for fun. As we chatted, she seemed like the perfect girl: smart, funny, and kind-hearted. The whole “different” thing was starting to sound mysterious, in a good way.

We decided to meet. She suggested a nice spot at a local restaurant—nothing too fancy, just a casual place to talk. I was a little nervous, but who wouldn’t be? Meeting someone new always comes with a mix of excitement and a dash of anxiety.

When I arrived, she was already there, sitting at a table by the window. And let me tell you, she was even more beautiful in person. Her hair was perfectly styled, and she had this confident, carefree smile that made everything around her seem a little brighter. I almost forgot how to breathe.

"Hi!" I said, walking up to the table. She smiled and waved, and it felt like everything in the world slowed down. We sat down, exchanged pleasantries, and ordered our food. The conversation flowed naturally, and I was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something great.

But then, it happened.

We were talking about movies when she said, “I’m really different, you know.”

Now, if you’ve been on enough dates, you know that this is the moment where everything can either go really well or completely crash and burn.

“Different?” I asked, trying to keep it cool. “How different?”

She leaned in a little and said, “Well, I don’t really eat the same way as most people.”

I frowned. “What do you mean? Like, you’re a vegetarian or something?”

She shook her head. “No, no. It’s just… well, you’ll see.”

I didn’t understand what she meant, but before I could ask, the food arrived. She ordered a massive plate of grilled chicken with fried plantains and a huge bowl of rice. As soon as the food hit the table, she wasted no time. She dug in like she hadn’t eaten in weeks, and I’m not talking about eating normally. I mean, she attacked that food with the kind of energy that would make you think it was the last meal on Earth.

I tried to keep it cool, but my eyes were wide. What was happening here? She ate like someone who had just discovered food for the first time. With every bite, she would make sounds of pure joy—grunting, sighing, and even humming. It was like she was in another world.

I mean, I love food too, but I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. She wasn’t even looking at me anymore. It was like I didn’t exist. All I could hear were her grunts and hums as she gobbled down her meal.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she finished. I stared at her in disbelief. She wiped her mouth with a napkin, looked up at me with a serious face, and said, “I’m different, remember?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, still processing what just happened. “You definitely are… different.”

And then, without warning, she pulled out her phone. I thought maybe she was checking a message or something, but no. She opened WhatsApp, found my number, and BLOCKED me. Right there. At the table. In front of me. I sat there with my mouth open, staring at the screen in shock.

“What just happened?” I thought. “Did I do something wrong?”

Before I could even gather my thoughts, she stood up, smiled, and said, “Thanks for the meal.” She walked out of the restaurant like nothing had just happened. I sat there for a good 10 minutes, trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

Why had she blocked me? What was the whole point of the “different” thing? Was this some kind of test I failed?

I mean, I get it. Everyone has their quirks. Maybe she liked food a little too much, or maybe the way she ate was part of her personality. But blocking me? After one date? I was left there with my half-eaten jollof rice and fried plantain, totally confused and questioning my entire existence.

After a while, I paid the bill and walked out, still trying to figure it all out. Was I supposed to keep going? Should I have eaten like a wild animal too? Would she have liked me more if I grunted after every bite?

I got back to my house and immediately checked my phone. I had a couple of missed messages from my friend, Kojo.

“Yo, how did the date go?” he asked.

I typed back: “She blocked me after eating.”

Kojo replied with a string of laughing emojis.

“You know what they say, bro,” he said, “some girls just want to eat and leave. But don’t worry, the next one will be better. Just make sure you don’t go on a date with anyone who eats faster than you.”

I sighed and stared at the phone screen. Maybe Kojo was right. Maybe this was just one of those things you laugh about later. But right now, it didn’t feel funny. It felt like I had just experienced the weirdest date of my life.

That night, I lay in bed, replaying the whole date in my mind. What went wrong? Was it the food? Was it me? Or was she just really “different,” as she said?

I never found out.

The next day, I deleted her number and blocked her on social media. I figured, if she was “different,” maybe it was better for both of us to go our separate ways.

But I did learn one important lesson: if a girl says she’s “different,” always ask for the details before you meet. And whatever you do, don’t let her eat faster than you.

The days went by, and I tried my best to forget about Ama. It wasn’t easy, though. Every time I went to a restaurant, the sight of grilled chicken would make me shudder. And I couldn’t even look at plantains without hearing those strange grunts and hums echoing in my mind. It was like some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, but with food.

Kojo, of course, had no sympathy. He thought the whole thing was hilarious, and every time we talked, he’d throw in some new joke about "The girl who ate like a beast and blocked me after." He was relentless.

“I mean, you should’ve known something was up when she didn’t even offer to split the bill,” he laughed. “Most girls would at least pretend to care, but no, she just treated you like her personal chef. I love it.”

Kojo’s sense of humor was... well, let’s just say it wasn’t for the faint of heart. But deep down, I knew he was right. She didn’t even think twice about paying for herself, and she certainly didn’t consider my feelings when she blocked me after eating. That wasn’t the behavior of someone looking for a relationship. It was like I was just a snack to her. Literally.

One evening, while sitting on my couch and scrolling through social media, I saw a post from a mutual friend. It was a picture of Ama, looking all smiley and innocent, captioned, "The queen of jollof and plantains."

I couldn’t help it. I stared at the post for way too long. She didn’t even look different in that picture—just as beautiful as I remembered. But I couldn’t help but laugh. The "queen of jollof and plantains"? Really?

And then, it hit me. Maybe she wasn’t "different" at all. Maybe she was just someone who liked to eat her food, leave, and disappear.

I got an idea. Maybe it was time for a little payback. I wasn’t going to go down like this. No, I would find a way to make this funny. The next girl I met would know exactly what I expected.

So, I started chatting with someone new—Leticia. We met through a group of friends, and she seemed much cooler than Ama. She liked movies, played sports, and laughed at my jokes. We decided to go on a date.

I was a little nervous, but this time, I had a plan. I was going to avoid the classic “food disaster” and go somewhere simple: pizza. It was hard to mess up pizza. Even if she ate faster than me, at least there would be no plantain-induced trauma.

We met up at the pizza place, and everything was going smoothly. She was fun, laid-back, and surprisingly good at choosing toppings. She even laughed when I dropped a slice of pizza on my shirt. It was nice.

Everything seemed perfect.

But just as I was starting to relax, she dropped the bomb.

“I’m different,” she said.

I froze mid-bite. Was this some kind of cosmic joke? Was this the universe’s way of punishing me for the last disaster?

I looked at her, trying not to panic. “Different?” I repeated. “How?”

She leaned back, crossing her arms. “I don’t really like pizza.”

I blinked. What? Who didn’t like pizza?

“Wait, what do you mean?” I asked. “You don’t like pizza?”

She nodded, her expression serious. “Yeah, I mean, I like it, but... you know, I’m just different.”

I was so confused. “You brought me to a pizza place, and you don’t like pizza?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes, I eat pizza to make people feel better about themselves.”

I was stunned. Did she really just say that?

We sat in silence for a while, and I suddenly felt like I was in some kind of twisted parallel universe where people didn’t even eat what they liked. I wanted to ask more questions, but I didn’t have the energy. Instead, I just nodded and continued eating my pizza, hoping this wasn’t the beginning of my new "different" disaster.

And then, just like that, she said it.

“I’m gonna go,” she said, standing up abruptly.

I sat there, my mouth still full of pizza. “Wait, what? Why?”

She just smiled, waved, and left. No explanation. No warning. She left me sitting there, chewing on the remains of my pizza slice.

Now, that was "different."

A few days later, I met up with Kojo. As soon as he saw my face, he burst into laughter.

“What happened this time?” he asked, grinning.

I told him about Leticia and how she’d dropped the "I'm different" bomb and then just... left.

Kojo couldn’t stop laughing. “You know what, bro, I think you’ve got a thing for ‘different’ girls. Maybe you should just accept it and start a podcast about it. ‘The Chronicles of the Different Ones’.”

I rolled my eyes. “I swear, I’m done with these 'different' girls. Next time, I’m just going for someone normal, someone who eats pizza and actually stays till the end.”

Kojo nodded. “Good luck, man. But remember, there’s always another ‘different’ one out there waiting to block you after a meal.”

We both laughed, and for the first time in a while, I felt like I had learned something. Maybe "different" wasn’t the problem. Maybe it was the way I had been looking at it all along.

At least now, I could laugh about it. And maybe, just maybe, I’d meet someone who liked pizza... and didn’t block me after one date.

And that's how I learned that "different" can mean a lot of things—sometimes, it’s just a way to avoid saying what you really mean. But at least it gave me a good story to tell!

A few weeks later, I was starting to think that maybe I had just been unlucky. I mean, there had to be someone out there who wasn’t going to eat all the jollof rice and then block me on WhatsApp like I was some sort of abandoned text message.

So, I gave it another shot. This time, I made sure to set up my expectations low. I wasn’t going to let myself get all excited about another "different" girl. No, I was going to keep things simple, cool, and, most importantly, I was going to make sure the girl actually liked the food we ordered. I wasn’t going through another "block after eating" saga.

I met Liza. She was a friend of a friend, and everything about her screamed "normal." She liked simple things like a good cup of coffee and a cozy movie night. I didn’t care if she didn’t want to try some wild food from an expensive restaurant—just as long as she stayed for the whole meal. That was all I asked for.

We went to a small, casual restaurant. Nothing fancy. Just some local food and some good conversation. She seemed down-to-earth, no nonsense, just the way I liked it.

“So, what’s your go-to food?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

She smiled and said, “I’m a huge fan of fried rice and chicken. Can’t go wrong with that.”

I thought, Thank you! This is a woman of my dreams. Fried rice and chicken? Easy, delicious, no confusion. No weird "I’m different" talk. No mysterious ‘I'm going to block you after this meal’ antics. This could be it.

I placed the order, and we chatted about everything. I didn’t even notice the time passing. We laughed about our childhood, our favorite shows, and some of the ridiculous things we had done when we were younger. This felt like a real date. There were no weird vibes, no uncomfortable silences. It was... normal.

Then, the food came.

I felt a wave of relief wash over me as I saw the golden fried rice and crispy chicken placed on the table. This was it—no jollof with a side of regret. Just good, simple food.

But then, Liza looked at the chicken, then at the rice, and back at me. Her eyes widened, and I could swear she looked like she was about to say something deep... like she was about to change my life with her words.

“Hmm,” she said, lifting a piece of chicken with her fork, “this isn’t what I expected.”

I froze. I didn’t know what was coming next. Did she want more gravy? Did she want some fancier kind of chicken? Did I mess it up?

She continued, "The chicken... it’s not organic, is it?”

I blinked. Organic? What in the world was she talking about?

I chuckled nervously. “Uh... what do you mean by ‘organic’ chicken?”

She leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “You know, chicken raised without any chemicals. I can really tell when the chicken isn’t organic. My body’s very sensitive to that.”

At this point, I wanted to stand up and walk away. “Sensitive to the chicken?” I asked in disbelief. “This isn’t the Matrix, Liza. It’s just chicken!”

But she wasn’t hearing me. She was looking at the chicken like it had personally offended her.

“Yeah,” she said, shaking her head, “I can just tell. This chicken definitely wasn’t raised naturally.”

I tried to keep calm. “So... do you want to switch to something else?”

She sighed dramatically, then picked at her food. “I guess I’ll just eat this... but it’s not the best. You know, you’re what? Trying to feed me a chicken that was probably injected with all kinds of things.”

I stared at her, open-mouthed. Was this a joke? Was she really talking about chicken like it was some kind of mystical creature that required an organic certification?

“I mean, if you want something organic, I could have taken you to that farm outside town. They raise all their chickens the right way,” she added, glancing at me like I had committed some sort of crime.

At that moment, I knew I was in too deep. This was no longer just a simple dinner. This was becoming a test I hadn’t studied for.

We continued the meal in silence. Every time I took a bite, Liza would pause, take a sip of water, and shake her head a little.

I was beginning to feel self-conscious. What if I had ruined everything by not getting the "right" chicken? What if the fried rice was some kind of industrial-grade rice I wasn’t aware of?

But then, as the meal wound down, she did something unexpected. She smiled.

“You know,” she said, “despite the chicken thing, this was actually a great time.”

I almost choked on my rice. Was this a joke? I had just been interrogated about the chicken like I was a suspect in a food safety investigation, and now she was saying it was a “great time”?

“I’m glad you think so,” I replied, trying to suppress a laugh. “Next time, I’ll take you to the farm. I’ll make sure the chickens are well-prepared.”

She chuckled, then took her phone out. I froze again. I was not ready for another “blocking” scenario.

But no. She was just checking the time.

“I have to go,” she said with a smile. “But I’d love to see you again sometime.”

At that moment, I realized something important. Maybe “different” didn’t mean what I thought it meant. Maybe it was just an excuse for people to act a little strange.

And maybe, just maybe, I was the one who needed to embrace a little weirdness too. If Liza could get through my “non-organic chicken” without any drama, maybe I could accept that the world wasn’t always going to be as simple as I wanted it to be. Life was a little messy, and that was okay.

As I walked her out, I made a mental note: No more chicken drama. Next time, I’d just pick a place with fries. And maybe, just maybe, we’d skip the whole organic food issue.

And that’s how I realized that sometimes, "different" just meant people being themselves—quirks and all. And maybe I could learn to appreciate those differences... even when they involved chicken.

THE END