If somebody had told me two years ago that I would one day marry the man I used to tell my deepest secrets to...

I would have laughed.
Actually, I would have called them crazy.😂
Because when I first met Dr. Emmanuel, marriage was the furthest thing from my mind.

I wasn't even looking for a relationship.
I was looking for help.

I had just gone through one of the worst periods of my life.

My relationship had ended badly.
I had stopped talking to most of my friends.

I barely went out. I couldn't even sleep properly.

I didn't understand what was wrong with me. I would wake up feeling exhausted even after sleeping for eight hours.

Some days, I would sit in my car outside my office for almost thirty minutes because I couldn't bring myself to go inside.

My colleagues thought I was becoming lazy.

And my mother was very good at making me feel guilty about it.

"You're a strong girl."
"You'll be fine."
"Everybody goes through heartbreak."

Maybe. But I wasn't fine.
I just didn't know how to explain that.

One evening, I was sitting in my car outside my apartment, crying over absolutely nothing.

I was just crying.
And I remember thinking,
"Something is wrong with me."

That was when my friend, Teni, finally said, "You need therapy."

I laughed.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"I'm not mad now."

"Who said anything about being mad?"
She looked at me.

"You're not okay, and you keep pretending you are."

I didn't answer.

She sent me the contact of a therapist that night.

Dr. Emmanuel Babatunde.

"He's really good," she said.
"I've been seeing him for a while. You should try one session."

I stared at the number for almost two days. Omooo, I didn't call him ooo.
I was so embarrassed.🥲

What was I even going to tell a stranger?

"Hello sir, I don't know what's wrong with me, please fix me."

Lmaooo😂

Eventually, I booked an appointment.
I almost cancelled it three times.

The first time because I was scared.
The second time because I thought I was being dramatic.

The third time because I had convinced myself I didn't need therapy anymore.

But I went.

And yeah...
That first session changed my life.

His office looked small. Nothing really fancy. Just two comfortable chairs, a bookshelf, a little plant near the window and a box of tissues sitting on the table between us.

He smiled when I walked in.

"You're welcome."

"Thank you."

"Have a seat."

I sat down.

He picked up his notebook.

Then looked at me.

"What brought you here?"

I shrugged.

"I don't know."

He smiled.

"That's okay."

That answer made me calm. I had spent months trying to figure out what was wrong with me. And this stranger wasn't demanding an explanation. He was simply willing to sit with me until I found one.

I started talking.
At first, I talked about my breakup.
My relationship with my mother.
How tired I had been feeling.
How I had stopped enjoying things I used to love.

Then somehow...
I started telling him things I'd never told anyone. Things from my childhood. Things I was ashamed of. Things I had convinced myself didn't matter.

He didn’t interrupt me.

At the end of the session, he said,
"You've been carrying a lot by yourself."
I laughed awkwardly.

"I guess."

"You don't have to anymore."

I went home that day feeling okay and also feeling sad. I don’t know if that makes sense.

But yeah, I felt heard.

So, I went back the following week.
Then the week after that.
Then the week after that.

Before I knew it...
Therapy had become the one place I looked forward to every week.🥺

And Dr. Emma became the one person I couldn't wait to see.

My name is Yejide, by the way.
I realized I never properly introduced myself.🫠

One day, I came into his office looking terrible. I hadn't slept the night before.

He noticed immediately.

"Bad night?"

I nodded.

"Very."

"What happened?"

"Nothing really."

He smiled.

"Yejide, we've been doing this long enough for you to know that 'nothing' usually means something."

I laughed.

"Maybe I'm just tired."

"Then let's talk about the tiredness."

And we did. For almost an hour.

By the end of the session, I felt lighter.
As usual.

But when I stood up to leave, he said,
"Don't forget to eat today."

I smiled.

"I'll try."

"No."

He shook his head.

"Don't try. Do it."

I laughed.

"Yes, sir."

I remember sitting in my car afterward and smiling.

I guess sometimes when you're emotionally exhausted, the smallest acts of care feel enormous.

Another time, I mentioned that my birthday was coming up.

He asked,

"What are you planning?"

"Nothing."

"Why?"

"I don't really celebrate birthdays."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I just don't."

He looked at me and said,

"You should celebrate yourself more, not for anyone but for yourself."

That night, I actually bought myself a cake. 😂

I sat in my apartment, lit one candle and laughed at myself.

"Happy birthday, Yejide."

He had started teaching me how to care about myself. And because of that...
I started caring about what he thought of me too.

Every session, I'd think about what I was going to tell him. I'd choose what to wear. I'd make sure my hair looked nice.
I'd even check myself in the car mirror before walking into his office.

Then one day, I caught myself doing it.
I looked at my reflection and laughed.
"Yejide, what exactly are you doing?"
I had no answer.

Because somewhere along the line...
I had stopped looking forward to therapy. I had started looking forward to him. And that should have been my first warning.🤦‍♀️

The first strange thing happened on a Tuesday. I had just finished my session with Dr. Emmanuel when my phone rang.

It was my mother. I almost didn't answer.

"Hmmm. Hello, Mummy."

"Yejide, where are you?"

"At my therapist's office."

There was silence.

Then she asked,

"Again?"

I frowned.

"What do you mean, again?"

"So?"

"Nothing."

I knew that tone.

"Mummy..."

She sighed.

"I'm just saying. Don't become too dependent on these people."

I rolled my eyes.

"He's my therapist, not my boyfriend."

She laughed.

"Who said anything about boyfriend?"

"That's what you were implying."

"I'm not implying anything. I'm only saying be careful."

I didn't think much of it. Until I got into my car. I looked at myself in the mirror.
Then I remembered what she'd said.

"Don't become too dependent."

I laughed.

"Abeg."

I started the car and drove home.

I didn't know that my mother had noticed something I hadn't.

A few weeks later, Dr. Emmanuel cancelled one of our sessions.

It was the first time he'd ever done that.
I was already sitting in the waiting room when his receptionist came to me.

"Miss Yejide?"

"Yes?"

"Dr. Emmanuel won't be able to see you today."

I immediately sat up.

"Why?"

"Something came up."

"When will he be available?"

"Next week."

I nodded.

"Okay."

I stood up.

But something inside me felt strangely disappointed. Not because I needed therapy that day. I just wanted to see him. And that realization bothered me.

I drove home. I didn't call him. I didn't text him. But that evening, I kept checking my phone.

The next morning, still nothing.

By noon, I was irritated.

"Why am I waiting for this man's message?"

I dropped my phone on my bed.
Then picked it up again five minutes later.😂

At 6:14 p.m., a message finally came.

Dr. Emmanuel:
"I'm sorry about yesterday. I hope you're doing okay."

I stared at the message.
Then smiled.

Me: "I'm fine."

Three dots appeared.

Dr. Emmanuel:
"Good. See you next week."

That was it. Nothing romantic. Nothing inappropriate. Yet I read that message about seven times.

And that was when I knew something was wrong with me.😭

The following week, I walked into his office pretending nothing had happened.

He smiled.

"How was your week?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yes."

He looked at me.

"You're lying."

I laughed.

"How do you always know?"

"That's my job."

I sat down.

He opened his notebook.

But before he could say anything else, I asked,
"Why did you cancel last week?"

He looked up.

"Something came up."

"What?"

He smiled.

"That's not really relevant to your therapy."

I laughed.

"Yejide..."

"Hmmm?"

"Are you upset with me?"

"No."

"Then why have you been thinking about my cancellation all week?"

Hmmm, how did he know?

I looked away.

"I wasn't."

He smiled.

"You were."

I laughed nervously.

"Maybe I missed our session."

I hadn't planned to say it. It just came out.

His expression changed. Only for a second.

Then he said,

"I missed our conversations too."

I don't know what happened to me after that.

But my heart did it’s thing.🥲 Very stupid, yeah. And I knew it. I absolutely knew it.

Three weeks later, I was having a terrible day.

I had gotten into an argument with my boss, missed an important deadline and spent the entire afternoon feeling like I wanted to disappear.

Normally, I would wait until my next appointment.

But that day... I called the office.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Is Dr. Emmanuel available?"

"He's with a client."

"Oh."

I was about to hang up when the receptionist said,

"Would you like me to pass a message?"

I hesitated.
"No."

Then I heard a familiar voice in the background.

"Who is it?"

The receptionist said my name.

There was a pause.

Then Dr. Emmanuel came on the phone.

"Yejide?"

"Hi."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

He laughed softly.

"You're doing it again."

I smiled despite myself.

"I just had a bad day."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"You're not supposed to do therapy over the phone."

"I know."

He paused.

"But I'm asking as someone who cares about you."

That night, I couldn't stop thinking about it. And yeah, I started wondering if maybe he felt it too.

Whatever it was.

So, about two months later, I got a call from him.

Not the clinic. His personal number. I stared at it for almost ten seconds before answering.

"Hello?"

"Yejide?"

"Yes."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"I was checking on you."

I smiled.

"Why?"

"Because you mentioned your mother was coming to visit."

"Oh."

"How did it go?"

I laughed.

"She nearly drove me insane."

He laughed too.

We spoke for almost thirty minutes.

About my mother. My work. A movie I'd watched. His dog. Random things. Nothing serious. Nothing that sounded like therapy.

When we finally hung up, I sat on my bed staring at my phone.

Then Teni called.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"I’m home."

"Why do you sound like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like somebody just proposed to you."

I laughed.

"Abeg."

She laughed too.

"Wait..."

"Is this about your therapist?"

I stopped laughing.

"What?"

"Yejide."

"Hmmm?"

"Are you sleeping with this man?"

I nearly choked.

"What?!"

"I'm serious."

"No!"

"Are you attracted to him?"

I didn't answer.

That was answer enough.

Teni went quiet.

Then she said something that annoyed me.

"You need to be careful."

"Why?"

"Because he's your therapist."

"So?"

"So there's a power imbalance there."

I rolled my eyes.

"You've watched too many American movies."

"No, I'm serious."

"I know."

"Yejide..."

"I'm not going to marry him, Teni."

She sighed.

"I didn't say you were."

"Exactly."

"Just promise me you won't ignore red flags because you like him."

I promised.

The next month, while in therapy, I was talking to Dr Emmanuel about my fear of abandonment. I'd been telling him how difficult it was for me to trust people because everyone eventually left.

He listened to me.

Then he said,
"Maybe you're not afraid of people leaving."

I looked at him.

"Maybe you're afraid that if someone really knows you..."
"...they'll have a reason to leave."

I couldn't speak. Because yeah, maybe he was right.

He always seemed to know exactly where to touch. Emotionally. He knew my wounds. My insecurities.
My childhood. My relationships. My fears. He knew the parts of me I hid from everybody.

And somehow...
That made me feel safe with him.
After the session, I cried in my car.
I wasn't sad. I was overwhelmed.
Someone knew me. Really knew me. And hadn't left me.

Then, a few weeks later, he told me he was leaving the clinic.

I felt my stomach drop.

"What?"

"I'm opening my own practice."

"Oh."

I tried to sound normal.

"Where?" He told me.

It was closer to my office.

I smiled.

"That's good."

"Yeah."

He looked at me.

"But there's something else."

"What?"

He hesitated.

"I won't be able to continue working with you."I stared at him.

"Why?"

"It's better professionally."

I laughed awkwardly.

"But why?"

He looked uncomfortable.

"Because I don't think our therapeutic relationship is where it should be anymore."

I knew exactly what he meant.
And yet... I didn't want to admit it.

"What are you saying?"

He sighed.

"I'm saying you've become emotionally attached to me."

I looked down.

My face burned.

"That's embarrassing."

"It's not."

"It is."

"No, Yejide."

His voice softened.

"It's actually very common."

I nodded.

"That's why I'm referring you to another therapist."

I looked at him.

"So I won't see you again?"

"Not professionally."

I swallowed.

"Okay."

I stood up. He didn't. I walked to the door.

Then he called my name.
"Yejide."

I turned.

He looked at me for a long moment.

"I care about you."

My heart started beating.

"I know."

"I want you to heal."

"I know."

"And I don't want to hurt you."

I smiled sadly.

"Okay."

I left.

I cried the entire drive home.

For three weeks, I saw another therapist. Her name was Dr. Sarah.
She was kind. Very kind actually.
She was very professional.
And I hated every minute of it.

Not because she was bad.
But because she wasn't him.
So, I kept comparing them.

"Dr. Emmanuel used to..."
"Dr. Emmanuel understood..."
"Dr. Emmanuel would..."

One day, Dr. Sarah finally stopped me.

"Yejide."

"Hmmm?"

"I think you're still grieving your previous therapeutic relationship."

I laughed.

"Is that even a thing?"

"Yes."

She looked at me."And I think you need to let yourself grieve it instead of trying to recreate it."

That annoyed me kind of. What did she mean by that?

I didn't return the following week.
I thought I was done with therapy.

Until one Friday evening...

Dr. Emmanuel called.
I stared at the phone.

Then I answered.

"Hello?"

"Hi."

"How are you?"

"Fine."

"You're lying."

I laughed.

"Why do you still do that?"
"Because you still do it."

We both laughed.

Then there was silence.

He said,
"I've been thinking about you."

My heart dropped.

Then he said,
"I miss you, Yejide."

I was happy, I felt wanted. Not as a patient. Or as someone broken. But as a woman.

He asked me to dinner.
I said yes.

The dinner was supposed to be simple.
Just to eat, have a real conversation.
Nothing more.

But the moment I saw him sitting at the restaurant...
It felt very different. He wasn't my therapist anymore. He was just Emmanuel. A man I already trusted.🥹

We talked for hours. He finally told me about his childhood. His parents. His failed relationship.

He was vulnerable with me too.

At some point, he reached across the table and held my hand. I looked at him.

"Is this okay?"

I nodded.

He squeezed my hand.

We became two people sitting across from each other, pretending we didn't know where this was going.

When he dropped me off that night, he hugged me. A very long one actually.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," he whispered.

I smiled. "So have I."

We started dating quietly. I didn't tell Teni immediately.

When I finally did... She was silent.

"Say something."

She shook her head.

"Yejide..."

"I know what you're going to say."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"What am I going to say?"

"That he's my therapist."

"He WAS your therapist."

"Exactly."

She looked at me.

"How long ago did therapy end?"

"Three months."

She sighed.

"Okay."

"That's all?"

"No."

"What?"

"I just hope you know what you're doing."

"I do."

At the time...
I genuinely believed I did. Emmanuel was amazing. Oh, he was so amazing. He was very patient with me. He remembered everything, knew when I was overwhelmed, knew when I needed space. He knew exactly how to calm me down. I thought I'd found the perfect man.

Six months after our first date...
He proposed.

He came to my apartment with flowers.
I thought he wanted to take me out.
Instead, he got down on one knee.
I laughed.

"Emmanuel, what are you doing?"

He smiled.

"Something I've wanted to do for a while."

I covered my mouth.

"Are you serious?"

"Very."

He opened the box.

"Yejide, I've watched you become the woman you are today."

My eyes filled with tears.

"I want to spend the rest of my life watching you grow."

I started crying.

"Will you marry me?"

I said yes. Of course I said yes.

I called Teni immediately.

"I'm engaged!"

"To Emmanuel?"

"Yes!"

"Yejide..."

"What?"

"Are you happy?"

I laughed.

"I'm extremely happy!" She sighed.

"Okay."

That "okay" bothered me. But I ignored it. I was getting married. To the man I loved. The man who knew me better than anyone. What could possibly go wrong?

The wedding was beautiful. It was small, elegant with my family and friends.

Everybody was happy. My mother was happy too. She finally allowed me do my thing. I mean, marrying my therapist isn’t wrong, right?

When we said our vows... I cried.
When he put the ring on my finger... I cried again.

When we kissed... Everybody cheered.

I remember thinking,
"This is it."
"I've finally found my person."

And for the first few months... Marriage was beautiful. It was so beautiful. We travelled for our honeymoon. We cooked together. We watched movies in bed. He'd leave little notes for me.

I'd pack his lunch. We'd argue over what to eat. It was normal, sweet, basically everything I'd imagined.

Then...
Little things started changing.

The first time it happened, I was telling him about an argument I'd had with my mother. He was scrolling through his phone.

I kept talking.

He wasn't listening.

"Emmanuel?""Hmm?"

"Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"What did I just say?"

He looked up.

"I don't know."

I laughed.

"You weren't listening."

"I'm tired."

I nodded.

"It's okay."

But it wasn't the first time.
Then it happened again. And again.

The man who used to listen to every word I said...
Was suddenly irritated whenever I wanted to talk about my feelings.

One night, I was feeling very sad.
He looked at me.

"Yejide, you're overthinking again."

I froze.

"Excuse me?"

"You're making something bigger than it is. What is your problem?" I stared at him.

He'd never spoken to me like that before.

"But I'm hurt."

"I know."

"Then why are you dismissing me?"

"I'm not dismissing you."

"You are."

He sighed.

"Maybe this is why you were always anxious during therapy."

I was shocked! Did he just say that to me?

Suddenly...
He wasn't talking to me as my husband.
He was talking to me like my therapist again. And I hated it.

It got worse. Oh, it got so worse.

Whenever we argued, he would bring up things I'd told him during therapy. Things I had shared when I was vulnerable. Things I'd never told another person.

"You've always had abandonment issues."

"You know you get anxious when you don't feel in control."

"This is your insecurity talking."

I would stare at him.

"Stop analyzing me."

"I'm not analyzing you."

"You are!"

"I'm trying to understand you."

"No."

I shook my head.

"You're using things I told you when I was vulnerable to win arguments."

"You're just being dramatic."

I picked up a pillow and slept on the couch.

The next morning, he apologized.
"I'm sorry."
"I shouldn't have said those things."

"Okay."

"Come here."

He hugged me.

He kissed my forehead. And because I loved him... I forgot about it. But something had changed. I started becoming careful about what I told my own husband.

I started filtering myself around him. Because I knew that anything I said could eventually be used against me.

We were having dinner one evening when his phone lit up. A woman's name.

Sarah.

I recognized it immediately.
The therapist I'd seen after him.
I laughed.

"Oh, you still talk to her?"
He looked up too quickly.

"Who?"

"Sarah."

"She's a colleague."

"Okay."

I didn't think much of it.

Until I saw the message preview.

"I don't think marrying her was a good idea."

My stomach dropped.

I looked at him.

He quickly picked up his phone.

"Why is she saying that?"

"Yejide..."

"Why is she saying that?"

He sighed.

"It's complicated."

"What is complicated?"

He didn't answer.

I stood up.

"Emmanuel."

He looked at me.

"Did you talk to Sarah about me?"

"Yes."

"About our marriage?"

He didn't answer.

"What did you tell her?"

"Nothing important."

"Then why does she think marrying me was a bad idea?"

He rubbed his forehead.

"Because she thinks our relationship started too soon after therapy."

I laughed. Not because it was funny.
But because I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"She thinks?"

"Yes."

"And what do you think?"

He looked at me.

"I love you."

"That's not what I asked."

He didn’t say anything after that.

I walked away.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about one thing. Dr. Sarah knew something. Something I didn't.

The next morning, I called her.
She didn't answer. I tried again.
Nothing.

I sent a message.

"Please call me. I need to ask you something about Emmanuel."

She called twenty minutes later.
"Yejide..."

Her voice sounded tired.
"What happened?"

She sighed.

"I don't know if I should be talking to you about this."

"Please."She was silent.
Then she said,

"I tried to warn you."
My stomach tightened.

"About what?"

"About him."

"Why?"

"Because I saw how attached you had become."

I swallowed.

"But he stopped being my therapist."

"Yes."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Yejide..."

She paused.

"Your feelings were never the problem."

"Then what was?"

"The timing."

I sat down.

"What do you mean?"

"He knew you were emotionally dependent on him."

I couldn't speak.

"He knew exactly how much you trusted him."

"He knew what you had gone through."

"He knew you were vulnerable."

I shook my head.

"No."

"He should have referred you out and kept professional distance."

"He did."

"Not completely."

My hands started shaking.
"What are you saying?"

"He called you."
"He contacted you."
"He told you he missed you."
"He invited you to dinner."

"Yejide, he knew what he was doing."
I stood up.

"So you're saying he manipulated me?"
"I can't tell you what to call it."
"But I can tell you this."
"You were his patient."
"And he knew that."

The call ended.

I sat on the floor. For almost an hour.
I couldn't cry. I couldn't scream. I just sat there. Because suddenly... I was remembering everything.

I mean every little thing.
Every message, every phone call, every time he'd said he cared, every time he'd told me I was special, every time he'd told me nobody understood me like he did.

And at this time, those things didn't sound romantic anymore, they sounded calculated.

Emmanuel changed in tiny ways that made me question myself before I ever questioned him.

He finally stopped asking about my day.
I'd come home excited about something that happened at work.

"Emmanuel, guess what?"

"Hmm?"

"My boss finally approved the project."

"That's good."

I'd wait for more.

Nothing.

Sometimes he'd be on his phone while I was talking. Sometimes he'd nod without looking up. Eventually, I'd just stop talking.

One evening, I finally asked him.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You've been distant."

He sighed.

"Yejide, I'm tired."

"I'm not asking for anything big. I'm just saying I miss you."

He looked at me.

"You've become too needy."

"Needy?"

"Yes."

I laughed awkwardly.

"How?"

"You want me to constantly reassure you. I'm not always going to have the energy for that."

I nodded slowly.

"Okay."

Then he went back to his phone.

A tiny voice in my head kept saying,
"Maybe he's right."

After all...
He was the therapist, lol.

A few weeks later, I started noticing that he was coming home late. At first, it was work.

Then it was traffic.
Then a colleague needed his help.

One Thursday, he came home almost midnight. I was sitting on the couch waiting for him.

"Where have you been?"

He dropped his keys.

"Work."

"Since morning?"

"Yes."

"You didn't think to call?"

He looked at me.

"Yejide, please."

"Please what?"

"I'm tired."

I stood up.

"I'm your wife. I'm asking you a simple question."

"And I'm answering you."

His tone was sharp.

I stared at him.

"Okay."

I went to bed.

He came in almost an hour later. I pretended to be asleep. I heard him shower. Then his phone vibrated.

Once. Twice. Three times. I opened my eyes. He picked it up. Looked at the screen. And smiled.

The kind of smile you give when you see a message from someone you're excited to hear from.

Then he walked back into the bathroom.

I sat up. My heart started beating. I didn't touch his phone. I didn't even know why I was suddenly suspicious.

But that night... I couldn't sleep.

The next morning, I asked casually,
"Who was texting you last night?"

He looked at me.

"Who?"

"Your phone."He laughed.

"My phone?"

"Yes."

"Why are you monitoring my phone now?"

I frowned.

"I'm not monitoring anything."

"You asked me who was texting me.""Because it was midnight."

"So?"

"So I was curious."

He shook his head.

"Yejide, this is exactly what I'm talking about."

"What?"

"Your anxiety."

"My anxiety?"

"You're looking for problems where there aren't any."

I stared at him.

"I only asked a question."

"And I'm telling you there is nothing."

"Okay."

He kissed my forehead.

"Stop overthinking."

Then he left.

I stood there for a while.

And once again...

I wondered if I was the problem.

Then the little things became bigger.
He started guarding his phone.
Before, he'd leave it anywhere.
On the dining table. On the couch. Even, on the kitchen.

Now... It was always in his hand.
He changed his password.
Started taking it into the bathroom.
Even when he was showering.

One afternoon, I laughed.

"Are you expecting a very important call?"

He smiled.

"Why?"

"You and this phone."

"It's work."

"Okay."

I smiled. But something inside me had already started screaming.

Then I saw the name.

Sarah.

Again.

I was in the kitchen making breakfast when his phone lit up on the counter. He had probably mistakenly dropped it there.

I wasn't trying to look. I swear.😭
But the notification was right there.


My hands stopped moving. I stared at the screen.

Then I heard footsteps. I quickly looked away.

Emmanuel walked into the kitchen.
He picked up his phone. Looked at me.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Who is Sarah?"

He froze for a second.
Then he laughed.

"Sarah?"

"Yes."

"I already told you she’s my colleague now."

I stared at him.

"Your colleague misses last night?"

His face changed.

"Yejide..."

"Don't."

I stepped back.

"Don't call me anxious."

He went quiet.

"Don't tell me I'm imagining things."

"You're misunderstanding the message."

"What exactly am I misunderstanding?"

He didn't answer.

"Are you sleeping with her?"

My heart broke before he even answered.

"No."

He said it too quickly.

"No."I nodded.

"Okay."

I turned around. But something told me that wasn't the end of it.

That afternoon, I called Dr. Sarah.
She didn't answer.
I called again. Still Nothing.

I sent her a message.
Please call me. It's important.
She replied almost two hours later.

I can't talk right now.

I stared at the message.

Then typed: I saw your message to Emmanuel.

She didn't respond.

Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.

Then finally...

Yejide, I'm sorry.

You guysss😭 my heart dropped.

I didn't need another explanation.
I already knew.

When Emmanuel came home that evening, I was waiting for him. He walked in. Saw me. And stopped.

"You know."

I nodded.

"Yes."

He put his keys down.

"Yejide..."

"How long?"

He didn't answer.

"How long have you been sleeping with her?"

He rubbed his face.

"It's not what you think."

I laughed.

"What exactly do I think?"

"It's complicated."

"No."

I shook my head.

"It's actually very simple."

"You cheated on me."

He sat down. I remained standing.

"How long?"

"Months."

I felt something inside me crack.

"Months?"

"It wasn't serious."

I laughed.

"You've been sleeping with another woman for months and you're telling me it wasn't serious?"

"I made a mistake."

"A mistake?"

He nodded.

"Yes."

I looked at him.

"You came home to me every night."

"Yes."

"You kissed me."

"Yes."

"You told me you loved me."

"I do love you."

"And you were sleeping with her?"

He looked down.

I started crying.

Then I asked the question that would haunt me.

"Was she the only one?"

He didn't answer.

I knew.

"Emmanuel."

He looked at me.

"No."My mouth fell open.

"Who else?"

"Yejide..."

"WHO ELSE?"

He sighed.

"There was someone else."

I sat down.

"Someone else?"

He nodded.

"Who?"

"Her name is Lara."

I laughed. I actually laughed.

Because at that point...

What else was I supposed to do?

"How many women?"

"Two."

"Two?"

"Yes."

I stared at him.

"And you expect me to believe that's all?"

He didn't answer.

I stood up.

"Get out."

"Yejide."

"Get out of my house."

"This is my house too."

"Get out of my house."

"This is my house too," he replied.

I looked at him.

"Then sleep in the guest room."

So he left and slept in the guest room.

That night... I didn't sleep at all.

The next morning, I called Sarah.This time... She answered.

"I know about Lara too," I said.

Then she whispered,

"How did you find out?"

I laughed bitterly.

"So there really is another woman."

"Yes."

"How long?""Longer than me. I knew about her too when I and Emmanuel started having an affair."

I sat down.

"Sarah..."

"Hmm?"

"Why did you do this?"

She went quiet.

"I don't know."

"You know he was married to me, right?"

"Yes."

"And you still..."

"I know."

Her voice cracked.

"I know."

"Yejide, there's something you need to know."

"What?""Emmanuel has been lying to you about more than the women."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"He told me you were emotionally unstable."

I froze.

"He said what?"

"He said your marriage was difficult because you were extremely dependent on him."

I couldn't breathe.

"Why would he tell you that?"

"He said you were controlling."

I laughed.

"Me?"

"He said you were always suspicious."I felt sick.

"So he was telling you all these about me?"

"Yes."

"What exactly did he tell you?"

She hesitated.

"He told me you had abandonment issues, which I myself knew about during our sessions."

I closed my eyes.

Of course. My wounds. He had taken them outside our marriage. And used them to explain me to another woman.

But Sarah wasn't finished.

"He also told Lara."
My eyes opened.

“Wait, this Lara girl, who is she?”

“She’s our colleague.”

"What?"

"Yeah, and he told both of us that you were emotionally unstable."

I couldn't speak.

Then she said,

"He made both of us believe you were the reason the marriage wasn't working."That one hurt differently. Because this wasn't just cheating anymore.

He had been building a story about me.
A story where I was the problem. A story where he was the patient husband trying to cope with his difficult wife.

And he had two women believing it.

I confronted him that evening.
"Why did you tell Sarah and Lara that I'm emotionally unstable?"He stared at me.

"Who told you that?"

"Answer me."

"You've been talking to Sarah?"

"Answer me!"

He sighed.

"Because it's true.""What?"

"You've always struggled emotionally."

I stared at him.

"You are actually doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Using my own trauma against me."

"I'm not."

"You told them I'm unstable."

"Because you are sometimes."

I felt tears in my eyes.

"I trusted you."

"I know."

"No."

I shook my head.

"You don't."

"I told you everything."

"I know."

I pointed at him.

"And you memorized all of it."

He looked confused.

"That's what therapists do."

"No."
I shook my head.

"That's what my husband did."

He didn't respond. For once... He had nothing to say.I started going through the things he'd told me over the past year. The nights he'd stayed out. The phone calls. The messages. The strange explanations. And something didn't add up.

So I asked Sarah.

"Was Emmanuel already seeing you before he married me?"

"Sarah?"

She sighed.

"Yes."

My entire body went cold.

"When?"

"Before the wedding."

I couldn't speak.

"How long?"

"About three months before."

I closed my eyes.

The whole time we were dating, planning our wedding, saying his vows, while sleeping with Sarah.I remembered our wedding day. His face. Everything he said. The way he held my hand. The way he'd looked into my eyes and said, "I choose you."

Liar. Bloody liar!!!😭

That night, Emmanuel came home.
I was sitting on the couch.

My bags were packed. He looked at them.

"No."

I didn't answer."Yejide, please."

"I'm leaving."

"Where?"

"Anywhere that isn't here."

He came closer. I stepped back.

He stopped and said, "I can explain."

"No."

“I love you.”

“No.”

“Please.”

I shook my head.

“You don’t love me.”

He looked hurt.

“I do.”

"No."

I wiped my tears.

"You love knowing me."

He stared at me.

"You love knowing what makes me afraid, you love knowing what makes me stay, you love knowing exactly what to say when I'm about to leave."He was crying now. But I was done.

"Maybe you did help me once."

I picked up my bag.

"Maybe you really did help me heal. But somewhere along the way, you became the person I needed healing from."

He looked at me as I walked out.

I've been living alone for some months now.
We're still technically married.

The divorce papers are on my dining table. I haven't signed them yet. Not because I want him back. But because ending a marriage is harder than people think. Especially when you loved the person.

Sometimes I miss him. Oh, I miss him.🥹
Sometimes I remember the good Emmanuel.
The man who taught me that my feelings mattered.

Then I remember that he was also the man who cheated on me with two women. So I guess he was just doing his job after all. And I should never had fallen in love with him.

Maybe one day I'll forgive him. Maybe I won't.
But I know this now: Understanding someone's behavior does not mean you have to tolerate it. You can understand why someone became the way they are... And still decide they are not good for you.You can love someone... And still leave.
You can miss someone... And still choose yourself. And perhaps most importantly... You can finally understand your emotions without allowing somebody else to use them to control you.

You can understand that you have abandonment issues and work on it to become a better person not fall in love with who was trained to help you heal.

For the longest time, I thought I needed someone to understand me. Now... I actually want to understand myself.

And that is why I wrote Permission to Feel, Freedom to Live.

Because Yejide's story isn't really about a therapist who cheated on his wife. It's about what happens when we spend our entire lives learning how to understand everybody else...
But never learning how to understand ourselves.

It's about the woman who keeps asking,
"Am I overreacting?"
"Am I too emotional?"
"Am I asking for too much?"
"Maybe it's my fault."

It's about the woman who has been taught to doubt her own feelings so many times that she no longer knows when something is hurting her.

And I wrote this book because your emotions are trying to tell you something. Your anger. Your sadness. Your fear. Your jealousy. Your guilt. Your loneliness. Even the feelings you don't know how to explain. They deserve to be understood.

Permission to Feel, Freedom to Live is for the woman who wants to finally understand herself, process what she's carrying, and stop being ashamed of the things she feels. Because you cannot heal what you refuse to acknowledge.
And you cannot truly live freely when you're constantly at war with your own emotions.

If you've ever read one of my stories and thought, "Girl, this is literally me."

Then please... Get this book. Not because I think every woman needs another book telling her how to live. But because I want you to have a language for the things you've been feeling. I want you to understand the little girl you used to be. I want you to understand the woman you've become.

And I want you to finally give yourself permission to feel everything you've spent years trying to suppress.🥹✨

Today is Day 100 of my 100-day newsletter challenge, and I feel a little emotional to finally write those words. When I started this challenge, I thought I knew what the next 100 days would look like. I wanted to challenge myself to write more, become more consistent with my newsletter, and see what would happen if I gave myself 100 days to just keep showing up. What I did not expect was how much would happen in those 100 days. Looking back now, I realize that this was never just 100 days of writing. It was 100 days of my life, and a lot happened in that time. I wrote a book. Yeah, my debut book. I launched the book. I watched something I had spent so much time working on finally leave my hands and become something other people could read. There were so many emotions that came with that, and there were days when the book took up most of my attention.

So, naturally, the newsletter did not always get the attention I wanted to give it. I took breaks. A lot of them, actually. There were times when I disappeared from Substack for a while, and I would come back wondering how I had managed to stay away for so long. Sometimes I was busy, sometimes I was tired, and sometimes I simply did not just feel like writing. There were also times when I had something to say but did not have the energy to sit down and turn it into a proper newsletter. At first, I felt like those breaks meant I was doing the challenge badly. I had started with this idea that I needed to be perfectly consistent, and whenever I missed a few days, I felt like I had failed. But somewhere along the way, I stopped looking at it that way. I realized that life was happening at the same time I was trying to complete this challenge. I was not living inside a challenge. I was living my actual life, and the challenge had to fit into it. That meant there would be days when writing came easily and days when it did not. There would be weeks when I had plenty to say and weeks when I had nothing. There would be other things that needed my attention. There would be breaks. And there were.

What matters to me now is that I kept coming back. I did not write every single day, but I did not abandon the challenge either. I kept returning to it until I eventually got here. And that is something I will remember from this experience. Sometimes we make ourselves believe that if we cannot do something perfectly, then we should not do it at all. We think missing a day means we have ruined everything. We think taking a break means we have lost our discipline. But I have learned that you can pause and still continue. You can have a messy process and still get to the end. You can lose your rhythm and find it again. When I look through the newsletters I wrote during these 100 days, I can also see little pieces of myself at different points in time. Some were about things I was thinking about. Some were about things I was learning. Some came from conversations I had. Some came from experiences I was going through. Some were simply thoughts I wanted to get out of my head. That is one of the things I love about writing. You do not always realize what you are doing while you are doing it. You are just writing something because it is on your mind, and then later you look back and realize that you have created a record of a particular period of your life. That is what these newsletters have become for me. They are little reminders of where my mind was at different times. And then there is the fact that I became an author during these 100 days. That still feels a little crazy to say. I started this challenge as someone who wanted to write more, and somewhere in the middle of it, I wrote and launched my own book. Permission to Feel, Freedom to Live became a real thing. People bought it. People read it. People talked to me about it. Something that had existed mostly in my head and on my laptop became something that other people actually read. I do not think I fully appreciated how much was happening while it was happening because I was too busy doing it. Now that I am sitting here on Day 100, I can actually look back and see it.

A hundred days is not as long as it sounds, but so much can happen in that amount of time. You can start something and finish it. You can create something you have been thinking about for a long time. You can change your mind about things. You can learn new things about yourself. You can have good days and terrible ones. You can get tired, take a break, come back, and keep going. You can look completely different from the person who started. I’m taking this away from this challenge. Not that I managed to write every single day, because I didn't. Not that I was perfectly disciplined, because I wasn't. I am proud because I started something that mattered to me, life happened, I took breaks, I got distracted, I came back, and somehow, I still made it to Day 100. I do not know what the next 100 days will bring, and I am not going to make a big promise about writing here every single day this time. I just know that I want to keep writing for you all. I want to keep sharing my thoughts with over 8000 of you. I want to keep creating. And I want to give myself room to be a human being while I do it. Thank you for always engaging with all my content. I love y’all.

Sometimes I cry when people I love are happy. Yeah, it can be at a wedding, when a friend tells me good news, or when I see someone finally receive the love they have always wanted. Nothing sad has happened. I am simply just happy for them, and the feeling becomes too much for me to keep inside sometimes.

I used to think crying was mostly connected to sadness. That made sense to me because sadness is usually what we expect tears to mean. But happiness can bring tears too. So can gratitude. So can relief. Sometimes we are just so full of a feeling that our eyes become the easiest way for it to come out.

It says a lot about how we love people. When someone matters to us, their happiness can make us genuinely happy too. We do not need to be the person receiving the good news for it to touch us. Seeing someone we care about finally find a good job, achieve something they have worked hard for, or simply feel loved can make us feel proud and grateful.

You may know how much that person has been through. You may know the things they have cried about, the disappointments they have had, or how long they have waited for something good to happen. So when it finally does, you understand why the moment means so much.

Sometimes you are not even thinking about your own life. You are just looking at them and thinking, I am so happy that this happened to you. Then the tears come.

I like to call them “beautiful tears."

They mean we allowed the moment to reach us. We did not try to make ourselves less emotional because other people might think we were doing too much. We felt something good and let ourselves feel it.

That matters because many of us have become very careful with our feelings. We have been disappointed before. We have seen relationships end. We have trusted people and regretted it. Because of this, it can become easier to protect ourselves than to fully enjoy what is happening in front of us.

Sometimes even happiness makes us nervous.

We wonder how long it will last. We start thinking about what could go wrong. We hold ourselves back because we do not want to get too excited and then get hurt.

But there are moments when we should just let ourselves be happy. If your friend is happy, be happy with her. If someone you love has finally found a person who treats them well, enjoy that for them. If your sister achieves something she has worked hard for, let yourself feel proud. Their happiness does not reduce yours.

It is one of the nicest things about love. We can have room in our hearts for another person's joy.

We do not always need to be the center of the good thing happening. Sometimes it is enough to watch someone we love receive something beautiful and know that they deserve it.

That kind of love is very honest. It does not ask, What about me? It simply says, I am glad this happened to you. And sometimes, that feeling can bring tears.

I also think these moments can remind us of what we want for ourselves. Watching someone experience a healthy relationship can remind us that good love exists. Seeing a friend reach a goal can make us believe that our own goals are possible too. Watching someone be cared for can remind us how important it is to have people who make us feel safe and loved.

We may not want exactly what they have, but we can still appreciate what it means. Which is why I do not think we should be embarrassed when beautiful things make us emotional.

If a wedding makes you cry, let it. If your friend's happiness makes you tear up, let it. If seeing someone you love finally get the life they wanted makes your chest feel full, let yourself enjoy that feeling.

Not every tear needs to come from pain. Some tears are simply the heart's way of celebrating. And we should be grateful that we can still feel love this deeply.

Life gives us many reasons to become guarded. I would rather not let those experiences take away my ability to be moved by something good. I want to be able to see people I love being loved and feel happy for them. I want their good news to mean something to me. I want to have enough softness left in me to cry when something beautiful happens.

Because when love can still move us to tears, it means we have not stopped caring. And that is something worth keeping.

I came across the words "performative femininity" recently, and they made me stop.

I have been more interested in reading and understanding things beyond the surface these days, so I did what I usually do when a word catches my attention. I started reading about it.

At first, I thought it would be a simple conversation about women being feminine for attention. It turned out to be much more interesting than that.

The idea made me think about how much of what we call femininity is actually personal preference and how much of it comes from learning what gets us approval.

From a young age, many girls learn that certain behaviors make people respond to them differently. Being pretty gets attention. Being agreeable gets praised. Being helpful makes people like us. Being soft can make us seem easier to love. Being assertive can sometimes get a very different reaction.

We notice these things.

A girl may not sit down and decide, I am going to behave this way because people will like me more. She just notices that certain parts of her personality receive better reactions, so she brings those parts forward more often.

Performative Femininity does not necessarily mean that a woman is pretending to be someone she is not. Sometimes the behavior is genuinely part of her personality. The question is what happens when an audience enters the picture.

Do we still behave this way when nobody is watching? Do we still want these things when there is nothing to gain from them?

A woman can genuinely love dresses, makeup, soft colors, cooking, being affectionate, speaking gently, or enjoying traditionally feminine things. None of that automatically makes her performative. Femininity itself is not the problem. The interesting part is what happens when femininity becomes something we use to get a certain response.

Maybe we become softer around men because we know they respond well to it. Maybe we suddenly become more helpless because being capable does not get us the same kind of attention. Maybe we change the way we speak because we have noticed that certain women receive more approval when they sound less confident.

Social media has made this even more complicated.

We are constantly watching other women present themselves. We see what gets comments, likes, praise, and attention. We learn which kinds of pictures perform well. We notice which personalities attract followers. We see women being rewarded for looking delicate, desirable, agreeable, or effortlessly beautiful.

It is difficult to consume all of that and remain completely unaffected by it. Sometimes we start presenting ourselves according to what we have learned gets rewarded.

We may then eventually forget where the behavior came from. What started as something we chose because it worked can become part of how we see ourselves.

This is not accusing women of being fake. People adjust themselves to their surroundings all the time. We change how we speak at work. We behave differently around family. We are more relaxed with close friends than we are around strangers. So the question is not whether we ever perform. The question is whether we still know who we are when the performance is no longer necessary.

Femininity comes with so many expectations. We are expected to be attractive but not obsessed with our appearance. We should be confident but not intimidating. We should be independent but still make men feel needed. We should have opinions but know when to be agreeable. We should have boundaries but remain pleasant while enforcing them.

Trying to meet all of these expectations can make a woman very aware of how she is being perceived. Eventually, she may start watching herself while she is living, which can be very exhausting.

Performative femininity can be very harmful. When being liked becomes more important than being honest with ourselves, we can start making choices based on the reaction we expect rather than what we actually want.

A woman may say yes because she wants to be seen as nice. She may avoid saying what she thinks because she does not want to seem difficult. She may accept treatment she dislikes because she believes being understanding makes her more lovable. She may even struggle to figure out what she genuinely likes because she has spent so much time learning what other people like about her.

How do we know what is really ours?

Would I still dress this way if nobody saw me?

Would I still speak this softly if I knew nobody's opinion of me would change?

Would I still want this relationship if I knew I would not receive any validation from being chosen?

Would I still enjoy this lifestyle if I could never post it online?

These questions are not meant to make us suspicious of every feminine thing we enjoy.

They are meant to help us separate preference from performance. Because there is nothing wrong with wanting to look beautiful. There is nothing wrong with enjoying being soft. There is nothing wrong with wanting romance. There is absolutely nothing wrong with liking traditionally feminine things.

The problem starts when we feel that we have to become a certain version of a woman to deserve love, attention, safety, or belonging.

The more I read about this, the more I became interested in the idea of knowing yourself well enough to notice when you are changing for approval.

Maybe the goal is not to remove every form of performance from our lives. That would be impossible. The goal is to have enough self-awareness to know when we are making a choice because we genuinely want it and when we are making it because we have learned that this version of us gets a better response.

Femininity should be something we can explore, enjoy, and express without feeling like we have to use it as a strategy. We should be able to be soft because softness feels natural to us.

We should be able to be strong without worrying that strength makes us less feminine. We should be able to enjoy looking beautiful without turning our appearance into our entire identity. We should be able to say no without spending the next hour wondering whether we sounded too harsh. And we should be able to change our minds about what womanhood looks like for us.

The more I think about performative femininity, the less interested I become in asking, “Is this woman performing?”

I am more interested in asking, “Does she feel like herself?”

A woman can be traditionally feminine and completely authentic. Another woman can reject almost every traditional idea of femininity and still be performing for approval.

We don’t talk enough about how easy it has become to experience a moment while already thinking about how to document it.

We can be somewhere beautiful, surrounded by people we care about, and still have part of our attention somewhere else. Our phones are within reach. We are thinking about taking a picture, choosing a caption, posting a story, or finding a way to make the moment look as good as it feels.

The experience itself can start feeling incomplete without the record of it.

A beautiful meal becomes something to photograph. A trip becomes something to post. A birthday becomes something to capture from every possible angle. Even a simple afternoon with friends can turn into something we feel we should document.

There is nothing wrong with taking pictures or sharing parts of our lives. Photos help us keep memories. Sharing things can be fun. Documenting important moments can make us happy.

The problem comes when documenting becomes automatic. When we cannot sit through a beautiful moment without reaching for our phones, we may start losing our ability to simply be where we are.

We can become half-present without noticing it.

Our bodies are in the room, but our minds are already thinking about the picture. We are listening to someone talk while wondering whether we should check our notifications. We are enjoying ourselves while deciding how the experience should look to other people.

That can make an ordinary moment feel like a performance.

Social media has made this especially easy because we see other people's lives presented in their best form every day. A dinner is not just dinner anymore. It can become a beautiful table setting, a restaurant recommendation, a photo dump, or a story about the evening.

A holiday becomes an itinerary and a collection of pictures. A relationship becomes anniversary posts and photographs. A good day becomes something we feel the need to prove happened. The pressure does not always come from other people. Sometimes we create it ourselves.

We start judging our experiences by how interesting they are. We wonder whether we are having enough fun, whether our lives look good enough, or whether a particular moment deserves to be remembered.

That can take us away from the actual experience.

Instead of asking, Am I enjoying this? we start asking, Is this good enough?

Not every beautiful moment needs to become content. Some conversations can stay between the people who had them. Some meals can be eaten without taking a picture. Some trips can have a few photographs instead of hundreds. Some happy memories can exist without being shared with anyone. A moment does not become more meaningful because other people know about it.

In fact, some experiences can feel better when we are not thinking about how they will appear from the outside.

Think about the last time you became so interested in a conversation that you forgot to check your phone. Or the last time you listened to music without doing anything else. Perhaps you have sat somewhere and watched people pass by without feeling the need to record what you were seeing.

Nothing needed to be added. The experience did not need a caption to become meaningful.

This also applies to the pressure we put on ourselves to improve every part of our lives. We are constantly being encouraged to become better versions of ourselves. Better careers. Better bodies. Better relationships. Better routines. Better finances. Better habits.

Self-improvement can be useful, but it can also become exhausting when we stop allowing ourselves to simply exist.

A good day does not always need to become a productive day. A peaceful afternoon does not need to teach us something. Rest does not need to be turned into a wellness routine. Sometimes a moment can just be enjoyed.

That is becoming harder to remember because we are so used to turning experiences into something useful. We take the picture. We write the caption.

We share the lesson. We move on to the next thing.

Then years pass, and we may realize that we spent a lot of time recording our lives without giving ourselves enough time to actually experience them.

Life is happening while we are busy trying to capture it. So perhaps it is worth putting the phone away sometimes. Not because documenting our lives is bad. Just long enough to find out what it feels like to experience something without thinking about how it will look to anyone else.

Watch the sunset without taking a picture. Enjoy dinner without reaching for your phone. Have the conversation and let it remain between you. Laugh until you forget that you are supposed to be taking pictures. Let a good day belong entirely to you.

Treating cruelty, deliberate meanness, or constant antagonism as an identity or a badge of honor is usually a dead end.

It can feel powerful for a while. Being the person who always has a harsh response can attract attention, and making people uncomfortable can create a sense of control. Some people even enjoy being known as the person who does not care about anyone’s feelings.

But eventually, there is not much left underneath it.

Being honest is not the same as being cruel. Having strong opinions does not require you to insult people. Setting boundaries does not mean you have to punish someone for crossing them. Anger can be justified without turning it into a reason to hurt everyone around you. There is a point where being “real” becomes an excuse for being unpleasant.

I think this social media era has made this especially easy to confuse. Someone says something deliberately harsh, people start arguing in the comments, the post gets shared everywhere, and the person receives attention for it. After a while, they may start believing that the attention means they are powerful or interesting.

It does not.

People being shocked by you is not the same as people respecting you. Being disliked is not automatically proof that you are authentic, and making people uncomfortable does not mean you are confident. Sometimes, it simply means you have learned that cruelty gets a reaction. That reaction can become addictive. You say something nasty. People respond. You feel important. You do it again. The behavior becomes part of the image you have created for yourself, and eventually you may feel like you have to keep playing that role.

That is where it becomes sad. When people have known you for long enough as the person who is always rude, always dismissive, always ready to embarrass somebody, they may stop bringing their real selves around you. They become careful. They think twice before telling you something personal. They may laugh at your jokes while making sure you never know anything that could make them vulnerable.

You can end up surrounded by people and still have very little real connection with them. That is not strength. It is isolation.

There is also a difference between refusing to be a people-pleaser and becoming someone who enjoys hurting people. We need boundaries. We need to say no. We need to tell people when they have crossed a line. We need to leave relationships that are unhealthy. Sometimes we need to be very direct. None of those things require cruelty.

You can tell someone the truth without trying to humiliate them. You can walk away without making sure they suffer first. You can be angry without making anger your entire personality. I think real confidence gives us less reason to be cruel. When you know who you are, you do not need to make somebody else feel small to feel important. You do not need an audience to prove that you are tough. You do not need to hurt people before they get the chance to hurt you.

Sometimes cruelty is used as protection. A person may have been hurt so many times that being soft begins to feel unsafe. Caring becomes embarrassing. Vulnerability feels like giving someone ammunition. So they become harder.

They joke when they are hurt. They dismiss people before they can be rejected. They act like nothing matters because admitting that something matters would make them feel exposed.

At first, that can be a way of protecting yourself. But if you stay there long enough, the protection can become a prison. You can become so committed to looking unbothered that you lose the ability to be open with people. You can spend so much time proving that you do not need anyone that you become lonely. You can become proud of having no soft spots when what you really wanted was to feel safe enough to have one.

That is why I don't think cruelty deserves to be romanticized. There is nothing impressive about being the person everyone is afraid to be vulnerable around. There is nothing admirable about making people feel small. There is nothing powerful about needing to hurt people before they can hurt you.

We can choose something better. Not fake kindness. Not pretending to like everyone. Not allowing people to walk over us. Just basic decency.

We can be firm without being nasty. We can be honest without enjoying someone's embarrassment. We can protect ourselves without making cruelty our identity. We can dislike someone and still refuse to make their life miserable.

That kind of self-control takes more strength than saying whatever hurtful thing comes to mind. And I think we should want more for ourselves than being known as the person who is “vile.” What exactly are we building with that identity? A reputation for being difficult? A collection of people who are afraid of us? An online audience that only stays because it enjoys watching us provoke people?

Those things may give us attention, but attention cannot replace a meaningful life. At some point, the audience moves on. The comments stop coming. People get tired of being treated badly. Then we are left with the personality we have spent years building.

I would rather become a person I genuinely like. I want to be able to stand up for myself without becoming cruel, speak honestly without feeling the need to wound people, and handle my anger without letting it control the way I treat others.

Having a good heart does not mean I am weak, and being kind does not mean I have to tolerate poor treatment. I can protect myself and still have compassion. I can be firm and still be decent. That balance feels much more valuable to me than a reputation for being someone nobody can mess with.

We do not have to become harsh to prove that we are strong. We certainly do not need to turn cruelty into a personality just because the world rewards it with attention. Some things may make you look powerful for a moment while taking something valuable away from you. Being cruel is one of them.

1. Your ability to say no is one of the most important things you will ever have.


You do not need a long explanation every time you refuse something. If you do not want to go somewhere, you can say no. If something makes you uncomfortable, you can leave. If someone keeps crossing a boundary after you have told them to stop, you are allowed to remove yourself from the situation. You do not have to make your refusal sound pretty enough for someone else to accept it. Learn that early, because there will be people who will try to make you feel guilty for having boundaries.

2. Being liked is not more important than being respected.


You will meet people who love you when you are easy to deal with and suddenly have a problem with you when you become more confident. Some people will prefer the version of you that never disagrees, never says no and always makes things convenient for them. Do not build your personality around keeping those people happy. It is okay if someone thinks you are difficult because you refused to do something that was wrong for you. Being liked by everyone is impossible anyway. Make sure you can respect yourself.

3. Learn how to handle your own money.


Know how much you earn and where it goes. Learn how to save, budget, and make sensible financial decisions. Understand your bank account and your bills. If someone gives you money, appreciate it, but still understand your own finances. Having your own money gives you choices. It can make it easier to leave a bad situation, make an important decision, or take care of yourself when you need to. Even if you marry someone wealthy, financial knowledge is still important. Never become so disconnected from money that you cannot make decisions about your own life.

4. Never let embarrassment stop you from learning.


There will be moments when you feel stupid because you do not understand something everyone else seems to know. Ask the question anyway. If you do not know how something works, find out. If you make a mistake, learn from it instead of spending all your energy trying to hide it. Pretending to know everything will only keep you confused. You do not have to know everything to be intelligent. A woman who is comfortable saying, “I don't understand this. Please explain it to me,” can learn almost anything.

5. You are allowed to change your mind.


The woman you are at 22 may want something completely different from the woman you become at 30. That is very normal. You may choose a career and discover that you hate it. You may move somewhere and realize you would rather live somewhere else. You may believe something strongly and later learn enough to change your opinion. You do not have to remain loyal to an old version of yourself just because other people remember her. Growing means learning new things, and sometimes new information will change what you want.

6. Learn how to be alone without believing you are lonely.


Learn to enjoy your own company. Go somewhere by yourself. Sit in a restaurant without feeling embarrassed. Spend a weekend at home and find something that makes you happy. Take yourself on a date. You should be able to enjoy your life when your friends are busy and when you are not in a relationship. Loneliness can happen even when you are surrounded by people, so do not assume that having someone around automatically means you are fulfilled. Build a relationship with yourself that makes solitude feel safe.

7. Do not make a man the center of your identity.


Love someone deeply, but remember that you existed before the relationship. Keep your interests. Maintain friendships. Have goals that belong to you. Learn things because you want to learn them. Make sure you know what you like when nobody else is choosing for you. A relationship should become part of your life, not the entire definition of who you are. If a relationship ends, you should have enough of yourself left to rebuild.

8. Learn how to apologize properly.


You will make mistakes. You will hurt people without intending to. You will say the wrong thing. When that happens, learn to take responsibility without making excuses. A proper apology does not need a long explanation about why the other person should understand you. You can simply admit that you were wrong and try to do better. Being able to apologize does not make you weak. In fact, it takes a lot of maturity to look at your own behavior honestly.

9. Pay attention to how people behave when they are angry.


Anyone can be kind when everything is going well. Pay attention when someone is frustrated, disappointed, or told no. Do they become cruel? Do they insult people? Do they break things? Do they punish others for having a different opinion? Do they take responsibility once they calm down? Anger can reveal parts of a person's character that are harder to see when everything is comfortable. This applies to friendships, relationships, family, and even the way you understand yourself.

10. Do not confuse familiarity with safety.


Something can feel normal simply because you have experienced it for a long time. That does not mean it is healthy. You may grow up seeing people shout at each other and assume that every family communicates that way. You may watch women tolerate certain treatment and believe that it is simply what women have to endure. As you grow, give yourself permission to question what you were taught. You can love your family and still decide that certain patterns should end with you.

11. Learn basic life skills.


Know how to cook a few proper meals for yourself. Understand how your money works. Learn how to make an appointment, read a contract, send an important email, and handle basic household problems. Know what to do when your phone stops working, your car has a problem or you need to travel somewhere alone. You do not need to become an expert at everything. You just need enough knowledge to avoid feeling helpless whenever another person is unavailable.

12. Your appearance is not your greatest achievement.


Take care of your body. Dress well if you enjoy fashion. Wear makeup if you like it. Take pictures when you feel beautiful. There is nothing wrong with falling in love with your appearance. Just make sure you develop a sense of worth that goes beyond what you see in the mirror. Your face will change. Your body will change. There will be days when you do not feel beautiful at all. On those days, you should still know that you are intelligent, capable, funny, creative, loving, and worthy of respect. Your beauty can be part of you without becoming the only thing you value about yourself.

13. Choose your friends carefully.


Not everyone who laughs with you is your friend. Pay attention to how someone responds when you succeed. Pay attention to what happens when you disagree. A good friend should be able to celebrate you without turning everything into competition. She should be able to keep your private matters private. She should be able to tell you when you are wrong without humiliating you. Friendship is not about finding someone who agrees with everything you do. It is about finding people you can trust with the real parts of your life.

14. Do not stay somewhere just because you have already invested so much into it.


You can spend five years building a career and realize you want something else. You can spend years in a friendship that no longer feels healthy. You can put a lot of money and effort into something that eventually stops making sense. The time you already spent is gone whether you stay or leave. Do not let the fear of “wasting” those years trap you for another ten. Sometimes the most sensible thing you can do with everything you have already invested is learn from it and choose differently.

15. Learn to trust yourself.


Ask for advice. Listen to people who have more experience than you. Learn from people you respect. But remember that you are the person who has to live with your decisions. You cannot spend your whole life waiting for everyone to agree with you before you move. Sometimes you will make the wrong choice. That does not mean you should stop trusting yourself. You learn, adjust, and keep going. The goal is not to become a woman who never makes mistakes. It is to become a woman who knows she can handle herself when she does.

16. Your life does not have to follow anybody else's timeline.


You may get married at 24, 34, or even 44. You may become a mother early, later, or decide that motherhood is not what you want. You may graduate and immediately get a great job or spend years trying to figure out your career. You may buy a house much later than your friends. You may change careers when everyone else thinks you should be settling down. None of these things automatically mean you are behind. Your life is not a group project. You do not have to reach every milestone at the age other people expect you to.

A daughter needs much more than instructions about how to behave around men. She needs to know how to make decisions, manage money, recognize unhealthy behavior, protect her boundaries, choose good friends, and trust herself. Most importantly, she needs to know that becoming a woman does not mean losing herself in the process. 🤎

I turned on my side, staring at the ceiling, replaying her voice over and over. The way she said, “I love you too,” kept echoing in my chest like a song I didn’t want to stop playing.
I hadn’t even realized how much I needed to hear those words until last night.

For years, I’d built walls - convincing myself that love wasn’t for men like me anymore. That the last heartbreak was enough reason to close my heart for good.
But then came this stubborn, strong, beautiful woman.

Lol, Shalewa could silence a room with her eyes, carried pain like perfume - strong, lasting, yet gentle if you leaned close enough.

And now, somehow, she was mine.

My phone buzzed beside me. It was my driver, Segun. “Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Should I get the car ready for the meeting at nine?”

I smiled. Meetings. Work. Life. Everything suddenly felt easier. “Yes, Segun. But let’s make a stop first.”

“Okay, sir. Where?”

I hesitated for a moment before saying, “A flower shop. I want something beautiful for my woman.”

Segun chuckled quietly. “Pink, sir?”

I smiled wider. “Yes. Pink.”

After the call, I got out of bed, still grinning.

Even while brushing my teeth, I caught my reflection and shook my head. “You’re gone, Wale,” I whispered to myself.

Gone. Completely gone.

By the time I was ready, I checked my phone again. No messages from her yet. I considered texting her first, then stopped.

Maybe I should let her breathe. Still, I couldn’t help typing out a simple one:

Good morning, Shalewa. I hope you slept well. I can’t stop thinking about you.

I stared at it for a while, then hit send.

I walked out of my house feeling like a man who wasn’t just alive - but truly living.
I kept checking my phone.

Ridiculous, I know. A full-grown man, sitting across from his friend in the office, refreshing his screen every few minutes like a teenager waiting for a text from his crush.
Deji laughed from across the table.

“Wale, abeg stop pretending. You’ve checked that phone like ten times since we sat down.”

I smirked, not looking up. “And so?”

“So? My guy, love don finally catch you,” he said, dragging the last word in a sing-song voice.

“You? Olawale the stone heart? Omo, this one must be really special.”

I sighed and dropped the phone on the table, face down. “You know it’s not like that.”

Deji raised a brow. “Then what’s it like?”

I didn’t answer immediately. Because how do you explain something like this? How do you explain meeting someone who makes the whole world go quiet when she smiles at you?

Before I could find the words, my phone lit up.
Shalewa.

My heart leapt. I picked it up immediately.
Good morning, Wale. I slept so well. And you?

Deji leaned forward, grinning. “Omo, look at your face. I swear, I’ve never seen you smile like this.”

I ignored him, typing back:
I slept like a man who just found peace. You made my night, Shalewa.

Deji whistled softly. “Nawa ooo, Lover boy.”

I just laughed. Because it didn’t sound ridiculous. It sounded right.

We talked business after that, but honestly, my head wasn’t there. I kept drifting, back to her laugh, the way her lips curved when she said she loved me too. There just something about Shalewa.

She isn’t a loud kind of woman. Her peace so calm. Steady. The kind that reminded you there was still goodness in the world.
Deji noticed I’d gone quiet. “You’re really gone for this woman, abi?”

I chuckled. “Maybe. I don’t even know how it happened.”

“Just don’t mess it up, bro,” he said, suddenly serious. “Women like that don’t come twice.”

I nodded slowly. “I know.”

Later that afternoon, after I left Deji’s office, I sat in my car and stared at my phone again. My fingers hovered before I finally typed:
I can’t wait to see you again. Dinner tonight? Or should I let you rest from me a little? 😅

Her reply came quickly:
Rest from you? Never. I’m so in.

And right there, I smiled so hard.

I was looking forward to the night - not because of the city lights or fancy dinners, but because she’d be there.
Her.🩷

I left work earlier than usual. My plan was simple - pick Jason up from school, get home, take a warm bath, and start getting ready for my dinner with Olawale. My sister was supposed to come over later to stay with Jason. Everything was neatly planned out in my head.

It was one of those calm Fridays that gave you hope that life could actually be gentle again. I remember smiling to myself in the car, thinking about Olawale’s smile, how his voice softened whenever he called my name.

Lol, I could sense the Uber driver noticed me smiling to myself but do I care?
Capital No.😌😂

But everything changed the moment I got to Jason’s classroom.

His teacher, Mrs. Bisi, was standing by the door, fiddling with her pen.

The moment she saw me, her face tightened like she’d been caught in something.

“Good afternoon, ma,” she greeted quickly.

“Good afternoon,” I replied, smiling faintly. “I’m here to pick Jason.”

There was a pause. “Ma… someone already came for him.”

My heart skipped. “Someone what?”

She looked down. “His… his father came for him.”

I blinked fast, not sure I heard right. “What did you just say?”

She swallowed. “His father, ma. He came earlier. Around 2pm. He said you were busy and told us you asked him to pick Jason. We-”
“What nonsense are you saying?!” My voice broke through before I could hold it. “What father? Who told you Jason has a father?”

She looked frightened. “He said his name is Jide…”

The moment that name left her mouth, I felt like giving her a very dirty slap.
I felt my knees weaken, my heart thundering so hard I could hear it in my ears.

“Jide?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You gave my son to Jide?”

“Ma, please don’t be upset-”
“Don’t be upset?” My voice cracked as tears rushed to my eyes. “You handed my child to a man who walked out on me when I was pregnant! A man I told you people not to ever release my son to!

I told this school never to release Jason to anyone but me or my sister!”
I stormed straight into the admin office, my voice rising now, trembling between fear and fury.

“Where is my son? You people let a stranger take my son! Why would you do this?! You don’t even have my permission!”

The principal came out, startled. “Madam Shalewa, please calm down-”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I cried.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? That man has no right over my son! None!”

By now, my hands were shaking as I grabbed my phone. I didn’t even know when I dialed Olawale.

He picked on the first ring. “Hey, babe, are you home yet?”

I broke. “Wale… Jason… I can’t find Jason.”

His voice instantly changed. “What do you mean you can’t?”

“They said… they said his father came… Jide came… he took him!” I was crying now, uncontrollably. “Wale, they released Jason to him. I told them never to-”

“Shalewa, hey… hey… calm down, please,” he said quickly, voice thick but steady. “Where are you?”
“At Jason’s school,” I sobbed. “I don’t know what to do… I don’t even know where he took my son-”

“I’m coming right now. Don’t move. Just stay there. You hear me? Just stay there,” he said firmly.
The call ended, but I couldn’t stop shaking. Parents nearby were staring, murmuring.
But I didn’t care.
My whole world was spinning.

My baby was gone.

My Jason.

And the one person I swore never to let near him had taken him.

I sank into a chair, clutching my chest, whispering through my tears,
“God, please… please… don’t let him hurt my baby… please.”

I didn’t even know how long I sat there. Time became blurry - like the walls were moving but I wasn’t. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My mind kept repeating the same words over and over again.

Jason is gone. Jason is gone.

Then suddenly, I heard the sound of a car screeching to a stop outside.
Before I could lift my head, Olawale was already walking into the school compound - not walking, charging. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his eyes wild with worry.

“Shalewa!” he called, his voice breaking through everything.

The moment I saw him, I couldn’t hold it anymore. I stood up and ran into his arms, trembling so badly I could hardly breathe.

“He took him,” I cried into his chest. “Wale, he took Jason!”

He held me tight - one arm around my waist, the other gently rubbing my back. “I know, I know,” he said softly. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

“I told them! I told them never to release him to anyone! They said he came and said he was Jason’s father. Wale, how could they do that? My son…”
“Sorry babe.” His voice lowered, firm but calm. “We’ll find him. I promise you, we’ll find him.”

He led me to sit on a chair, still holding me like if he let go, I might crumble. Then, without saying another word, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

“Tolu, I need your help,” he said sharply the moment the call connected. “My boy’s been taken. Yes. He’s three. His name is Jason. The man’s name is Jide - yes, I’ll text you his surname now. He picked the child up from school claiming to be the father…We need to track him immediately. I want roadblocks, please just do something.”

He ended the call, then looked back at me. “Do you have a picture of Jason with Jide?”

I shook my head. “No… I’ve never allowed him near Jason. The last time I saw him was months ago when he came begging to see him.”
“Okay, that’s fine,” he said, already thinking fast. “You have a picture of Jason right?”

I nodded quickly, opening my gallery with trembling fingers. He took the phone gently from me and sent it to his contact.
“Babe,” he said, slipping the phone back into my palm and kissing my forehead. “They’re already alerting patrol units. We’ll find him.”

Tears filled my eyes again. “Wale, what if he hurts him? What if…”

He cupped my face, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Hey. Stop. Nothing is going to happen to Jason. Do you hear me? Nothing.”

His voice was so certain it almost steadied my heartbeat.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to your son. Never.”

He stood, held my hand, and helped me up. “Let’s go. We’re going to find him together.”

I nodded weakly. My knees were still wobbly, but his grip didn’t let me fall.

As we walked to his car, I kept whispering, “Please, God… please… protect my boy.”
Olawale opened the door for me and got in beside me. He started the car and took a deep breath. “I’ve already sent his picture to two stations nearby. We’ll trace every possible route.”

“Wale…” I whispered, voice breaking again.

He reached over and took my hand. “We’re not stopping until we find him. You have my word, Shalewa.”

And right there, in that storm of panic and prayer, I realized - this man wasn’t just loving me; he was standing in with me.🥹

The ride felt endless. Every minute stretched like an hour. Olawale kept one hand on the wheel and the other clutching his phone, making calls back to back. I barely blinked, staring out the window, praying silently, whispering Jason’s name like a chant.

Then suddenly, his phone rang again.

“Yes, Tolu, talk to me.”

I turned immediately, holding my breath.

Olawale’s eyes flicked between the road and the screen as he listened. “You’re sure?… Okay. Send me the exact location. We’re on our way.”

He hung up and looked at me. “They just spotted him, Shalewa. A man matching Jide’s description was seen with a small boy at a park not far from GRA. They said the boy was carrying a small blue backpack.”
My heart leapt. “That’s Jason! That has to be him!”

He pressed the accelerator. “Hold on, we’ll be there in five minutes.”

My palms were sweaty, my breath shaky. When we finally pulled over by the roadside, I didn’t wait for him to stop the engine completely. I jumped out.

And then I saw him.

There, by the swings, was Jason, his little hands clutching a balloon, my baby, my son.

Tears filled my eyes as I started walking towards them, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

“Jason!” I called out, voice trembling.

He turned immediately, that sweet innocent smile lighting up his face. “Mummy!”
He ran towards me, arms wide, and I dropped to my knees, scooping him into my arms. I hugged him so tightly like I could never let go again. “My baby… my baby… are you okay?”

Jason giggled softly. “Mummy, he took me to play.”
I froze. Slowly, I lifted my head and saw Jide standing there - hands in his pockets, pretending like nothing had happened.

The anger rose in me so fast it shook my voice. I stood up, still holding Jason close. “Are you mad, Jide?!”
He sighed, raising his hands slightly. “Shalewa, calm down. I just wanted to see my son.”

“Your son?” My voice cracked, louder now. “You wanted to see your son? You mean the same son you walked away from before he was even born? The same son you’ve never fed, never clothed, never held when he cried? You wanted to see him so you came to steal him from school?”

“Shalewa, it’s not like that. I just…”

Before he could finish, my hand connected with his cheek - so hard. The sound echoed across the park.

Jason gasped softly. Olawale, who had just caught up, stopped behind me, his face tight with fury.

“You don’t ever - ever - take my son without my consent again!” I shouted, my whole body trembling. “You don’t get to walk back into his life like nothing happened! You don’t get to choose when to be a father!”

Jide rubbed his cheek, looking embarrassed, trying to find words. “I know I messed up, but I just wanted…”
“No,” I cut him off sharply. “You wanted peace for your conscience. Not him. You’re not doing this for Jason, you’re doing it for yourself…But hear me clearly - Jason is mine. Mine. And he is not going anywhere with you again.”

Olawale stepped closer, his voice calm but cold. “You should leave now, Jide…I’ve already reported you to the head office. If you try something like this again, I’ll personally make sure the law deals with you.”

Jide looked between us, guilt heavy on his face. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he saw the rage in my eyes.

He turned and drove away.
The moment he disappeared behind the park gate, I sank into Olawale’s arms, holding Jason close between us.

Olawale stroked my hair gently. “It’s over, Shalewa. He’s safe now.”

Jason yawned softly, resting his head on my shoulder.

I kissed his forehead, tears running freely. “It’s okay, baby. Mummy’s here.”

Olawale led us back to the car, his hand never leaving my back.

I didn’t even realize I was shaking until he opened the door and said softly, “You’re safe now. Both of you.”

I nodded slowly, still clutching Jason.

That night, I didn’t say a word as he drove us home.

I just held my boy close and every now and then, Olawale would reach across and squeeze my hand, reminding me I wasn’t alone anymore.

By the time we got home, my body felt like it had carried the weight of ten years in one day. Jason had fallen asleep in the back seat, his head resting on my lap. I kept tracing small circles on his back, trying to calm the tremor in my own heart.

Olawale parked in front of the house, turned off the ignition, and sat still for a few seconds - neither of us said a word. The silence between us wasn’t empty; it was full. Full of everything I couldn’t explain - the fear, the relief, the ache.

He got out first, walked around, and gently carried Jason into his arms. I followed behind, opening the door quietly. The house felt different tonight. Still. Too still. Just the quiet hum of a night that almost went wrong.

I led Olawale to Jason’s room, whispering, “You can lay him here.”
He nodded and gently placed Jason on the bed, careful not to wake him. I knelt beside the bed, pulled off his shoes, and brushed his hair back from his forehead.

He sighed in his sleep - that sweet, soft sound that melted me every time. I kissed his cheek. “My baby,” I whispered. “My everything.”
Olawale stood at the door, watching us. His eyes - there was something in them. Something that said he understood, even without words.

When I got up, I turned and leaned against the wall, finally letting out a shaky breath. My legs felt weak.

He stepped closer, voice low. “You haven’t even taken a sip of water all day. Sit down, please.”

I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

He frowned softly. “No, you’re not. You almost lost your son today, Shalewa. You don’t have to act strong for me.”
The words broke something in me. I sank into the chair beside Jason’s bed, staring at the floor.

“When I got to that school and they told me he was gone… I thought… I thought my heart stopped. I don’t even know how I managed to breathe.”
Olawale crouched beside me, holding my hand. His thumb brushed over my knuckles - “He’s here now. You did well. You fought for him.”

I nodded slowly, blinking hard. “It’s just… every time I think I’m past the pain Jide caused, he finds a way to show me I’m not.”
Olawale looked at me for a long time, then said softly, “You don’t have to be past it to move forward, Shalewa…You just need someone who won’t make you walk through it alone and I’m here with you, anytime, any day.”

I looked at him, eyes brimming. His voice was steady, but gentle - like he was handing me peace, one word at a time.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t there today,” I said quietly.

He smiled faintly. “Don’t thank me. You know I’d always show up for you.”

He stood, then extended his hand to me. “Come. You need to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said, even though my stomach was empty.

“I know,” he replied softly. “But I’ll still make you tea.”

I didn’t argue this time. We walked to the living room together.

He made tea in my kitchen like it was his own - moving around quietly, boiling water, finding cups, adding sugar. When he handed me the cup, I wrapped both hands around it just for the warmth.
He sat beside me on the couch, not too close, but close enough.

For a while, we just sat there - me sipping quietly, him watching the night through the window.
When I finally finished, I leaned back. The house was quiet again. “I think he’s going to sleep well tonight,” I murmured. “He didn’t even realize what happened.”

“That’s a blessing,” Olawale said. “Let him keep his innocence for as long as he can.”

I smiled faintly. “You’d make a good father.”

He looked at me then - really looked. His eyes softened. “Yeah, someday.”

The room felt still again, but this time, it was warm. My head found its way to his shoulder without me thinking about it. And he didn’t move. He just sat there, letting me lean, letting me rest.
“I’m here,” he said quietly. “Sleep, Shalewa.”

I didn’t mean to close my eyes, but I did. I didn’t even realize when I drifted - all I knew was that I was safe in his arms.
When I woke up, my neck felt stiff, my eyes heavy. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was.

Then I saw him - Olawale - still sitting on the couch beside me. His head leaned back, one arm folded across his chest, his phone resting loosely in his hand. He hadn’t left.
My heart clenched. The man really stayed.🥹

Jason was curled up on his little bed beside us, one hand still clutching his teddy bear, his face soft in sleep. My baby was safe.
I shifted slowly, trying not to wake them. Olawale stirred, blinking a few times before his eyes met mine.

That same softness was still there, even in the dim morning light.
“You’re awake,” he said quietly, his voice rough from sleep. “How do you feel?”

I rubbed my eyes and sat up slowly. “Tired,” I whispered, “but better. Thank you… for yesterday. For everything Olawale.”

He shook his head immediately. “Don’t thank me. You don’t know how scared I was. I just couldn’t leave you like that.”

I wasn’t used to this kind of care - someone showing up and actually staying. My throat tightened as I looked at him.
“You stayed all night?” I asked quietly.

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I just… wanted to be sure you both were okay. I spoke with my guy in the force too. Jide would be taken in if he ever tries that nonsense again. You don’t have to worry about him.”

The name alone made my chest ache. I looked at Jason again, at how peaceful he looked. For a moment, the tears I’d held back all night spilled silently down my cheeks.
“I don’t even know what I would’ve done without you, Wale,” I said, my voice breaking.

He reached out and brushed the tears away with his thumb. His touch was gentle, his eyes steady.
“You don’t have to do anything. Just rest. Please.”

I nodded slowly, breathing in deeply. The air felt lighter now. Safer.

He stood then, stretching a little. Morning light slipped through the curtains, catching on his jawline, the tiredness in his eyes. He looked at me again - like he was making sure I wasn’t going to break if he left.

“I’ll go freshen up, come back later to check on you both,” he said softly.

Something tugged at me as he reached for the door. “Wale,” I called.

He turned immediately.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For not leaving.”

He smiled - soft, almost shy. “You’re my girl, remember?”

I smiled too. And before I could say anything else, he slipped out quietly, closing the door behind him.

For a while, I just sat there, staring at the empty space where he’d been. My heart felt full in a way I couldn’t explain.

I turned to Jason and kissed his forehead.

By the time Olawale returned that evening, the house already smelled of fried rice and grilled chicken.

I wanted to say it was for Jason, but deep down, I knew I was trying to distract myself too - to remind my heart that normal could still exist after a storm.
Jason ran to him the moment he stepped in. “Uncle Wale!” he shouted with so much excitement.

The way Olawale bent and scooped him up made my heart ache a little. The man didn’t just come into my life; he’d quietly found his way into Jason’s too.

Olawale smiled as he set him down. “My champ! You look much better today.”

Jason giggled. “Mummy said I’m fine now.”

I came out of the kitchen, wiping my hands on a towel, and their eyes met mine.“You look much better too,” he said quietly.
I nodded, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingered. “I’m trying.”

We all sat together at the dining table - just the three of us. Jason kept chattering about cartoons, his new toy car, and every other thing. I forced a smile. He didn’t need to see the fear still hiding behind my ribs.

After dinner, when Jason dozed off on the couch, Olawale and I stayed behind, sipping juice in silence.

“I’ve been thinking,” I finally said. “About Jason’s school.”

He looked up. “What about it?”

I sighed, tracing rim of my glass. “They shouldn’t have released him to anyone. They said Jide claimed to be his father, but that’s not enough. They didn’t even call me to confirm.”
Olawale’s jaw tightened. “You’re right. That kind of carelessness could’ve cost you everything.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “I’m changing his school on Monday. I can’t take that kind of risk again. I’ll look for somewhere smaller, safer.”
He nodded, eyes soft but firm.

“That’s a good idea. If you want, I can help you check out a few schools. I know a couple of friends who run good ones.”
Something about how he said we’ll and help always hit me differently.

I’d been used to doing things alone for so long that having someone say you don’t have to do it alone felt like learning how to breathe again.

“Thank you, Wale,” I said.

He smiled slightly. “You don’t have to thank me. Jason’s like my own already.”

My eyes burned a little, but I managed a smile.

We stayed like that for a while, he kept watching me, and I could tell his mind was still replaying last night too. The fear, the chaos, the relief.

Before he stood to leave, he came closer, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“You’re stronger than you think, Shalewa,” he whispered. “But it’s okay to lean too.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

When he left that night, the silence he left behind wasn’t heavy - it was peaceful.

I woke up the following day, Monday morning to the sound of my phone ringing. It was barely 7 a.m., and I didn’t even need to check who it was - something in my spirit already told me it was Olawale.

I answered, still half buried under my blanket. “Good morning,” I murmured, my voice soft.

“Morning, beautiful,” he said, his tone warm enough to make me smile even before my eyes were fully open. “How are you feeling?”

I yawned. “Better. Still a little tired, but better.”

“I’ve been thinking about you since I woke up,” he said, and I could hear the faint rustle of him moving around. “Just wanted to be sure you and Jason are okay.”

I smiled to myself. “We’re fine. Jason’s still asleep.”

He paused for a moment. “And the school?”

“I’m going to visit a new one this morning,” I said. “There’s a place Kemi recommended a while ago - it’s smaller, safer, and closer to home. I’ll check it out before heading to work this afternoon.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Please keep me updated, okay? I’ll feel better knowing how it goes.”

“Okay, I will.”

“And Shalewa,” he added softly, “I’ll come pick you from work this evening. No argument.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re becoming too used to this chauffeur role.”

“Then let me enjoy it,” he teased. “I love seeing you first after your day. It’s my favorite part.”

The line went quiet for a few seconds, both of us smiling at words we didn’t need to say.
“Alright,” I finally said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Please do. And good luck today, my woman.”

I blushed a little at that last part. My woman. I hadn’t gotten used to hearing it yet, but it warmed something deep inside me every single time.
After the call, I got up quietly so I wouldn’t wake Jason. By the time he opened his eyes, I’d already packed his breakfast and laid out his tiny blue shirt. He rubbed his eyes sleepily and grinned when he saw me.
“Mummy, are we going to my new school today?” he asked excitedly.

I nodded. “Yes, baby. A new school. You’re going to make new friends.”

He jumped off the bed and ran to the bathroom before I could even finish talking.
His joy was infectious - it reminded me that we were really stepping into something new.

The school visit went better than I expected. The teachers were kind, the environment quiet, and the headmistress spoke gently to Jason as though she already knew him.
I filled out all the necessary forms, paid the fees, and watched as Jason joined a few children playing in the courtyard. I breathed easily.

When we left the school, Jason held my hand tightly. “Mummy, I like this school.”

I smiled. “I like it too.”
On our way home, I sent Olawale a quick text:

“We found a new school. It’s peaceful. He loves it already. Thank you for pushing me.”

He replied almost instantly:

“I didn’t push you. You did it yourself. I’m proud of you. See you tonight, beautiful.”
I stared at the message longer than I should have, my lips curving into a slow smile.

By the time I dropped Jason off at kemi’s place and headed to work that afternoon, I felt lighter - like I was slowly piecing my world back together again.

Jason’s 4th Birthday Week.

That week started with excitement. Jason couldn’t stop talking about turning four, how he wanted a “big cake,” balloons, and a superhero shirt. Every morning before school, he’d jump on my bed shouting,
“Mummy, it’s almost my birthday!”
I’d just smile sleepily and promise him it would be beautiful.

What he didn’t know was that I’d been planning something very special - a class party at school with cake, drinks, snacks, and little goody bags for all his friends.

By midweek, Kemi showed up again - in her usual loud, dramatic style.
“I cannot miss my boy’s birthday o! This one, I cleared my schedule,” she said, dragging her box into the house.

The house instantly felt livelier.
Music, laughter, playful arguments - Kemi had a way of filling spaces. She teased me endlessly when she noticed how happy I’d been lately.

“My girl is glowing,” she said, pointing her makeup brush at me as she unpacked. “Olawale must be doing something right.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to fight the smile tugging at my lips. “Kemi, please let me hear word.”
On Wednesday, we went shopping together.

Kemi insisted on pushing the cart while I kept trying to remember the list in my head -  juice boxes, paper hats, cartoon plates, sweets, and some decorations. I wanted Jason’s class to feel like a mini wonderland, even if just for one day.

I also picked out his outfit - a bright blue shirt, matching sneakers, and a tiny superhero cape he’d been eyeing for weeks. Watching Kemi giggle as she helped me pick them out reminded me how far I’d come. For a long time, I couldn’t even afford moments like these.

Later that evening, after Jason had fallen asleep, Olawale called.
“How’s my little man preparing for his big day?”

“He’s been talking about it non-stop,” I laughed.

“Good. Because I’ve already ordered something special for him.”

I paused. “Something special? What did you do?”
Before I could finish asking, my phone buzzed -  pictures filled my screen. A big superhero cake, a shiny red bicycle, boxes of toys, and customized goodie bags with Jason’s name printed boldly.

I covered my mouth, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
“Olawale, you didn’t have to…”
“I wanted to,” he said softly.
“He deserves it. And so do you.”

By Thursday, the house was buzzing with preparation. Kemi helped me wrap gifts, Jason kept sneaking into the room to peek, and I had to keep chasing him out.
“Mummy, lemme see nah,” he pleaded.
“Out!” I said, laughing. “Go and sleep so you’ll grow taller before your birthday!”

Friday morning came with golden sunlight. I woke Jason early, dressed him in his blue shirt and sneakers, and pinned a small badge that read “Birthday Boy 🎉.”
He twirled in front of the mirror, smiling from ear to ear.

“Mummy, I look fine?”
“You look like the most handsome four-year-old in the world,” I said, kissing his forehead.

At school, the teachers helped me set up the little party.
Balloons hung from the windows, and the kids’ laughter filled the room. Jason’s joy was contagious - he danced, clapped, and shouted when they brought out his cake.

Olawale had sent his driver to drop his cake and his gifts earlier on, so he came around later on carrying another gift box in his hands, Jason screamed when he saw him,
“Uncle Wale!” and ran straight into his arms.

Everyone in the class turned to look - the way Jason hugged him, the way Olawale lifted him up like he’d been doing it all his life. And in that moment, something warm spread through me.🥹

I stood there quietly, watching them - my son and the man who had become everything I never thought I’d find.
After school, Olawale took us both out for ice cream.

Jason had chocolate smeared across his lips, Kemi tagged along with her camera, and I… I just sat there smiling, watching the two of them laugh like father and son.

Later that evening, back home, Jason fell asleep in Olawale’s arms before we even got out of the car.
Kemi, of course, was ready with her camera. Lol, a very dramatic woman.
“This child is lucky o,” she said, snapping photos. “His mom is blessed with a man that loves him too much.”
I looked at Olawale, and he smiled back.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I sat by Jason’s bedside, brushing his hair gently. I whispered a quiet prayer of thanks. For my boy. For love that found its way back to me. For the man who made us both feel seen.🥹✨

The week after Jason’s birthday felt like sunlight - soft, golden, and full of calm. My heart had never been this still. Jason wouldn’t stop talking about his “big day.”
He told everyone at school how Uncle Wale got him a bicycle, and every evening after work…he’d say we go outside so he could ride while shouting, “Mummy, look at me!”
Kemi had gone back home, but before she did, she pulled me aside and said,
“Don’t overthink this one, girl. See, I like Olawale ooo. Sometimes love comes when you’ve stopped looking. Let it find you.”
Her words stayed with me. So when Olawale called one Friday evening, saying, “I want to take you out tomorrow night. Just us. There’s something I want to talk to you about,” I didn’t hesitate.
I smiled to myself. “Should I be scared?”
He laughed softly. “No, not scared. Just ready.”
The next evening, I stood in front of my mirror, adjusting my dress - a simple wine gown, soft against my skin, paired with gold earrings Kemi had left behind. Jason had gone to my sister’s for the night.
It felt strange, stepping out of the house without him, but I needed this - a night to breathe, to feel, to remember that I was more than a mother.
When I stepped outside, Olawale was already waiting. He came down from his car with a small bouquet of lilies - my favorite.
“Kaiii Shalewa, you are so beautiful,” he said quietly, his eyes soft but steady.
Dinner was at a rooftop restaurant - city lights stretching beneath us like scattered stars. A soft jazz tune played in the background. Everything about the night felt intentional.
We talked about Jason’s birthday first, how happy he was, then about random things - work, food, how I still couldn’t dance even though I tried.😂

I loved how he always listened, like my words were pieces of a puzzle he was trying to understand.
Halfway through the meal, something shifted. He got quieter. His eyes lingered longer. The air between us thickened, sweet but heavy.
“Shalewa,” he said softly, “can I tell you something?”
I nodded.
He took a breath, his voice gentle.
“I didn’t plan this. I didn’t think love would find me again… definitely not like this. But somehow, it did - through you.”

My fork froze mid-air.
“You came into my life with this quiet strength. The way you love your son…🥹
…The way you laugh even when you’re trying not to. The way you look away when you’re flustered…”

He smiled faintly.
“Shalewa, I’ve fallen so much in love with you. I don’t know when it started, but I know it’s real. It’s in the way I look forward to seeing you…hearing from you, even just knowing you’re okay. You’ve become my peace, my girlfriend, my woman, my everything.”

My chest tightened. I stared down at my hands, my heart racing faster than my thoughts.
He reached across the table and touched my fingers lightly.
“I know you’ve been through so much. I know love hasn’t been fair to you. But I want to be the man who shows you that it can still be gentle. That it can still stay.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I don’t want to rush anything. I just want you to know that this…” he gestured softly between us “…means something to me. And when you’re ready… I want to build something real with you. I want to marry you Shalewa…I have fallen so in love with you and I don’t want to live with anyone else. I don’t want to know anyone else.”

I looked at him, really looked at him - and I wasn’t scared.
“Olawale,” I whispered, “I can’t lie… I feel it too. I love you so much. You make it very easy to love you. I’m just trying to go slow. I don’t want to be broken again.”

“Then we’ll go slow, anytime you are ready, I am. I will wait, Shalewa.” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
We sat in silence after that. It felt so peaceful. Like understanding.

Then, Olawale leaned back in his chair, studying me with that quiet seriousness that always made me nervous.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”
He smiled faintly. “What’s your plan, apart from working at Eko Hotels?
I mean… what’s your dream?”
I hesitated for a second, unsure if I should tell him. But something in his voice made me open up.
“I’ve always wanted to have my own perfume brand,” I confessed.
“Something soft, elegant… something that speaks to women like me. I’ve been saving up, bit by bit. Maybe next year, I’ll finally start.”
He nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful.
“How much would that cost? Like, if you were to start right now?”
I laughed awkwardly. “I don’t know, maybe around…” I mentioned a figure quietly, shrugging. “But I’m not there yet. I’m just…”
Before I could finish, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone and made a transfer to me immediately.
“Olawale, what are you doing?” I asked, eyes wide.
He smiled. “Supporting the woman I love.”
“I don’t want you working at Eko Hotels because you have to. I want you there because you want to. If you ever need anything - and I mean anything - please let me know.
Or tell me indirectly, I’ll still understand. I pay close attention to you anyways so if you don’t tell me, I would still know. I’m interested in everything that has to do with you, Shalewa.
Also, if you need us to choose a name, the smell, the design and everything together, I’m here. We would do it together.”

Tears blurred my vision. I tried to speak, but no words came out.
“You’ve done enough, Wale. This is too much…”
“It’s not enough,” he interrupted gently. “You’ve carried too much alone. You deserve ease, Shalewa.”

There was silence for a moment. Only the wind, the city hum, and the quiet music between us. Then he reached across the table and took my hand.
“I told my mum about you,” he said softly. “She can’t wait to meet you and Jason.
And my sisters too. Please, whatever happens, don’t push me away.”
I blinked hard, trying not to cry again.
“I won’t,” I whispered.
Dinner ended with laughter, dessert, and so much warmth that I forgot where my fear used to sit.
On the drive back home, the car was filled with quiet love - the kind that didn’t need music to speak.
When we got to my gate, he came down, opened the trunk, and began lifting out bags.

“Wale, what’s all this?” I gasped.
He just smiled.

“A few things for you and the little man. I saw them and thought of you.”
He carried them inside - designer handbags, perfume sets, a few clothes for Jason, even groceries. He didn’t allow me lift a thing.🥹
My living room looked like Christmas came early.
I stood there, frozen. “You didn’t have to…”
“I wanted to,” he said again, looking at me with a kind of certainty I hadn’t felt in years.

When he finally turned to leave, I walked him to the door. He paused, brushed a loose strand of hair from my face, and whispered,

“You’re everything I prayed for, Shalewa.”
And just like that, my heart - that old, cautious heart - whispered back,

“Maybe this is what love really looks like.”🥹❤️

It felt like everything had come full circle -
I finally found peace and my child sleeping soundly, safe in love’s arms.

Fade out.

The End. 🎬✨

When you were younger, your mom was simply your mother. She was the person who told you what to do, corrected you when you were wrong, asked where you were going, worried about your friends, and probably said things you swore you would never say when you became an adult.

Then you grow up.

You start having your own opinions, making your own decisions and understanding things she once tried to explain to you. You begin to notice the woman behind the title.

You realize she has dreams too.

She has things she worries about. She has memories she does not always talk about. She has regrets. She has funny stories from before you were born. She has favorite songs, foods, places, and clothes. She has probably made mistakes she wishes she could redo.

She is your mom, but she is also a woman who had a whole life before you arrived.

I think our 20s can make that easier to understand because adulthood gives us a different view of our parents. When you start dealing with work, money, relationships, friendships, and the pressure of figuring out your own life, you begin to understand that being an adult does not come with a perfect instruction manual.

Your mom was figuring things out too.

She may not have known what she was doing every time she made a decision. She may have been scared while still trying to make you feel safe. She may have been carrying problems you knew nothing about because she did not want you to worry.

Of course, this does not mean every mother has been a good mother. Some relationships carry deep wounds, and adulthood does not erase them. You are not required to become close to someone who continues to hurt you simply because she is your mother.

But if you have a mother who loves you, tries for you and genuinely wants a relationship with you, let yourself discover the woman behind “Mum.” Call her because you want to hear her voice, not because you need something. Ask about her childhood. Ask what she wanted to become when she was younger.

Ask what she was like at your age. Ask what music she used to listen to. Let her tell you stories you have heard before. Take her out. Send her something that reminds you of her. Let her be silly around you. Let her complain about something small without turning it into a lecture. You may even start noticing that some of the things you once found embarrassing about her are now things you find funny or endearing. And perhaps the sweetest part is realizing that your mother may also be learning how to relate to you as an adult.

She does not always have to be the person giving instructions. You can have conversations where both of you are simply women trying to understand life. She can ask for your opinion. You can ask for hers. You can laugh together about things that would have felt impossible to discuss when you were sixteen. Your relationship may become softer because you no longer need her in the exact way you did as a child. You can choose her company now. That is a beautiful kind of closeness.🥺

So if your mom starts calling you more, sending you random messages, asking about your day, or wanting to spend time with you, let her.

She is not only your mother. She is somebody's daughter. She was once a young girl with plans she had not figured out yet. She has had heartbreaks, embarrassing moments, friendships, dreams, and disappointments that existed long before you knew her.

She's just a girl. And you are finally old enough to know her as one. 👩🤎

At some point, you have to realize that being loved by other people cannot be the thing holding your entire life together.

Wanting love is human. Wanting to be chosen, appreciated, remembered and cared for is not something you should feel ashamed of. We all want to feel important to someone. We want to know that our absence would be noticed and our presence would be valued.

The problem begins when being loved becomes more important than loving yourself. When that happens, you can start accepting things you would normally reject because you are afraid of losing the person giving you attention. You may stay in relationships that make you unhappy because being alone feels worse. You may keep forgiving behavior that continues to hurt you. You may change the way you speak, dress, think, or live because you are scared that the real version of you will not be loved.

That is a very painful way to live.

Your relationship with yourself should have enough strength to survive somebody else's rejection. If someone does not choose you, you should still know that you are worthy. If someone leaves, you should still have a life you want to return to. If someone misunderstands you, you should not immediately question everything you know about yourself. If someone stops loving you, it should hurt. Of course it should. Losing someone you care about can break your heart. But heartbreak should not become a reason to abandon yourself.

This is where self-love becomes more than saying nice things about yourself in the mirror.

Self-love is knowing when something is hurting you and having the courage to do something about it. It is refusing to beg someone to treat you with basic respect. It is allowing yourself to leave situations that require you to keep betraying your own needs just to remain accepted.

Sometimes loving yourself will disappoint other people. Someone may call you selfish because you finally said no. Someone may say you have changed because you stopped tolerating behavior that used to hurt you. The person who benefited from your lack of boundaries may not like the version of you who now has boundaries.

Let them adjust.

You cannot build your entire life around keeping people comfortable with you. There will also be times when you need to choose yourself without having another person waiting to choose you. That is where things can get difficult. It is easy to leave when you know someone better is waiting. It is harder to leave because you know that being alone is better than staying somewhere that keeps hurting you.

Your self-love has to be strong enough for that.

You should be able to look at yourself and say, I would rather lose this relationship than lose myself inside it.

That does not mean you should walk away from every difficult situation. Relationships require patience, forgiveness, and honest conversations. You will also have flaws that someone else has to live with.

Self-love is not believing you are always right. It is knowing that your worth does not disappear when you are wrong. It is being able to apologize without hating yourself. It is being able to receive criticism without allowing somebody else's opinion to become your identity. It is understanding that rejection is painful, but it is not a final statement about your value.

You should want to be loved. You should want beautiful relationships. You should want people who make you feel safe, understood, and appreciated.

But your desire for those things should never become so strong that you are willing to accept anything just to have them.

Because when the desire to be loved becomes stronger than the love you have for yourself, you can start treating your own heart as the price of admission. You give up your peace to keep someone. You silence your feelings to avoid conflict.

You abandon your standards because you are scared that having them will leave you alone.

Eventually, you may have the relationship you wanted and still feel like you have lost yourself.

That is too high a price. Let people love you. Receive their affection. Enjoy being cared for. Allow yourself to be soft with people who have earned that softness. Just make sure you are still there.

Your life should not become a constant search for someone who will convince you that you are worthy. You should already have an answer to that question before anybody arrives.

And when someone leaves, you should be able to grieve without believing that they took your worth with them.

Your self-love must always be stronger than your desire to be loved by others. Always.

Because the person who will be with you through every relationship, every heartbreak, every success, every mistake, and every new beginning is still you.

You owe her a life she can live with.

I caught myself smiling at random intervals and had to press my lips together quickly so no one in the hotel thought I was losing it.
By the time I stepped out of the hotel, my phone buzzed in my bag. I pulled it out, it was Olawale.

Olawale: So… dinner last night doesn’t count. Can I take you out again? Properly this time.
I stared at the screen, my heart doing that foolish jump again.

My first instinct was to stall, to pretend I was too busy, but instead, before I even thought it through, my fingers typed back:
Me: Okay Olawale.🥰

As soon as I hit send, I leaned back against the car door, covering my face like a teenager. What was happening to me?

When I got home, Kemi was waiting like she had radar. She didn’t even let me take my shoes off.

“Talk!” she shouted, hands on her waist.

“What?” I asked, already laughing.

She snatched my bag from me and tossed it on the couch. “Don’t ‘what’ me. I saw the way your eyes were glued to that phone outside the gate. Why were you smiling while walking in?”

I tried to brush past her, but she blocked the hallway dramatically, like some bouncer. “Kemi, abeg, I’m tired.”

“Shalewa, you can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. That your man - yes, your Olawale.🤭
He texted you, abi?”

I froze, then turned slowly. Her grin widened.
“Aha!” She clapped her hands. “So what did he say? Don’t even bother lying because the glow on your face has already answered me. Please tell me nowww.🥲”

I finally sighed and gave in. “He asked me out again.”
Kemi squealed so loudly, I was sure Jason would wake up. She grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Ahhh, Shalewa is going on date number two!”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t hide the smile tugging at my lips. “Kemi, please. It’s just dinner.”
“Dinner that you’re already blushing like tomato? Don’t worry, I will personally dress you up again. This time, we are not playing small-small…If he was staring at you like star last time, this one ehn, he will not eat his food!”

I shoved her playfully, but really, I was relieved she was there. Kemi made it lighter, easier. Without her teasing, I might have overthought myself back into saying no.

The day of the second date came faster than I expected. I had barely managed to finish work without floating off in thoughts of what Olawale might plan. As soon as I got home, Kemi was already waiting like she had signed a contract to be my personal stylist.

“Drop your bag!” she barked, snatching it from my shoulder before I could protest. “Today, we are not doing that modest gown you wore the last time. Today, we are slaying.”
“Haa Kemi, please…”

“No, no, no. Don’t even argue with me. He brought flowers the other night, Shalewa. Original ones oooo, not plastic. And pink, too. That man has taste. So the least you can do is show up and let him lose his mind.”

I sighed, but I didn’t fight her. Maybe a part of me wanted exactly that, to see Olawale undone.
Kemi laid out three dresses on the bed, each one bolder than the last. She stood back like a fashion judge.

“Option one: soft pink, flowy, angel vibe. Option two: fitted black dress, classic, killer. Option three: red, the danger zone.”
I raised a brow. “Red? Kemi, abeg. I’m not trying to seduce anybody.”

“Seduce? Who said seduce?” she smirked. “You’ll just enter his brain and refuse to leave. That’s all.”
I threw a pillow at her, but she caught it and laughed.

In the end, she bullied me into the fitted black dress, whispering as she zipped me up, “Perfect balance. Not shouting, but still unforgettable.”
Next was makeup. I usually preferred something simple, but Kemi wasn’t having it.

She hummed as she dusted my cheeks, lined my eyes, and glossed my lips. “See this face,” she said, tilting my chin up to the mirror. “If Olawale doesn’t faint tonight, I’ll personally call him mad.”
“Kemi!” I laughed, swatting at her hand.

By the time she was done, I almost didn’t recognize myself. The Shalewa in the mirror looked… lighter. Softer. Almost like she had left the weight of her past somewhere else.
Just as Kemi was fussing with my hair, a car horn blared outside.

My heart immediately dropped into my stomach.
“He’s here!” Kemi squealed, rushing to peek through the curtains. “And oh my God, Shalewa, he brought flowers again! Awwwww😭 This man is not joking at all oremi!”

My palms started sweating instantly. “Kemi, maybe this is too much. Maybe I should just…”

“Nope.” She shoved my clutch into my hand. “You’re going. Tonight, you’re not just Jason’s mummy. You’re Shalewa. Do you hear me?!”

I swallowed hard and stepped outside.

Olawale was standing by his car, tall, composed, holding the biggest bouquet of red roses I’d ever seen. But the moment his eyes landed on me, composure slipped. He froze. His gaze traveled slowly, reverently, from my hair down to my dress, then back to my face.

For a long, breathless moment, he didn’t even blink.
“Wow,” he finally breathed, low, almost like he was speaking to himself. “You… Shalewa, you’re…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, like words had failed him.

Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I quickly looked away. He stepped closer, holding the flowers out to me. “These still don’t compare,” he said softly.
I took them carefully, my fingers brushing his. My heart raced at the casual touch.

Behind me, I could almost feel Kemi’s wide grin through the window, no doubt watching like it was a live movie.
Olawale cleared his throat, still staring like he hadn’t gotten used to the sight of me. “Shall we?” he asked, opening the car door with a little bow.

I slid in, clutching the flowers against my chest, silently praying my face wasn’t betraying how much I wanted to smile.
Dinner that night felt different. Olawale had booked out the whole place of course, with soft music humming in the background.

I tried to steady myself with small talk, work, the meal, but Olawale wasn’t just looking at me. He was studying me.
“You always do this,” he said suddenly, setting down his glass.

I blinked. “Do what?”
“Hide,” he answered softly, his eyes locking on mine. “Even when you’re sitting right here in front of me, you’re somewhere else. Always pulling away before I can get close.”

My fork clattered against the plate, a little too loud in the silence. I wanted to argue, but he wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t wrong at all.
He leaned back, exhaling slowly, then let out a little laugh - one that sounded like it carried weight. “Omo Shalewa… I’m in love with you.”

The words hit me like a storm. I froze, staring at him. My chest tightened, my pulse quickened. Nobody had ever said it to me like that, not so plainly, not without disguise.

Olawale’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice dropped lower, steady, sure. “I know you’re not ready. I know you’re still guarding your heart, maybe even fighting me in your head right now. And that’s fine. I’m not here to force anything out of you.”

My throat went dry. I wanted to tell him to stop, to take it back, because hearing it scared me more than I cared to admit. But at the same time, something deep inside me… melted.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his tone softer. “But I need you to know that I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you to trust me, to want me the way I want you. Just… please,” his lips tugged into the faintest smile, “don’t make me wait forever.”

I swallowed hard, looking away, my voice was barely a whisper when I finally spoke. “You shouldn’t be saying things like that.”

“Why not?” he asked, gently.

“Because…” I shook my head, eyes burning. “Because it’s dangerous.”

He chuckled lightly, not mocking, just tender. “Then let me be the fool who takes the risk. For you.”
Silence stretched between us, filled only by the hum of the music. My heart was racing so wildly I was sure he could hear it.

I should’ve stood up, should’ve left before I let myself drown in the warmth of his words. But instead, I stayed. I stayed and let his eyes hold me like a promise.
For the rest of the dinner, my mind wasn’t on the food. It was on his words - The “I’m in love with you”.

They clung to me like perfume, heavy and sweet, impossible to shake off.
I kept trying to distract myself by asking about the meal, about his meetings, even about the music, but each time our eyes met across the table, I felt my chest tighten all over again.

After we were done with our meal, I stood a little too quickly, eager to escape the weight of what had just been said. But Olawale wasn’t in a hurry. He walked around to my side, slow and deliberate, and for a moment, I thought he was just going to lead me out.

Instead, he reached out and brushed his fingers against mine. Not grabbing, not holding, just enough for my breath to catch.
Then, without a word, he reached higher, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. His hand lingered, warm against the side of my face.

My body betrayed me; I leaned ever so slightly into his touch, my eyes betraying a softness I wasn’t ready to admit.
He smiled then, that small, knowing smile of his. “I meant what I said, Shalewa,” he murmured. “Every single thing I said.”

I swallowed hard, my lips parting as if to reply, but nothing came out. I was too busy memorizing the feel of his hand, the quiet steadiness of his presence.
When he finally let go, I felt both relief and loss all at once. He didn’t push further, didn’t ask for more.

He just walked beside me out of the restaurant, his shoulder brushing mine like an unspoken promise.
By the time we reached his car, I was trembling, not from fear, but from the terrifying, beautiful realization that I was no longer fighting him as much as I thought.🥹

The silence followed us into the car like an extra passenger, heavy and pressing. I sat stiffly, staring out of the window, pretending to be fascinated by the Lagos lights flickering past. My chest was still warm where his hand had touched my face.

For a while, Olawale let me stew in my thoughts, his focus on the road. Then, out of nowhere, his voice broke through, low, teasing, playful.
“So, Madam Shalewa,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips, “are you always this hard with everyone or is it just me that’s special?”

I whipped my head toward him, my eyes narrowing, but he was grinning like a boy caught stealing meat from the pot.
“Special? Please,” I muttered, fighting the urge to smile. “You’re just stubborn. I’ve told you, I don’t have the time or energy for…”

“…for a man like me?” he cut in, laughing softly. “You’ve been saying that for weeks now. Yet, here you are… looking so beautiful tonight, sitting in my car after our second date.”

Heat rose to my cheeks. I turned back to the window quickly, hoping he didn’t notice.

But of course he noticed.

“You know,” he continued, tapping the steering lightly with his finger, “if you keep blushing like that, I’ll start to think you actually like me, Shalewa.”

My mouth fell open. “Who’s blushing? You must be imagining things.”
“Imagining?” He chuckled. “Okay o. Maybe I should get you a mirror so you can see your face right now. Or should I stop the car?”

I shot him a glare that only made him laugh harder. The sound filled the car, softening the tension, pulling me out of the storm inside my head.
I laughed too - just a little, but it was enough.

Enough for him to glance at me sideways with that boyish grin, enough for me to feel something inside me.
By the time we pulled up in front of my house, I was no longer thinking about anything not the weight of being a single mother, not even the danger of letting Olawale close.

I was just thinking about his laughter, the way it made the world feel less heavy.
When we got to my house, he parked gently and switched off the engine. For a moment, neither of us moved.

He glanced at me, his lips twitching. “So… no mirror needed? You’re ready to admit you were blushing?”
I rolled my eyes, reaching for the door handle. “Goodnight, Olawale.”

“Ah, see this woman,” he chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “You can’t even admit small truth. One day, I’ll catch you red-handed.”
I shook my head, trying hard not to laugh, and stepped out. He came out too, walking me to the door.

The closer we got, the more I felt my chest tightening again, but not in that heavy way anymore, it was lighter, warmer.
At my door, I turned with my handbag in hand. “Thank you… for tonight,” I said softly.

He tilted his head, eyes holding mine. “No, Shalewa. Thank you. For allowing me.”
Before I could reply, he reached out, pulled me gently into a hug. His arms were steady, warm, unhurried. My body stiffened at first, then slowly relaxed against him.

Just when I thought he would let go, he leaned down and brushed a soft peck against my cheek.

My breath caught.

“Sleep well,” he whispered with a teasing smile, stepping back like nothing had just happened.

I swallowed, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, beautiful,” he replied, and waited until I slipped inside before he turned back toward his car.

Behind the closed door, my hand went to my cheek where his lips had landed, and I couldn’t stop the shy smile that spread across my face.

As I came in, I should have just gone straight to bed. But Kemi was waiting - wide awake, perched on the sofa like she had been rehearsing.
“So…” she stretched the word, her grin almost mischievous. “How was Romeo tonight?…Don’t just say ‘fine,’ because your face is already telling on you.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to glide past her, but she blocked me with the throw pillow in her hand.

“Kemi, abeg now.” I muttered, cheeks burning.

“Don’t abeg me. Just gist me smal nahhh. Did he hold your hand? Did he kiss you?” Her eyes widened in mock shock.
I waved my hand quickly, gesturing, a silent, desperate “Okay, I’ll tell you everything later.”

But the smile tugging at my lips betrayed me, and she caught it instantly.

“Aha!” she clapped. “So there is gist! My Shalewa is falling o.”

I threw the pillow back at her, shaking my head, but when I finally slipped into my room, I leaned against the door and exhaled.

The flowers from Olawale still lingered in my mind, their scent still wrapped around me. I didn’t even know how I kept a straight face while saying goodnight.

Well, sleep eventually came, soft and heavy.
I didn’t even know when I slept off.

The next morning I went to work as usual. There was just so much to do compared to the day before. I buried myself in work, but every now and then, I caught myself smiling at nothing, remembering the way he said “Omo Shalewa, I’m in love with you.”

By evening, I was drained and ready to head home. My phone buzzed just as I was packing up.

I’m outside. Let me take you home. - Olawale.

I was so happy, heart jumping, grabbed my bag and stepped out.

He was leaning casually against his car, phone in his hand but eyes immediately catching mine.

“Long day?” he asked as I slid into the seat.

“The longest,” I replied, sinking into the leather.

We drove for a while in comfortable silence, the hum of the road filling the gaps.

It wasn’t until we were halfway across the bridge that I turned, curiosity finally winning.

“Olawale,” I said.

“Hm?”

“Who are you, really? I mean, I see you at the hotel, I see you in suits, and I also know you as that very rude man who almost knocked me down the first time I set my eyes on him; but outside of all this - who are you? What do you actually do?”

His lips curved into a teasing smile. “Ah-ah. Somebody is finally interested in my life now. Are you sure you’re not already liking me too much?”

I gave him a look. “Just answer me. No teasing.”

And that’s when he smiled properly, leaned back a little, and began to tell me.

“Fine. You asked for the long version, so you get it.” “I studied architecture. Been in that space for a long while. I design buildings - houses, hotels, offices - basically where people live in and work in.

My day job is designing; my side job is trying not to overwork the company I started.” He laughed softly. “I take on private clients who need homes, and I get involved in small developments sometimes - renovating a block here, turning an old store into a cozy workspace there.”

I listened, trying to match faces with the shadowy man in the front seat. “So the meetings at Eko Hotel - that’s all work? Investors? Clients?”
“Exactly,” he said.

“Eko hotel is quiet enough for people who don’t want the fuss of an office, and it’s easy for people who travel in from different parts of town. Comfortable chairs, private corners, decent coffee and the staff pretend they don’t notice you if you’re having a long, negotiation.”

He grinned. “So yeah - design meetings, investor sit-downs, late-night calls when a site decides to have a panic attack.”
I snorted. “Site panic attack?” I asked.

“You’d be surprised,” he said, dead serious for a heartbeat. “You build for months, and then a contractor will call you about where he put the bathroom pipe and suddenly it’s a crisis.” 😅

He told me about growing up - not rich, not poor, just the kind of home where things were fixed and made rather than thrown away. His dad was practical, hands-in-the-dirt kind of man; his mum worked nights sometimes, “so I learned early that work doesn’t stop for feelings.”

He said he loved the way structures change a neighbourhood, how a careful renovation can bring a corner of the city back to life. He talked about that at length, eyes bright and earnest, the way someone talks about something that feels like calling it his religion.

“Also I like owning things that last.” He paused.
My chest warmed at the way he’d said that - the way he saw the practical, messy parts of life and didn’t flinch. “So you’re an architect who builds things, invests in people, and comes to Eko to hide when sites act up?”

“That’s the spark-notes version,” he said. Then, before I could tease him back, he grew still and looked straight at me. “And the thing you didn’t ask but should know - I hate leaving things half-done. If I like something, I stick around to finish what I started.”

His hand found mine, just gently, he squeezed once.
My fingers tangled with his. The city hummed around us, but inside the car it felt like a small, private room. I loved the way he said the sentence - not boastful, not grand - like a promise in a shirt pocket.

“You didn’t tell me about family,” I said after a moment. He chuckled.
“My family is small,” he said. “Two younger sisters - one runs a little bakery, the other does events. Dad still checks the designs I send him like he’s the final minister of approval…We argue often over coffee. I try to put them first whenever I can.” He looked sideways at me, suddenly shy. “You should meet them sometime. They like to laugh at my seriousness.”

I laughed, soft and surprised. “You, serious? No way.”

He laughed so hard and said, “I’m actually very very serious about what I just said Shalewa.”
He then continued, “Also, I like things that are steady. That’s probably why I like buildings, they don’t pretend. They either stand or they fall…People are messier, but I like trying to help make the parts of life that can be comfortable… actually comfortable.”

We were pulling up to my gate when he added, like he’d been saving it for the end, “Oh - and I stole my mum’s jollof rice recipe. That’s my secret weapon.”

I couldn’t help it - I smiled properly, the kind of smile that felt like it came from the inside out. “You really told me everything,” I said.
He gave that little grin again. “Everything you ordered. Anything else you want to know, Inspector?” 😅

I squeezed his hand back, playful and serious all at once. “Yeah. How come you never told me you have nice hands?” I teased.
He laughed and tried to play offended. “Hey, those hands draw houses and hold roses. They’re very useful.”

He leaned over and brushed my knuckles with his thumb, a small, grounding touch. “Go sleep. Dream about me tonight.”
When I stepped out of his car, his eyes were still on me for a bit longer. He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to. The honesty between us was not perfect, but real.

I felt like I was beginning to see him, not just the man with flowers, or the one who called late at night, but a man with his own history, his own burdens and triumphs.
And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to know more.

The next morning felt quieter than usual. Kemi had her small overnight bag propped by the door, and Jason was glued to her side, his little arms wrapped around her waist like he could pin her in place.
“Aunty Kemi, don’t go,” he whined, his lips poked out in a pout.

Kemi bent down, kissed his forehead, and ruffled his hair. “Jason mi, I’ll come again, I promise. I’m not running away forever. You’ll even get tired of me when I come to disturb you again.”
I watched them, my chest softening at the bond they had built.

Jason rarely clung to anyone outside me, but Kemi had won him over with ease. Maybe it was her silly jokes, maybe her endless energy. Whatever it was, I knew he was going to miss her.

She hugged me tightly at the door, whispering into my ear, “You sef, try and enjoy this thing you’re entering. You deserve it.” I rolled my eyes, but my lips tugged into a small smile.

By the time she left, Jason had already buried himself in his toys, though every few minutes he muttered, “Aunty Kemi will come again.”
That evening, Olawale came as usual to pick me up from work.

There was something grounding about seeing his car waiting, it felt almost too normal now, like a routine I didn’t remember signing up for but had grown used to.
I slipped into the seat, exhaling the day’s stress.

He glanced at me briefly, then he asked, “Your sister picked him up today?”
I nodded. “Yes. And he’s already sulking because Kemi went back home.”

Olawale chuckled low. “He would get used to it, and I love that he knows how to hold on to good company.”
When we got to my apartment, Jason was already asleep. I kissed his forehead, tucked him in properly, then slipped into my room, letting the day finally peel away.

Lying in bed that night, the house felt still. Jason was fast asleep, his tiny breaths rising and falling in rhythm, but without Kemi’s chatter in the background, the silence pressed in.
I had just begun scrolling aimlessly on my phone when it buzzed with a call. Olawale.

I remembered his face when he’d dropped me earlier, the way he’d slowed at the gate like he wanted to say more but didn’t. I swiped to pick up.
“Hello?” My voice was hushed, almost like I didn’t want the quiet night to overhear.

“Have you settled in?” His voice was low, warm, and so calm it filled the silence like it belonged here.

“Yes… Jason’s asleep.”

“Good. You sound tired,” he said, “Did you at least eat something?”

I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me. “You sound like Kemi.”

“Then I’m in good company,” he teased softly.

I didn’t reply immediately. My lips curved despite myself, and I caught my reflection in the dark screen of my phone. Smiling. Again. Because of him.

“I’m fine, Olawale,” I said finally, trying to sound firm. But even I could hear the crack in my tone.

“Good. Just… don’t think too much tonight, Shalewa. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight Olawale”.

I stared at my screen long after it went black, and I didn’t know when I slept off.

Jason sat at the dining table the next morning, his chin resting on one hand, staring at his cereal like it had offended him. Normally, by now, he would have told me at least three stories about his school or one of his cartoon characters. But today, nothing.

Just the soft clink of his spoon against the bowl.

I carried my own cup of tea and sat across from him, watching him. “Jason, what’s the matter? Why are you so quiet this morning?”

He shrugged, not looking up. That was strange. Jason was many things, but never shy with me.

“You’re missing Aunty Kemi, abi?” I asked gently.

He gave the smallest nod, then lifted his eyes to meet mine. His face was so serious, it almost startled me. “Mummy…” he started slowly, almost testing the waters.

“Yes?” I leaned closer.

“When is Uncle Wale coming again?”

The tea nearly slipped from my hand. My heart gave one heavy beat. “Uncle Wale?” I repeated, pretending like I didn’t hear him right.
He nodded quickly, his eyes now bright. “Yes. Uncle Wale. The one that jokes with me. The one that bought me biscuit.”

I blinked at him, trying to keep my face straight. “So now it’s biscuit that makes someone Uncle?”

Jason giggled, finally. “It’s not just biscuit, Mummy. He’s funny. I like him.”

I shook my head, laughing softly. “Jason, eat your food before it gets cold.”

I tried to sound casual, but my chest was anything but casual.
As I got up to carry my tea to the sink, I caught myself smiling. My son had never warmed up to any man so quickly. He was usually guarded, like he could sense when someone wasn’t genuine. But this was different.

I stood at the sink, rinsing my cup, pretending to focus on the sound of the running water. But inside, my heart was tight, a strange mix of fear and something I didn’t want to name. Jason liking Olawale wasn’t part of my plan. In fact, none of this was.

After breakfast, Jason lingered around me more than usual, still quiet but thoughtful. When I picked my bag to head out to work, he tugged at my dress.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, Jason?”

“Please greet Uncle Wale for me”.

I kept quiet for a moment, looking down at him. My little boy’s eyes were wide, hopeful. I bent down, pulled him close and kissed his cheek. “We’ll see, baby.”
He grinned, and ran to his bag. Meanwhile, I stood there at the door, clutching my bag, my heart pounding in my chest.

Flowers were sweet. Late-night calls made me smile. But Jason asking for him? Jason choosing him? That was a whole different kind of weight.
And it scared me more than I could admit.

All through my ride to work, his question played in my head like a song stuck on repeat: “When is Uncle Wale coming again?”
I tried to push it aside as I walked into the hotel, but it kept creeping back.

Even while I smiled at colleagues and answered greetings, it was there at the back of my mind.
I sighed and rubbed my temple. Since when did Jason start calling another man Uncle with that much excitement? And since when did I let myself feel this strange warmth because of it?

During lunch break, one of my colleagues noticed how quiet I was. “Shalewa, are you alright? You’ve been staring at your food like it’s going to walk away.”

I forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
But I wasn’t just tired.

I was unsettled, unsettled in a way that wasn’t bad, but wasn’t entirely safe either.
By evening, when it was time to leave, I found myself eager to see Jason again, maybe to ask him if he still remembered that he had made such a bold request.

The sun was soft in the sky when I pulled up in front of his school. Children spilled out of the classrooms, some rushing into their parents’ arms, others still chattering with their friends.
And then I saw him. Jason spotted me from afar and his whole face lit up.

He ran toward me, his little backpack bouncing on his back, his shoes hitting the ground in quick steps.

“Mummy!” he shouted.

I bent down, caught him in my arms, and held him close. His small body smelled of pure childhood.

“How was school today?” I asked, brushing the hair off his forehead.

“Fine.” He grinned, then almost immediately added, “Did you greet Uncle Wale for me?”

My throat tightened. I pulled back slightly to look at him. “Jason…”

“Yes, Mummy?” His eyes were full of expectation.

I forced a smile. “Let’s get home first, hmm?”

He nodded happily.

I couldn’t deny it anymore. Jason’s bond with Olawale was real, and it was growing faster than I could control.

On our way home, Jason sang to himself on my laps. Meanwhile, I sat very well, asking myself the same question he had asked me that morning - When is Uncle Wale coming again?
The more he asked for him, the harder it became for me to hold up the walls I had built around myself.

By the time Jason and I got home, the sky had folded itself into that kind of purple dusk I secretly loved. He dropped his bag at the corner and darted straight to his toys, humming the same tune he had been singing while we were coming.

I changed into something more comfortable, started dinner, and tried to shake off the lingering weight of the day.

But yeah, Jason’s words still clung to me.
Halfway through stirring the pot, my phone buzzed on the counter. When I glanced at the screen, Olawale’s name lit up.

My heart did that little skip it had been doing lately. I picked up.
“Hello?”

His voice came warm, a little softer than usual. “Shalewa… I’m sorry I didn’t come for you today. I wanted to, but something came up at the last minute…I should have at least called earlier. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”

I leaned against the counter, trying not to sound as relieved as I felt. “Nahh… It’s nothing, really. Don’t worry about it. I even had to leave early to pick Jason up myself, so it worked out fine.”

He paused, as if he was weighing my words. Then he chuckled lightly. “Hmm. Still, I don’t like missing the chance to see you, even if it’s just the ride home.”
And just like that, my chest tightened.

What was I supposed to do with a man who said things like that so casually?
He’s making it too easy to fall in love with him. He’s too smooth. I’m just scared mehn.🫠

From the living room, Jason’s voice carried in, loud and clear: “Mummy, who’s that? Is it Uncle Wale?”
I froze. Olawale must have heard too because I could hear the smile in his voice. “Was that Jason?”

I sighed, half embarrassed. “Yes. He seems to have a lot of questions about you lately.”

“I like your boy Shalewa,” Olawale said gently. “He’s so cool.”

That made me laugh, and I hated that he had the power to draw laughter out of me so easily.

Jason came bounding into the kitchen, eyes wide and curious.
“Mummy, let me talk to him!”

I covered the mouthpiece quickly. “Jason, not now. Oya go and read your book.”

“But…”

“No buts. Go.” I gave him the look, and with a small pout, he trudged back out.

When I lifted the phone again, Olawale was laughing softly. “You know, I don’t mind if he talks to me. I’d actually like it.”
I pressed my lips together. “Olawale, let’s not start something we can’t finish.”

He went quiet for a moment. Then, in that low, steady tone of his, he said, “Shalewa… you and Jason are not something to ‘start.’ You’re both already worth everything.”
I closed my eyes, letting his words sit in the quiet of my kitchen.

“Goodnight, Olawale,” I whispered finally, before I lost myself completely.

“Hmmm, Shalewaaaa, you are running away again…🫠”

“No, Olawale. I’m not running away.🥲”

“Okay ooo, I’ll see you tomorrow.” he said.

“Yeah, Olawale. Sleep well.”

The line went dead, but my heart kept racing.

It was a Saturday. For once, I didn’t have to wake up to the shrill reminder of work. Jason was already on his feet, bouncing on my bed as usual. I groaned, pulled the blanket over my head, but his laughter dragged me out.

By mid-morning, I had finally settled into that lazy rhythm of being at home - cleaning a little, cooking small breakfast, allowing Jason scatter his toys everywhere without complaining too much. The kind of day I secretly wished I had more of.

Then the knock came.

I wasn’t expecting anyone. Jason, sharp-eared as ever, ran to the door shouting, “Mummy, it’s Uncle Wale!” before I even looked through the peephole.

And true to his words - there he was.

Olawale. Tall, calm, his presence filling the small space of my doorway without him even stepping in yet. He had Jason’s favorite snacks in one hand and… in the other, a box wrapped in fine gold pack.

“Good morning,” he said with that smile that had become too familiar in my head. “I thought I’d come make up for yesterday.”
Jason almost snatched the snacks out of his hands, squealing, “Thank you, Uncle Wale!” before running off like he had just won the lottery.

I just stood there, my arms crossed, trying not to show how his thoughtfulness was undoing me. “You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

“I know,” he said easily. “But I wanted to.”

He extended the gold-wrapped box toward me. “This is for you.”

I blinked, hesitating before taking it. Inside was the most expensive-looking perfume I’d ever owned. The kind I’d admired on displays but never even dared to ask for. My throat tightened as I held it in my hands.
“Olawale…” I started, but he shook his head.

“No objections. I wanted you to have it. And…” his eyes softened as he leaned a little closer, lowering his voice like he was letting me in on a secret…“Please i’d also like to take you out again. Our third date.”
I gave him a look. “Another dinner?”

He grinned, shaking his head. “Not this time. Something simple. Fun. Just games, laughter, the kind of night I want you to actually enjoy without thinking too much. And before you ask - yes, I have something to tell you. But don’t overthink it. Just say yes to my date please.”

I tried to fight the smile tugging at my lips. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I am,” he said. “Because one thing I’m learning about you, Shalewa - you need moments that remind you life can still be sweet and beautiful.”

I looked down at the perfume, then back at him.

Jason came running back in just then, holding his snack like a trophy. “Mummy, can Uncle Wale play with us today?”
I wanted to groan at Jason’s timing, but Olawale just chuckled.

His eyes met mine again, steady, patient, but full of that quiet insistence that was slowly disarming me.
“Shalewa,” he said softly, “let me take you out. Okay just this once. No pressure, just us.”

And in that moment, against my better judgment, I heard myself whisper, “Okay.”
The next day, the streets less busy, the air softer. Kemi came early to pick Jason, fussing over him like she always did, while Jason pouted at me for not tagging along.

“But mummy, where are you going? Why can’t I come?” he asked, holding onto my hand like glue.
“Uncle Wale is taking mummy somewhere,” Kemi answered for me, giving me a teasing wink. “Don’t worry, Jason. I’ll buy you ice cream on the way.”

That did the trick. Jason let go, though not without giving me a suspicious side-eye. I kissed his forehead and waved them off, my heart already drumming for reasons I didn’t want to name.

I kept it simple - pink play pants, a black top, sneakers. No makeup fuss, just lip gloss and a sprinkle of perfume. When Olawale arrived, his eyes lingered on me in a way that made me shift under the weight of his gaze.

“You look… cute,” he said, almost boyish in the way he smiled. “Too cute. I don’t know if I’ll be able to focus today. Kaiii, Shalewa you are just too pretty.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to mask how his words warmed me. “Oh pleaseee.”

He opened the car door for me, his small gestures still catching me off guard every time.
The arcade wasn’t packed - families, couples, clusters of children around with balloons. Olawale didn’t even give me breathing space before dragging me into the first game, air hockey.

“You’re going to lose, Shalewa,” he said, that competitive grin stretching across his face.

“We’ll see,” I shot back, gripping the striker.

He scored first. Then I scored. By the third point, I was laughing so hard I could barely aim.

His satisfaction at winning was ridiculous, arms raised, teasing me about how I wasn’t fast enough.
We went from game to game - basketball hoops, car racing, even bowling. He insisted on teaching me how to hold the ball properly, standing close behind me, his hands guiding mine.

My heart beat faster at the nearness, but I forced a laugh.

“You’re just finding an excuse to distract me,” I said.

“Maybe,” he whispered close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath. “But you’re smiling, and that’s all I care about.”

I wanted to brush it off, but my smile betrayed me.

Hours slipped by like minutes. We ate fries and small chops in between, teasing me at every single opportunity he got.

By the time we were done, I couldn’t even remember the last time I had laughed that much.Olawale kept looking at me like I was the main prize he’d won that day.
And then he said, “Thank you for today, Shalewa. You have no idea how much it means to me to see you this free with me.”

I looked away, afraid of what my own eyes might say if I met his. But deep inside, I knew, I hadn’t felt this alive in a very long time.
We had played ourselves tired.

My cheeks hurt from smiling too much, and my voice was already hoarse from laughing at Olawale’s ridiculous victory dances. We were seated in a corner booth now, away from the noise, fries and half-drunk fruit drinks on the table between us.

For a while, neither of us spoke. We just sat there, listening to the faint echo of children screaming at the machine and the thud of balls rolling down the bowling lanes. Then Olawale leaned forward, his eyes holding mine with a seriousness that felt heavier than the moment.

“Shalewa…” he began, his tone different this time - low, steady, deliberate. “There’s something I promised to tell you today.”
My heart stumbled. “What is it?”

He exhaled like he’d been carrying the words for too long. “You know I really like you. Not just the casual kind of like. I mean, I wake up and you’re the first person on my mind. I drive home and I’m thinking about how your day went.

I hear Jason laugh and I think… God, this is what a family could feel like.”

I swallowed, unable to break eye contact.

“Please,” he continued, his voice firmer now, “be my girlfriend. Let me show you off. Let me show the world that you are my peace, my choice.”🥹

“I want you Shalewa. I need you. I want Jason. I want everything that’s all yours to be mine too. I want you to be my woman.”
I felt my chest tighten, my eyes burn, my fingers itch to reach for his.

“My last relationship broke me in ways I didn’t think I’d recover from,” he admitted, voice rougher now. “Since then, falling in love wasn’t on my agenda. I just… couldn’t. But the day I met you, that first day you wanted to slap me, something shifted in me…And since then, I’ve admired how strong you are. How you carry so much yet still manage to smile.”

My lips parted, but no words came.

“If Jason is the reason you’re holding back, please - don’t be,” he said, leaning closer. “Let me love him like my son…Let me take care of both of you. You deserve the best, Shalewa. Just allow me. Allow me to love you.”

Silence swallowed us whole. My heart was beating so hard I was sure he could hear it from across the table. His hand was still there, open, steady, waiting.

And for the first time in a very long time, I felt something I didn’t know if I was ready to admit: hope.
For a moment, I just stared at his hand lying open on the table. My throat was tight, my chest rising and falling too quickly.

I had built so many walls around myself - thick, high, almost impossible to climb - and here was this man, not asking to break them, but asking me to let him in.
I leaned back a little, trying to steady my voice. “Olawale…” I whispered, my fingers trembling.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I let myself feel this much? Since I even admitted to myself that I could care about someone this deeply?”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched me like every word was precious.
“I’m tired,” I confessed, my voice breaking. “I’m tired of being strong all the time. Tired of pretending I don’t need anyone. Tired of holding everything together so I don’t fall apart. I just…

…I just don’t want to be broken anymore.”
The tears that threatened finally slipped free. “All I want now is to be happy. To laugh and not feel guilty. To love and not be afraid. To finally breathe without waiting for the next heartbreak.”

I reached for his hand then, my fingers sliding into his warm, steady grip.
“And Olawale,” I whispered, forcing a shaky smile through my tears, “you make me feel like that happiness is possible again.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes glassy, like he was holding himself together.
“So yes,” I said, my voice firming up. “Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend. Yes, I’ll let you love me. Yes, I’ll give us a chance.”

Olawale closed his eyes briefly, like he had been holding his breath for years and finally exhaled. Then he pulled me gently out of my seat and into his arms, holding me like he promised - careful, tender, yet strong enough to make me feel safe.🥹

And right there, in that noisy arcade filled with strangers’ laughter and the clatter of games, I felt my heart unlock. I wasn’t afraid.
The hug lingered, warm and grounding, his heartbeat steady against mine.

And just when I thought he would let go, Olawale tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against my temple. My breath hitched.
Before I could even process it, his hand moved from my back to cup my face, his thumb grazing my cheek as if asking for permission.

I didn’t pull away. Instead, I leaned in, needing it, craving it more than I cared to admit.

And then it happened.

His lips met mine not tentative, not rushed, but deep, certain, and almost desperate.

It tasted of every unsaid word, every bottled-up longing, every hidden ache I had been carrying.
I melted against him, my fingers curling into his shirt like I had been waiting years for this.

He kissed me like I was the only thing that mattered, like he had finally found something worth fighting for and wasn’t about to let go.
It was intense, consuming, almost like he was pulling all the pain out of me and replacing it with fire.

My knees wobbled, and if not for his arm locked firmly around my waist, I might have slipped.
When we finally broke apart, both of us breathless, he rested his forehead against mine, smiling through the storm in his eyes.

“Omo Shalewa,” he whispered, voice husky, “you don’t know what you’ve just done to me.”
I laughed through my tears - because I knew exactly what he had just done to me too.

The drive home was calm, the city lights slipping by like fireflies. The radio hummed softly, and for a while, neither of us said a word. The silence wasn’t heavy, it was full. Full of everything we’d said without words.
Then he glanced at me, one hand still steady on the wheel.

There was something tender in his voice when he spoke.
“Thank you for today, Shalewa. You have no idea how much it means to me to see you this free.”

I smiled softly, then turned to him, unable to stop the small smile that tugged at my lips.“You’re not even trying to hide it again, are you?”

“Hide what?” He teased, eyes flickering between the road and my face.

“That you’re completely smitten.”

He grinned. “Ah, so you’ve noticed.”

We both laughed - soft, unguarded laughter that filled the car.

As we pulled up in front of my house, the night felt too beautiful to end, too tender to just walk away from.
Olawale parked and turned slightly toward me. His eyes lingered on my face like he was memorizing every line, every curve, every breath.

“Shalewa…” he said quietly. There was something in his tone that made my heart skip.

“Yes?” I whispered, my fingers already playing nervously with the hem of my top.

He leaned closer, his voice a soft promise between us. “I love you.”

Before I could think, he reached for my face, brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, and kissed me softly on the lips. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t a question. It was a seal - something sure, something safe.
When he pulled back, I was smiling so wide I could barely stop myself.

My hands found their way around him, and I hugged him tight - the kind of hug that says thank you, I’m scared, and I’m ready all at once.
“I love you too,” I whispered against his chest, and even I couldn’t believe how easily it came out.

He smiled, kissed my forehead this time, and opened the door for me. “Goodnight, my woman.”

I laughed softly, shaking my head as I stepped out of the car. “Goodnight, Wale.”

He waited until I got to my door before driving off, his headlights casting a fleeting glow on my walls.

Inside, the quiet of my room felt different tonight - warmer, lighter. I leaned against the door for a moment, still smiling like a fool. Then I walked to my bed, sat down, and let out a deep sigh.
I couldn’t stop replaying it - his eyes, his words, the way he said I love you.

I ran my fingers over my lips, still feeling the softness of his kiss, and my chest tightened in the sweetest way.

So this was what peace felt like.
This was what being seen felt like.

I picked up my journal from the bedside table, opened it halfway, and just stared at the blank page. There were so many things I wanted to write - about love, about healing, about how the right person could make you believe again. But before I could start, my eyes grew heavy.

I smiled one last time, whispering to myself, “Olawale,” before slipping into sleep - not even knowing when I drifted off.
The morning came too soon, but it felt different. The kind of morning that makes you wake up slowly, smiling before you even open your eyes.

I didn’t wake up to rush or think or worry. I just lay there, the early light filtering through my curtains, replaying last night in my head, the way he said I love you, the warmth of his hands, the softness in his eyes.
I hugged my pillow and laughed quietly.

So this is what peace feels like, I thought again.

My phone buzzed beside me. I stretched lazily to grab it. Kemi. Of course.

“Hello, lover girl,” she said immediately, her voice dripping with mischief.

I sat up, trying to sound normal. “What are you talking about?”

She laughed. “Don’t even start. Your voice gave you away. You’re glowing through the phone, Shalewa. If I didn’t know better, I’d say somebody finally kissed you right.”
I pressed my lips together, smiling so hard it almost hurt. “Kemi, abeg.”

“Abeg what?” she teased. “Did he finally confess?”

I exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

“And you?”

There was a pause. A long one. Then, quietly, I said, “I said yes too.”

Kemi screamed so loudly I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “Finally! Finally, my girl has fallen in love again! Do you know how long I’ve been praying for this day?”
I couldn’t even fight her excitement. I was laughing, giggling like a teenager. “You’re so dramatic, Kemi.”

“No, I’m just happy,” she said softly now. “You deserve this, Shalewa. You’ve been through enough. This joy? You earned it.”
I went quiet, staring at the ceiling as her words settled deep. Maybe she was right. Maybe, after everything, I finally deserved to be this happy.

We talked a bit more - about Jason, about how peaceful the house felt, about how Kemi was planning to come over during the weekend.
After the call ended, I just sat there for a while, hugging myself. Then I got up, humming softly as I walked to the mirror.

The woman staring back at me looked… new. Lighter. There was a glow I couldn’t explain - one that no makeup could create.

I smiled at my reflection, whispering, “I think I’m really in love.”

And for once, it didn’t scare me.

I genuinely think having too little of your own life can make another person feel much bigger than they actually are.

When you don’t have much that gives your life meaning, a romantic relationship can easily become the most exciting thing happening to you. The person you are dating becomes the very thing you think about when you wake up, the person you want to tell everything to, the source of your excitement, and the center of your plans. Your relationship starts carrying a weight that one person was never meant to carry.

And that is where romantic obsession begins. It may start with something completely normal. You like someone. You enjoy talking to them. You look forward to seeing them. You think about them during the day.

The problem comes when there is very little else competing for your attention. When your own goals feel unclear, your friendships are neglected, your hobbies have disappeared, and your days do not have much structure, romance can fill the empty space. A text message can become the highlight of your day. A phone call can determine your mood. A change in their tone can occupy your thoughts for hours.

Suddenly, their behavior feels extremely important because your own life does not have enough things demanding your attention. Which is why you may struggle so much after the relationship ends. You are not only grieving the person. You are facing all the empty spaces that person had been filling. The evenings feel longer. The weekends feel different. There is nobody to constantly check on, nobody to plan around, and nobody whose attention can give the day a little excitement.

That can make you want the relationship back even when the relationship itself was unhealthy. Sometimes what you miss is not even the person. You miss having something to focus on.

Purpose gives your mind somewhere else to go.

When you have work that matters to you, friendships that make you feel connected, creative interests, personal goals, and things you are genuinely excited about, a romantic relationship can become important without becoming your entire emotional world.

You can love someone and still have somewhere to be mentally. You can miss them without spending the whole day checking your phone. You can have an argument without immediately feeling as though your entire life is falling apart. You can hear that they are busy and understand that their silence is not automatically a rejection. Your life already has other sources of meaning.

If you have no sense of direction, you may attach yourself to whoever gives you a strong feeling. The intensity can be mistaken for love because it feels like something is finally happening. The relationship gives you a story to live inside. But love cannot permanently replace purpose.

Eventually, the relationship will have ordinary days. You will both be busy. Conversations will become less exciting. There will be misunderstandings, disagreements, and moments when neither person has anything particularly interesting to say. That is normal.

If the relationship is carrying your entire sense of excitement, those ordinary moments can feel like a crisis. You may start looking for problems because you need something to feel. You may become overly focused on how often they text. You may read meaning into every small change. You may start checking their social media, wondering who they are talking to and comparing yourself with people they follow. Not because the relationship is necessarily going badly, but because your mind has nowhere else to go.

Sometimes the answer to romantic obsession is not finding someone who loves you harder. Sometimes you need to build a life that gives your mind somewhere else to live. Find something you care about. Work toward something. Learn something.

Make plans that have nothing to do with romance.

Build friendships. Take yourself somewhere. Become interested in your own life again. You need things that belong to you. Because when your entire emotional world depends on one person, every change in that relationship feels enormous. But when you have a life that is full of meaning, romance can take its proper place.

It can be beautiful without becoming consuming.

You can love someone deeply without making them responsible for your happiness. You can enjoy being wanted without needing constant reassurance that you still are. You can have a relationship and still remain a whole person outside it.

And I think that is one of the healthiest things you can give yourself: a life you are so connected to that love becomes something you add to it, rather than the only thing making it worth living.

In your 20s, you may meet a man who seems determined to make you question yourself. He may not insult you in obvious ways. He may call it honesty. He may even tell you that he is only trying to help you “see yourself clearly.” His comments may sound like advice, but somehow you leave every conversation feeling less confident than you did before it started.

Pay attention to that feeling.

There is a difference between someone telling you the truth and someone looking for ways to reduce you. A man who genuinely cares about you does not need to destroy your confidence to make a point. He can disagree with you without making you feel stupid. He can tell you when you are wrong without treating your mistakes as proof that you are a lesser person. He can give you honest feedback without making you feel like your personality needs to be corrected.

Sometimes “hard truths” are not hard truths at all.

Sometimes they are just cruel opinions dressed up as wisdom. A man who is insecure may feel uncomfortable around a woman who knows herself. Her confidence can make him feel inadequate, so he starts looking for ways to bring her back down to a level that feels safer for him. He may question the things you are proud of. He may make jokes about your appearance. He may dismiss your achievements. He may act unimpressed whenever you are excited about something. When you speak with confidence, he may call you arrogant. When you set a boundary, he may say you have become difficult. If you keep hearing these things, you may eventually start wondering whether he is right.

Girlllll, run!

When someone repeatedly challenges your sense of worth, you unknowingly begin to do that for them. You start examining every part of yourself through their eyes. You become careful about what you say. You stop celebrating yourself because you already know someone is waiting to make you feel foolish for being proud.

Please do not let that happen.

Your confidence should not depend on whether a man approves of it. You are allowed to like yourself. You are allowed to be proud of your achievements. You are allowed to know that you are beautiful. You are allowed to have big plans and believe that you can achieve them.

None of those things require his permission.

And if someone has to make you feel small before he can feel big, that tells you much more about him than it does about you. There will be people who call you too confident because they are used to women who apologize for taking up space. There will be people who find your ambition intimidating. There will be people who prefer you when you are unsure of yourself because your uncertainty makes them feel more secure.

You do not have to become smaller to make someone else comfortable.

This does not mean believing that you are perfect.

You should be able to listen when someone gives you genuine criticism. You should be willing to admit when you are wrong. Confidence without self-awareness can become arrogance, and nobody benefits from pretending otherwise. But criticism should help you understand yourself better, not make you hate yourself. The right person can tell you, “You handled that badly,” without making you believe you are a bad person. He can challenge you without humiliating you. He can disagree with you without trying to break your confidence. He can see your flaws and still respect you.

That really matters.

Because your 20s are a time when you are still figuring yourself out. You are making decisions about your career, your relationships, your appearance, your values, and the kind of woman you want to become. You are going to make mistakes. You are going to change your mind. You are going to outgrow certain people and discover parts of yourself you did not know existed. You need people around you who can tell you the truth without making you afraid of yourself.

So if you meet a man who seems determined to humble you, do not mistake his discomfort for wisdom. You do not need to prove that you are humble by pretending you are ordinary. You do not need to hide your light because someone has decided that it is too bright. Keep your head high.

Know yourself well enough that another person's opinion cannot completely rewrite your understanding of who you are.

And always remember that being loved should not require you to become less of yourself. You are still that girl. The one with the dreams. The one who is learning. The one who has made mistakes and survived them. The one who is allowed to be proud of herself.

Do not hand that girl over to somebody who needs to destroy her confidence to feel good about himself.

Because suddenly, everywhere I turned, it felt like Olawale was there, not even trying too hard, just… steady.
The first day after I said yes to his date, I caught him in the lobby.

He was with some foreign investors, his face serious, his hands moving as he explained something to them. For a moment, he looked so out of reach, like someone living in a world completely different from mine. Then, as if he sensed me, his eyes shifted, briefly, and landed on me.

That small smile appeared, soft and deliberate, like he was carrying a secret in his pocket. I looked away immediately, but the smile followed me the entire shift.
The next day, Jason did what Jason does best. He opened his little mouth and dropped what felt like a thunderbolt.

We had barely left the crèche when he said, “Mummy, that man… he likes you.” I almost tripped. I hushed him quickly, told him to focus on walking straight, but my ears burned. Jason’s words clung to me, and I laughed so hard.

I actually laughed out loud in the street like a foolish girl. That night, I lay in bed replaying it again and again. And no matter how much I rolled my eyes, I couldn’t dismiss it.
By the third day, the tension in me was too much.

He offered me a ride after work, and I almost said no. But I got in, and the whole drive was quiet. He was humming faintly to the song on the radio, his fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. Meanwhile, I stared out the window, chewing on my bottom lip.

The silence pressed down on me until I snapped and blurted, “Don’t expect too much from this date.” I don’t even know why I said it. He chuckled, this calm, low laugh, and replied, “I’ll take whatever you give Shalewa.”

That was it. Simple. Steady. And for some reason, that scared me more than if he had tried to charm me.
Then came the day of the date. My chest was tight from the moment I woke up. Work dragged on forever, and by evening, I was ready to back out.

But then his message came in: 8pm. I’ll be on time. No emojis, no begging, no theatrics. Just calm certainty. And I knew then that I couldn’t wriggle out.
That was when I called Kemi. My Kemi. My loud, dramatic, shameless friend.

The only one who could drag me out of my head when I was too far gone. “I don’t even know what to wear,” I complained over the phone.

She laughed so loud I had to hold the phone away. “Wear confidence, jare. Since you don’t have that right now, I’m bringing clothes and my makeup bag.”
She showed up like a whirlwind, arms full of dresses, face full of mischief. I didn’t like any of the dresses she came with.🥲

They exposed my body too much. She rifled through my wardrobe, tossed half my clothes on the bed, and declared me a “lost cause” until she found a simple gown I hadn’t worn in years. “Perfect,” she said. “Now sit down, let me fix this your stubborn face.”

As she painted my lips, she kept teasing me. “You better not go and sit there like you’re in a board meeting. Smile small. Don’t disgrace me Shally.” I rolled my eyes, but she had me laughing too much to resist.

For the first time in a long while, I looked in the mirror and didn’t see just Jason’s mother, or the tired woman trying to keep her life together. I saw… me. A softer me. A me I thought was long gone.

By the time Kemi was done, I barely recognized myself. And when 8 o’clock drew near, and I heard a car horn outside, my heart slammed in my chest.

Kemi grinned wickedly, like she had just handed me over to fate. “Go and enjoy, abeg. And don’t forget, you’re not a single mother tonight. You’re Shalewa. Don’t think too much about Jason. I’m here till the end of the week.”🥹

I should have known the man would pick somewhere ridiculous for our first date. Not ridiculous in a bad way, but ridiculous in that “clearly, this man has too much money to be normal” kind of way.

The kind of place where the napkins are folded like origami birds and the waiters glide across the floor as if their shoes never touch the ground.
I almost turned back. Truly, I almost did.

Because as I stepped out of the car and looked up at the warm lights spilling out of the restaurant, I felt so out of place.
I mean, this man booked out the whole restaurant because he wanted it to be just “us”.

My heart started drumming, and that old voice whispered, You don’t belong here, Shalewa. You should have stayed home.
Then Olawale appeared by my side, opening the door with that casual ease of his.

“You’re frowning already,” he teased, his voice dipping low like he was sharing a secret. “We haven’t even sat down, and you look like you want to beat me.”
I scoffed and stepped past him. “Well, if you try me, I might as well forget my hands on your body.”

He chuckled, the sound too easy, too comfortable, as if my sharpness only entertained him. As we walked inside, he leaned closer just enough for me to hear, “Don’t worry. Tonight, your only job is to please eat every single thing on the menu. Leave everything else to me.”

I rolled my eyes, but I felt the corners of my mouth twitch. And he caught it. Of course, he caught it.
At the table, I tried to focus on the menu, but the names of the dishes looked like riddles. French, Italian, sprinkled with things I couldn’t pronounce.

I held the menu up like a shield, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He noticed.

“You know you’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes, right?”

“I’m deciding Olawale,” I muttered.

“Deciding whether to ask for rice and stew instead?” His eyes glimmered with laughter. “Don’t worry, I won’t judge you. Too much.”
I dropped the menu, glaring at him, but he just grinned like a man who had already won a small victory.

The waiter appeared, and before I could expose myself, Olawale smoothly ordered for both of us. Something with salmon, something else with pasta. I should have been annoyed, but the truth was that I was relieved. And he knew it.

When the food arrived, I kept my hands busy, cutting, chewing, sipping water like my life depended on it. Anything to avoid the way he kept looking at me.
“Why are you staring?” I finally snapped.

“Because you’re terrible at hiding when you’re nervous,” he replied easily, sipping his wine. “You pretend to be this tough, untouchable woman, but right now? You’re holding your fork like it’s a weapon.”
I looked down. He wasn’t lying.

His grin widened, but his tone softened. “Relax, Shalewa. I’m not here to fight you.”
Something in my chest loosened, and before I knew it, I laughed. A real laugh. The kind I hadn’t heard from myself in a long time.

And just like that, the table felt lighter, the night felt less heavy.
But Olawale, being Olawale, didn’t let me rest. He leaned back, his eyes fixed on me like he was studying a puzzle.

“You know, I like this version of you. The one that laughs. Not the one that wants to bite my head off.”
I shook my head, hiding my smile behind my glass. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” he said simply. And for once, I didn’t have a sharp reply.
Since we got to the restaurant, everything Olawale did was stare. Not the casual, polite kind of stare. No.

The kind that makes you suddenly want to check if your lipstick smudged or if you somehow wore your dress backwards.
I adjusted the strap of my dress, already feeling exposed under his gaze. “Olawale you’ve been looking at me. Why?” I asked, half defensive, half nervous.

He leaned forward across the table, his eyes refusing to let me go. “Because you look… breathtaking tonight.” His voice was steady, deliberate. “And if I don’t say it out loud, I might regret it for the rest of the night.”

I tried to wave him off, but my cheeks betrayed me, warming under the low golden light of the restaurant.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he pressed, tilting his head.

“That’s the problem. You don’t even realize how gorgeous you are. The dress, the way it falls on you, the way you carry yourself… Shalewa, you walked in and the whole place shifted.”

I scoffed, more to steady myself than anything else. “You talk too much.”

“Maybe,” he smiled. “But tonight, I’m going to keep talking. Because you need to hear it.”

I stabbed at my food, pretending to be unfazed, but the truth was my hands trembled slightly.

It had been so long since a man looked at me that way, so long since anyone reminded me I was more than tired eyes and a uniform.

He let me sit in that silence for a while before he spoke again, softer this time. “Can I ask you something?”

I raised my eyes warily.

“Jason,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue with surprising gentleness. “That’s your son, right?”
My fork froze mid-air. For a moment, I wanted to snap, to shut it down, to draw the line sharp and clear. But his tone wasn’t prying. It wasn’t laced with judgment or pity.

It was just… soft. Curious, but careful.

“Yes,” I finally said, almost a whisper.

He nodded, his gaze steady but respectful. “I’d like to hear about him sometime. But only if you want to share. If not now, that’s fine. No pressure.”

The words sat between us, light but heavy. And for once, I didn’t feel cornered. I felt seen.
I dropped my eyes to the tablecloth, my chest tightening in a way I wasn’t prepared for. So I did the only thing I knew how to do - I deflected.

“You really don’t stop talking, do you?” I muttered.

Olawale chuckled, raising his glass. “Not when it comes to you.”

And despite myself, I smiled.

Dinner melted into laughter I didn’t see coming.

I had promised myself I’d sit there stiff, eat quietly, and let him do all the talking, but somehow… I found myself laughing at his ridiculous stories about getting lost in traffic or mispronouncing menu items the first time he ever came to the restaurant.

“Don’t even try to deny it,” I said, shaking my head as I reached for my drink. “I can already picture you standing there, forming Queen’s English, and the waiter just staring at you.”
He grinned, leaning back in his chair. “And you would’ve laughed at me too, abi?”

“Definitely,” I said without hesitation.

He clutched his chest like I had just stabbed him. “See betrayal. On our first date!”

I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile. “Who even said this is a date?”

He leaned forward, his voice dropping just slightly. “Me. I said it.”

The weight of his words pressed against me, and I looked away quickly, focusing on the glowing candles instead of his eyes.
We ate slowly, conversations dancing between lighthearted teasing and those quieter pauses where the air between us felt… different.

And every time I tried to shrink back into myself, he found a way to pull me out - either by complimenting me again (“That smile - you don’t even know what you’re doing to me”) or by steering the conversation somewhere safe, like movies or food.

By the time we left the restaurant, the night air wrapped around us, cool and soft, like Lagos had decided to calm down just for me.
He opened the car door for me - something I almost refused out of pride, but eventually slipped into because I was too tired to argue.

The ride home was quieter than dinner, but not heavy. Music played low from the radio, a soulful tune filling the silence. I caught myself humming along, tapping lightly on my thigh.

“You have a nice voice,” he said suddenly.

I turned sharply. “I wasn’t singing.”

“You were,” he said, eyes still on the road, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And it was beautiful.”
I didn’t reply. I just looked out the window, pretending the city lights had stolen all my attention, even though my chest was doing small somersaults.

When we pulled up in front of my apartment, I exhaled, relieved and disappointed all at once. Relieved because I could retreat into my safe walls. Disappointed because… well, I didn’t want to admit I enjoyed myself.
I reached for the door quickly, but his voice stopped me.

“Shalewa,” he said, softer than I’d ever heard him.

I froze, my hand still on the door.

He didn’t rush. He just looked at me, his eyes steady, calm. “Thank you for tonight. For saying yes. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

I swallowed, suddenly nervous. “Yeah... Goodnight.”

I tried to open the door again, but he leaned slightly closer - not enough to touch, but enough for me to feel the warmth of him.

“One day,” he said, “I’ll get you to stop running from me.”

My heart skipped. I forced my face back into that blank, guarded mask and stepped out of the car before he could say another word.
At my door, I turned slightly, half expecting him to have driven off.

But he was still there, his headlights painting the street, his gaze fixed on me like he had all the time in the world, his car humming quietly by the curb. He leaned slightly against the wall by the gate, not moving, not rushing, just… watching.

I swallowed. “You should go,” I said softly, more to myself than to him.

“Maybe,” he answered. His voice was low, steady. “But not yet.”

Something in me froze. His eyes were on me, calm but searching, like he was asking questions without words.

My chest rose and fell too fast, and suddenly the air between us felt too thin.
He took one careful step closer - not threatening, not forceful, just deliberate. “Shalewa…” His voice dropped again. “I want to kiss you.”

He tilted his head slightly, the world went quiet. My heart beat so loudly I was sure he could hear it. Every part of me screamed to say no, to run inside, to stay safe. But my lips betrayed me.
I nodded, even though my throat felt too tight to speak.

That was all he needed.
He closed the space slowly, giving me every chance to pull back, but I didn’t. His hand rose gently, fingers brushing the side of my face, warm against my skin.

And then his lips touched mine - soft, lingering, patient, like he’d been waiting forever for that single moment.
My hands, almost on their own, gripped the edge of the door for balance. For a second, I let go of everything - Jason, the walls I built, the weight of the past.

It was just me and him, and the quiet promise wrapped inside that kiss.

When he finally pulled back, just a little, his forehead rested against mine.

“God…” he whispered, smiling slightly. “You’ll be the end of me.”

I couldn’t look at him. I turned quickly, opened the door and slipped inside before my knees gave way.
Behind the door, I pressed my lips with trembling fingers, my whole body buzzing like I had just stepped into something dangerous and beautiful all at once.

And even though I tried to deny it… I knew I’d already crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, my chest heaving like I’d just run a race. My lips were still warm, tingling, betraying me with how they wouldn’t stop remembering.

I touched them, once, twice, then shook my head hard, as if I could shake off what just happened.

A kiss. With Olawale.

What was I thinking?

I kicked off my shoes and dropped my bag on the chair, pacing the room like someone who had misplaced her mind.

Every time I tried to scold myself, that kiss replayed, slower, sweeter, making me press my palm over my mouth to stifle the small, embarrassing laugh that kept threatening to escape.
I was in trouble. Real trouble.

“Ehn, you’re back?” Kemi’s voice broke my spiral. She pushed open my door without knocking, wrapper tied carelessly around her chest. “Jason is fast asleep, don’t worry.” Then her eyes narrowed, sharp and mischievous. “But you - you’re glowing. Don’t even try to deny it.”

I rolled my eyes and flopped on the bed. “Glowing ko, glowing ni. I’m just tired.”
Kemi sat cross-legged beside me, grinning like a cat that caught the fattest rat. “Lie another lie, now. Tell me how the date went. What did he order for you?

Did he open the car door? Did he-” She gasped suddenly, hand flying to her mouth. “He kissed you.”

My head shot up. “Kemi!”

Her laughter filled the room, loud and unbothered.

“Ah! He kissed you! Look at your face. See how you’re even holding your mouth like it still belongs to him.” She poked my arm, giggling. “Shalewa, you’ve entered wahala.”

I threw a pillow at her, but it only made her laugh harder. I tried to stay annoyed, to act like it meant nothing, but my own reflection in the wardrobe mirror betrayed me - cheeks flushed, eyes softer than I’d seen them in months.

Kemi leaned back, her grin gentler now. “It’s okay, you know. To like him. You don’t have to fight it so hard.”
I sighed, sinking into the bed. “You don’t understand, Kemi. It’s… complicated.”

She shrugged, standing up. “Love is always complicated. But sometimes, complication is where the sweetness hides.”
When she left, Kemi leaned back, her grin gentler now. “It’s okay, you know. To like him. You don’t have to fight it so hard.”

I sighed, sinking into the bed. “You don’t understand, Kemi. It’s… complicated.” I buried my face in my pillow, I hated how much I replayed that moment by the door, the “I want to kiss you”- and how my body answered before my head could.

I hated it.

And I loved it even more.

I was still rolling on my bed, hugging my pillow like a confused teenager, when my phone buzzed. Olawale.

For a split second, I considered ignoring it. Pretend I was asleep. Pretend tonight didn’t happen.

But my hand betrayed me, before my brain could decide, I had already swiped to pick.

“Hello?” My voice came out softer than I intended.

“Shalewa,” his own voice carried warmth, low and steady. “ You’ve settled in?”

I pressed my toes into the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”
There was a small pause, and then a chuckle. “Good. I just… I wanted to be sure. You had a long day, and I didn’t want you overthinking about anything.”

I almost laughed at that. Overthinking? If only he knew the war going on in my chest.
“I’m not overthinking,” I lied quickly, fiddling with the edge of my pillowcase.

“Hmm,” he hummed, unconvinced. “You don’t sound like someone who isn’t. But it’s okay. I just needed to hear your voice tonight.”
Something in me softened, and I hated how easily it did. “You’re saying that like I’m a baby.”

“No,” he said, calm and certain. “Like a woman I care about.”
My heart gave a foolish thump. I bit my lip, willing myself to sound unbothered. “You’re funny.”

“I’m serious, Shalewa.” His tone dropped, quiet but firm. “I know you don’t like questions, and I’ll wait for when you want to talk. But don’t shut me out. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
I didn’t know what possessed me, but I whispered, “I’m not shutting you out.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy and delicate, until he broke it with a smile I could hear through the phone. “Good. Then sleep well. Dream something sweet.”

I rolled my eyes even though my cheeks burned. “Goodnight, Olawale.”

“Goodnight, Shalewa.”

When I dropped the call, I stared at my phone for a long time. My chest was doing that annoying flutter again. I wanted to scold myself, remind myself that this was dangerous territory.

But instead, I found myself smiling into my pillow like an idiot, whispering his name under my breath.

Olawale.

Maybe I liked him. Just a little.

And that was the problem.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. The kiss replayed in my head, frame by frame, like a film reel I didn’t want to end. I tried to distract myself with Instagram reels and random YouTube videos, but every vibration of my phone sent my heart racing.

And just few minutes later, his name lit up my screen.

“Why are you not asleep?” I asked as soon as I picked.

“Why are you not asleep?” he countered, his voice low, teasing.

I laughed lightly, then caught myself. “I… I was just thinking.”

“About me?” He asked it too smoothly.

I wanted to hiss at him, but my lips betrayed me with a smile. “Olawale, goodnight. Leave me alone.”

He smiled and said “Goodnight, Shalewa. Dream of me.”

I hung up first. But I didn’t stop smiling.

The next night, it was me who caved. My thumb hovered over his number for ten minutes before I finally tapped call. He answered on the second ring, like he had been waiting.

“You called,” he said softly, like a man who had just won a battle.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I muttered. “I just… couldn’t sleep.”

“Then let me keep you company.”

And he did. We talked about nothing and everything. That day was my free day from work so I was at home throughout the day. I told him Jason’s favorite cartoon, he told me how he hated drinking tea as a child but his mother forced him.

It was the kind of conversation you forget by morning but it leaves you lighter, freer.
The next day at work dragged. The phones kept ringing, guests had endless requests, and by evening I was just thankful my shift was finally over. My legs ached, and all I wanted was my bed.

When I stepped outside the hotel entrance, I wasn’t expecting to see him leaning casually against his car, like something out of a movie. Olawale. My heart gave the kind of jump I hated - because it meant I was starting to anticipate him.

He opened the car door for me without a word, and I slipped inside, too tired to argue. A moment later, he slid into the driver’s seat, but instead of starting the engine, he reached for something at the back.
“Here,” he said simply.

I looked down and froze. A bouquet of flowers, full and lush, in the softest, prettiest shade of pink. My favorite color.
I blinked, completely caught off guard. “You…” My voice trailed.

He didn’t even look smug, the way most men would when they got something right. His voice was quiet. “You mentioned it at the restaurant. Pink. I remembered.”

For a moment, I just stared at the flowers, my throat tight. Nobody had ever… it was too much. Too thoughtful. Too personal.
“Thank you,” I whispered finally, holding them carefully like they were fragile.He smiled, eyes flicking briefly to mine before returning to the road as he started the car. He didn’t push conversation, didn’t ask me how much I liked them, didn’t ruin it by overtalking. He just drove, the silence soft and warm, with the faint scent of roses filling the car.

When we pulled up outside my apartment, I realized something dangerous: I didn’t want to get down just yet.😭🤣 I swallowed hard, suddenly afraid to move. My fingers gripped the bouquet tighter, and I felt that sting in my chest, the kind that comes before tears.

I blinked fast, willing myself not to break down in his car. Not here. Not in front of him.
“Shalewa,” Olawale said softly, turning slightly toward me. “You deserve everything. And I just hope you let me give you everything.”

He moved closer to me and gave me a soft, warm, gentle peck.
That did it. My throat closed up completely. I forced a smile, the kind that was meant to hide everything bubbling beneath the surface. “Goodnight, Olawale.”

My voice cracked on the last word, but I slipped out before he could catch it.
The air outside felt colder than the car. I walked up the short stairs quickly, clutching the flowers like a lifeline, and by the time I pushed open the door……I tried to slip past Kemi like it was nothing. But of course, she was on the couch, sharp-eyed as always.
The second she spotted the bouquet, she sat up straight. “Ah! Shalewa!” She clapped her hands like a child. “Somebody is doing romantic things o!”

I shot her a glare. “Kemi, please. Don’t start.”
She ignored me completely, already snatching the flowers from me before I could even blink. She twirled around with them, holding them to her chest like she was in some Nollywood romance scene.

“See how fine they are. Pink. He didn’t just buy any flower o. He studied you. Ah, this man is serious.”
I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Kemi, it’s just flowers. Ordinary flowers.”

“Ordinary ke?” She gasped loudly, feigning shock. “Do you know how many women are praying for this ‘ordinary’ every night? Better hold this man tight before somebody else snatches him.”
I couldn’t help it - I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re crazy.”

“Yes, I’m crazy,” she said proudly, admiring the flowers left, right and center. “Crazy enough to see that you’re blushing.” She buried her nose in them, inhaled dramatically, then grinned at me. “Beautiful. Expensive. Kaiii the man is paying so much attention.”

“I am not blushing,” I snapped, maybe a little too quickly.

She turned to me, grinning like a cat. “Then why are your eyes red?”

I threw a pillow at her, and she ducked, laughing so hard the sound filled the room. “Leave me alone, Kemi.”

I sighed, sinking into the chair. “That’s the problem. I wasn’t expecting this. I don’t know how to… I don’t want to start crying over flowers.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

Kemi softened then, lowering herself beside me. “You deserve someone who notices you Shally. Don’t fight it so hard, you’ve been through so much. Let yourself breathe.”
I stared at the flowers in her hands, my chest tightening again.

Later, when she finally went to bed and the house grew quiet, I sat alone with the flowers beside me. And she was right. My eyes had been red. My heart had been racing. And no matter how much I told myself it was just flowers… I couldn’t stop smiling and crying at the same time.

I was still looking at the flowers when my phone buzzed. It wasn’t Olawale this time. It was my mother.
“Shalewa,” she said without hello. Her voice sounded heavy. “Your son’s father has been calling me. He thought Jason was with me. He says he wants to come and pick Jason up.”

My chest tightened. I swallowed hard. “Which son is he talking about, Mummy?” I asked.

She sighed like she was tired. “You know who. Jason. He says he wants to see his son.”

I laughed, but it was a sharp, bitter laugh.

“Oh, really? The same son he abandoned before he even came into this world? The one he said I was too demanding for, because I wanted care, attention, and responsibility from him? That son?”
“Shalewa…” my mother started.

I cut her off. My hand was shaking. I held the phone so tight my palm hurt. “Why is he calling you, Mummy? Why not call me? Why hide behind you? Does he think that will make me softer?”
My mother was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke softly.

“He sounded different, Shalewa. Maybe he has changed…”
“No,” I said, and my voice broke for a second. I pulled it together. “Don’t start saying he’s changed. He made his choice when he left. Jason is not a toy he can pick up when he feels like it.”

There was a heavy silence after that. It felt like the air in the room stopped.

“Okay,” my mother said finally. She sounded tired. “But think about Jason. Think about what’s best for him.”

I ended the call. I sat on the edge of my bed.

The flowers were still there, bright and pretty. But their sweetness felt wrong now. My hand pressed on my chest. I tried to breathe.
Jason’s father. After all these years, he called. He had the nerve to say he wanted his son.

The first time his number flashed on my screen, I ignored it.
The second time, I pressed decline.
By the fourth time, I had blocked his number.

Still, he found a way. He called my mother. He used anyone he could. After three years of silence, he was suddenly restless.

Suddenly “ready to be a father.” Like he had only misplaced a toy and just remembered it.

A few days after my mum called, my phone rang again. Before I looked, I picked up.

“Hello, Shalewa.”

His voice made my blood burn. My chest felt like it was on fire. For a few seconds I could not say a word.

Then I lost it.

“Don’t you ever call this number again,” I hissed. My voice shook with anger. “You left me. You left Jason. You can’t be ‘a father’ only when it suits you.

You don’t have a son. Do you hear me? You don’t. And Jason does not have a father. Whatever you want, go find it somewhere else. It will never be here.”
He tried to speak. “Shalewa, please, I…”

But I was already shouting. “Don’t you dare ‘please’ me! Don’t you dare! You lost every right to call me, to call his name, to even say his name. Never call me again. Not tomorrow, not next year, not in ten years. Never. Only call if you want my trouble. Do you hear me?”

I did not wait for him. I hung up. My hand trembled as I dropped the phone on the bed. My chest heaved like I had run a long race. For a long moment I sat there. My whole body felt full of hurt and rage.
Then the door creaked. Kemi came in humming. She held a big package…

“Delivery for Madam Shalewa,” she said with a smile. She put the package on the bed.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I tried to sound steady. “What is it?”

Kemi raised her eyebrows. “Open it and see.”

I tore the seal. The first thing I saw was silver in a velvet box. Jewelry. A full set - necklace, bracelet, earrings. They looked very expensive.
Next to it was a designer handbag. Soft leather. The kind I only saw in magazines or in glasses at boutique stores.

My fingers touched the strap. Then I saw the card.

“From Olawale.”

My heart flipped.

Kemi grabbed the card and read it out loud. “From Olawale,” she said, then laughed. “Flowers a few days ago, now jewelry and a designer bag today? Girllll, what did you add to your soup?”

I rolled my eyes but the smallest smile slipped out.

“I’m serious, Shalewa!” Kemi poked me. “This man comes too correct. Look at this bag. Original! Genuine leather! Oh my God. Do you know how much this costs?”

I turned the bag in my hands.

My throat tightened again, but this time it was different. Minutes ago I had been burning with anger at Jason’s father. My chest was raw with old pain. And now here was Olawale, showing up without forcing himself into my space. No questions. No demands. Just gifts. Too soft.😭❤️

Kemi was twirling the bracelet at the mirror. “Kemi, abeg drop it before you spoil something,” I said.

She laughed and flopped on the bed. “If you don’t want them, give them to me,” she teased. “I won’t complain.”

I shook my head. I kept holding the bag. I kept staring at it.

I felt like it might disappear if I blinked. I wasn’t used to this. This kind of attention. This kind of care. And the timing of it all, it made my emotions even messier.
Kemi was still playing with the necklace when my phone buzzed again. I froze. My heart jumped…

I thought it was him again, Jason’s father, coming back to ruin my night.

But when I picked up the phone and saw the name flashing across the screen, something in my chest softened.

My Olawale.🥹🤭

I swallowed hard, my fingers trembling just a little as I swiped to answer.

“Heyyy” My voice came out low, almost shy.

“Hi, Shalewa.” His tone was warm, steady, the kind that sank deep into your skin. “Did you get your package?”

I blinked, my eyes darting to the bag on my lap, the jewelry still glittering in its box. “I… I did,” I said softly, brushing my thumb over the strap. “It’s… it’s too much, Olawale.”
“No, it’s not,” he said quickly, almost firm.

“You deserve it. I just wanted you to actually smile tonight.”
My lips curved before I realized it. I turned slightly, catching Kemi’s eye as she mouthed dramatically, ‘Awwwnnnn!’ and fanned herself like she was watching a love scene in a movie.

I fought back a laugh and rolled my eyes at her.

“Well,” I said slowly, “you succeeded. They’re so beautiful. Thank you.”

There was a pause, and then his voice dropped a little lower. “How are you feeling, really?”

The question landed heavier than I expected. For a second, I thought of the call with Jason’s father, the anger that had bubbled up inside me. My chest tightened, but I swallowed it back. He didn’t need to know all that, not yet.

“I’m okay,” I said, my tone lighter than I felt. “Just… surprised. And… grateful.”
He exhaled, like he was relieved. “Good. As long as you’re okay.”

Silence stretched between us for a moment, the comfortable kind that made me suddenly too aware of the sound of his breathing on the other end. I bit my lip, my heart doing that annoying flutter again.

“I should let you rest,” he finally said, his voice softer now. “But I’ll call you tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
I nodded before realizing he couldn’t see me. “Yes,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”

When the call ended, I just sat there, staring at the phone in my hand. My guard, the one I had built so carefully, brick by brick, wasn’t as strong as I thought. Olawale was slowly slipping through the cracks, not by force, not with noise, but with patience. With kindness.

Kemi nudged me with her elbow, grinning. “Girlll, just admit it. This man has entered your heart already.”
I scoffed, even though my chest betrayed me with warmth. “Please, leave me.”

When Kemi finally left my room, after laughing at me, hugging me, and threatening to “borrow” the handbag if I ever annoyed her, I was alone again. The apartment felt too quiet. Jason was already asleep in the other room, his soft snores barely reaching through the thin walls.

I sat on the edge of my bed, the jewelry box still in my hands. The necklace sparkled under the light, delicate and elegant in a way that made me feel like it wasn’t really mine. I traced the chain with my finger, my chest rising and falling slowly.

“Why is he doing this?” I whispered to myself.
It wasn’t the first time I had asked that question, but tonight it sounded louder. Louder because, deep down, I wasn’t asking out of suspicion anymore, I was asking because I liked it.

Because it was warming something in me I thought was long dead.
I reached for my journal, the one I hadn’t touched in weeks. My pen hovered above the page for a long while before words finally began to spill.

He called tonight. He sent me flowers. He sent me a bag. He makes me feel seen. But I’m afraid. Afraid that I’ll start depending on him the way I depended on Jason’s father. Afraid that if I let myself fall again, I’ll break harder than before.

I stopped, staring at the ink bleeding into the paper. A sigh slipped out of me.
“Don’t be foolish, Shalewa,” I muttered under my breath, shutting the journal halfway. “He’s just being nice. That’s all. Don’t start imagining things.”

But even as I said it, I could still hear Olawale’s voice in my head, soft and steady: I just wanted you to smile tonight.

And I had smiled.

My hand unconsciously brushed over my lips, remembering how they had curved the moment I opened his gift.

It wasn’t just the things he gave, it was the way he gave them, the thoughtfulness behind them. The pink flowers, a necklace that looked like it was chosen carefully, not just bought in a hurry.
I laid back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. My chest felt very heavy.

Part of me wanted to run, to push him away before this grew into something I couldn’t control. But another part… the part I hated admitting to… wanted to sink deeper into it, to feel what it was like to be cherished, even if just for a while.

My phone buzzed again on the nightstand. Not a call this time, just a message. I reached for it.

Olawale: Goodnight, Shalewa. Sleep well.

I closed my eyes, holding the phone to my chest like a silly teenager. And before I knew what was happening, I had already slept off.

The next morning, I woke up restless. My sleep had been shallow, the kind where you keep rolling from one side of the bed to the other, because your mind refuses to shut down. I had Olawale’s “goodnight” message still glowing in my chest.

By the time I slipped into my work clothes, I had convinced myself it was just another day. I told myself the same thing I’d been repeating for years: Work, Jason, home. Nothing else.

But in the bus, my eyes caught every couple that laughed too loudly, every man that held the door open for a woman, every gentle gesture that shouldn’t have mattered but somehow did. And Olawale’s face kept slipping into those small pictures in my head.

When I got to Eko Hotel, the lobby was already buzzing. Guests wheeling their luggage, businessmen in sharp suits, receptionists flashing rehearsed smiles. I adjusted my jacket, inhaled deeply, and forced myself into work mode. Professional. Polished. Untouchable.

Still, as I signed into the staff log, a thought slid through my mind like a whisper: What if he shows up today?
I hated myself for thinking it. Hated how a part of me - just a small, stubborn part - looked forward to seeing him.

At the front desk, I caught my reflection in the glass. My lipstick was brighter than usual. My hair neatly pinned. I couldn’t deny it: I had dressed like someone expecting to be seen.

“Shalewa,” one of the other attendants called, snapping me out of my thoughts, “there’s a VIP meeting later this afternoon. The manager wants us at our sharpest.”
I nodded quickly. “Of course.”

Sharpest. Yes. That I could do. Work was safe. Work didn’t ask me questions I couldn’t answer. Work didn’t send flowers in pink because it knew my favorite color.
But even as I walked briskly to my station, I could feel it - Olawale’s presence somewhere in the back of my mind.

His voice, his soft persistence, his gifts. And I knew, no matter how much I tried to lock it away, the day would not end without me thinking of him again.
Work had been long, the kind of day where every second stretched and the clock refused to move. But somehow, I survived it.

By the time the shift closed, my shoulders ached, my feet throbbed in my heels, and my only prayer was to get home, crawl under my bedsheet, and forget the world.

Olawale had called earlier. He didn’t even ask this time; he simply said, “I’ll be at the gate by eight. Don’t argue, Shalewa. You’ve done enough work today. Let me take you home.”
I wanted to resist, wanted to give him my usual “no need, I’ll find my way” speech.

But honestly, I was too tired to fight. And maybe - just maybe - I didn’t want to fight this one.
When I saw his car, I exhaled without realizing it.

He was leaning casually against the door, like a man who had all the time in the world, yet whose eyes carried that light that said he had been waiting for only me.
“You look exhausted,” he said softly as I slid into the car. “But still beautiful.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the corner of my lips from curving. “Hmmmm, this man please just take me home.”
The ride home was quiet, peaceful. He didn’t force conversations out of me.

He just let the radio hum low in the background, his presence filling the silence in a way that didn’t suffocate me. By the time we got close to my street, I almost forgot how complicated my life was. Almost.

But the reminder came, standing tall, leaning against my gate.

Jide.

Jason’s father.

The same man who walked away when life demanded his presence.The moment I saw him, my chest tightened. My grip on my handbag stiffened. Every nerve in my body screamed.
Olawale slowed the car, sensing the shift in my breathing. His brows knit together. “Shalewa… who’s that?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The sight of Jide brought a flood of memories I had buried so deep - nights of loneliness, swollen feet, unanswered calls, tears swallowed in silence.
He straightened when he saw me step out. “Shalewa.”

His voice carried the same arrogance, the same entitlement. As though he had a right to call me, to wait for me.

I felt Olawale’s eyes on me, protective, questioning, but not pressing.

“Don’t.” My voice was low, sharp. “Don’t call my name like that.”

“Please, I just want to talk. Just a few minutes. About Jason.”
My whole body stiffened. I wanted to laugh, but anger was faster. “Jason? Which Jason, Jide? The Jason you abandoned before he even took his first breath?…Or the Jason whose mother you said was too demanding, too much trouble to love? Which Jason?”

The words cut the night air, and for the first time, Jide shifted uncomfortably.

I didn’t wait for his reply. I turned to Olawale, my voice shaking but steady enough.

“Thank you for bringing me home Olawale. I would see you tomorrow.”

Then I pushed my gate open, refusing to let either man see the storm that was already burning my throat.

Behind me, I heard Jide’s voice crack once more, “Shalewa…”

But I didn’t stop.

I couldn’t stop.

I didn’t wait for Jide’s voice to finish echoing behind me. My key fumbled in the lock, my heart racing so fast I thought the whole street could hear it. When I finally got inside, I leaned on the door for a moment, eyes shut, fists clenched.
Silence.

But outside, I knew two men were still standing - one a ghost from my past, the other a possibility I wasn’t ready to name.

I didn’t look back at Olawale. I couldn’t. But I felt him there. Still. Quiet. Watching.

Not intruding. Not asking. Just… present.

I knew he had seen enough. The way Jide said Jason’s name, the way my body tensed, the way I lashed out - none of it had gone unnoticed. Olawale wasn’t a man who missed things.
Yet, he didn’t step in. He didn’t try to play the hero. He didn’t even start a confrontation.

He respected my silence, my storm, in a way that both irritated and relieved me.
When I finally dared to glance through the curtain, Jide was already walking away, shoulders hunched in a way I had never seen before.

But Olawale… he was still there, in his car like he had all the time in the world. His gaze lingered on my gate, unreadable.

Then, slowly, he started his car and drove off.

The next morning, I half-expected Olawale not to show up.

Maybe he’d finally decided I was too complicated, too guarded, too damaged.

But right on time, his car pulled up in front of my gate. Clean. Steady. Just like him.

He didn’t mention last night.
He didn’t even glance at me like he was curious.

Just a simple, “Good morning, Shalewa. I don’t have a meeting this morning so let me drop you off. I don’t want you stressing yourself.”
The ride was quiet. Painfully quiet. I wanted him to ask. I wanted him to demand. I wanted him to at least say, “Who was that man?”

But he didn’t. He played music low, hummed once or twice, and focused on the road as though the only thing on his mind was traffic.

And it burned me inside.

Because if it had been Jide, he would have pushed, shouted, accused, made it about himself.

But Olawale gave me nothing to fight against. Nothing to shield myself from.
By the third day of this silence, I could barely think straight. His presence was too calm, his patience too unnerving.

Every time he picked me up, every time he dropped me off, every time his eyes lingered just a second longer than they should have, I felt my walls shaking.
It was almost worse than if he had forced the truth out of me. Because this way, the choice was mine.

And late one night, when he pulled up in front of my gate again and waited as I gathered my bag, I heard myself blurting out the words before I could stop them:
“Olawale… that man you saw the other night - he’s Jason’s father.”

The car fell into silence. My throat was tight, my palms sweaty. For a second, I thought he would finally say something. But Olawale just turned off the engine, shifted in his seat, and looked at me with the softest eyes.

He didn’t rush me. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t even flinch.
And there and then, I realized - if I was going to break open, maybe this was the only man I could do it in front of.

For a while, he just looked at me, his hand resting easy on the steering wheel, waiting. I think that was what broke me, the fact that he wasn’t pushing, wasn’t pressing. He was just there, giving me space I didn’t even know I needed.
So I let it out.

“That man… his name is Jide. He’s Jason’s father. Or at least, that’s what biology says he is.”

I swallowed hard, staring at my hands.

“We met when I was twenty-three. I thought he was everything - charming, ambitious, the kind of man who swore he was going to change my life…And I believed him. God, I believed him. But when I got pregnant with Jason… everything changed. He said I was too demanding. That I wanted too much of his time, too much of his energy. That I was suffocating him. Lolll.”

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. “All I was asking for was care. Attention. A man who said he loved me to stand by me. But instead, Jide disappeared. Just like that. One day he was there, the next day he wasn’t. He didn’t even wait to see Jason born…My mom was the one who stood beside me in the delivery room. Not him. Never him.”

My voice cracked, and I felt heat sting my eyes. I tried to blink it back, but Olawale noticed. His hand shifted like he wanted to touch me but stopped, respecting my space.

“Do you know what it’s like to carry a baby in your body, give birth, and realize the person who helped make him wants nothing to do with him? I carried that shame, that anger. For months. For years…

Every time Jason cried at night, every time I had to choose between buying diapers and feeding myself, every time I had to explain to people why there was no father in the picture. I carried it all alone.”

I drew in a shaky breath. “And now… after three years, he suddenly appears. He’s been calling my mother, asking for his ‘son.’ The son he rejected. The son he said was a burden. And I just… I don’t understand. Why now? Why suddenly? Jason doesn’t know him.

Jason doesn’t need him. And I refuse…” my voice rose, sharp, trembling “I refuse to let him come in now and act like he has any rights. He abandoned me. He abandoned us. I don’t want someone like that around my son.”

I couldn’t breathe. The air in the car was too heavy. My chest was rising and falling too fast, and I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tears that were threatening to spill.
For a long time, the only sound was the tick of the car’s cooling engine.

Then Olawale finally moved. Slowly. Gently. He reached across the space between us, not forcing me, not pulling me, just resting his hand lightly over mine. Warm. Steady.

“Shalewa,” his voice was low, firm, but full of something that almost undid me, “a man like that doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve Jason. And he will never erase what you’ve done, for yourself, for your son.

You are stronger than he’ll ever be. And you… you’ll never face that kind of pain again.”

The tears slipped before I could stop them. Silent, hot, and unrelenting.

I allowed myself to grieve what I lost, what I carried, what I survived.

The words had spilled out of me like water breaking through a dam. My chest was rising and falling, tears threatening, voice breaking but refusing to shatter completely.

I told it all for the first time since it all happened - how Jide left when I was at my most vulnerable, how I carried Jason alone, how I built my life from scratch, brick by brick, scar by scar. And how he suddenly reappeared, like he could just claim what he once threw away.

By the time I was done, I could barely look at Olawale. I was embarrassed that he had seen me like this, stripped bare of the walls I’d built so carefully.
But Olawale didn’t rush to speak. He didn’t give me pity or judgment.

Instead, he reached for my hands, gently lowering them from where I’d been nervously twisting my fingers. He held them firm, then pulled me into his arms.
The hug wasn’t hurried, wasn’t soft either. It was steady, grounding, like someone saying without words: I’ve got you.

My forehead pressed against his chest, and I let myself lean into another human being. I could hear his heartbeat, calm and strong, so different from the chaos inside me. His arms were around me, not squeezing too tight, not letting go either.

I wanted to cry, but instead, I just closed my eyes and breathed him in.

I felt really safe.

He held me longer, like he was memorising the shape of my breath. Then, so soft I thought I’d imagined it, he whispered in my ear:

“You are a very strong woman, Shalewa. And one thing I know for sure - you got through that, and it’s in the past now. And as for Jason, no one - and I mean no one - will take your boy away from you. If we need a lawyer, tell me. I’ll make sure of that.”

My body loosened into him. The tight, hot knot in my chest eased by a fraction I hadn’t thought possible.
Then he pulled back a little, still cupping my face with his hands, eyes searching mine like he wanted permission to stay.

“How about I take you out for a drink?” he asked, voice gentle. “Not to fix anything. Not to rush you. Just to get you out of the house so you don’t sit and think all night.”
For a second I said nothing.

My throat was raw from everything I’d said; my face still felt damp where the tears had been. But there was a lightness in the offer, no pressure, only a small kindness - and my whole body, stubborn as it was, wanted that softness more than it wanted to be right.

Okay,” I heard myself say, a little breathier than I intended.
He smiled and he took my hand and squeezed it. He drove a few steps down, and I let myself believe maybe the past could stay where it belonged - behind me - while something new, steady and kind, moved forward. ✨

The place Olawale chose was a small restaurant tucked into a quiet corner of town, the kind with soft jazz humming in the background and dim lights that made everything feel gentler. The waiter led us to a booth by the window.

For the first few minutes, I sat stiff, arms folded tight across my chest, and then Olawale started talking - not about Jide, not about anything heavy.
From there, the evening softened. We ordered small plates of asun and wine, and the conversation just… flowed.

He teased me lightly about my serious face, called me “madam lawyer” when I argued over whether suya counted as a full meal, and every time he leaned across the table to make a point, I felt myself forgetting. Forgetting Jide. Forgetting how broken I had felt just an hour ago.

By the time we finished, I realized I had laughed so much my cheeks hurt. The heaviness that had threatened to swallow me earlier felt like a distant shadow. I could hardly even remember Jide’s face.
When he drove me back home, was so warm.

He pulled up outside my gate and waited until I stepped out.

I hesitated, my hand lingering on the door handle, and he caught my eye. “Goodnight, Shalewa,” he said, his voice steady, almost like he was sealing the evening with calm.
I nodded, suddenly shy. “Goodnight, Olawale.”

He didn’t drive off until I was inside. I could still see the tail lights glowing faint red through the curtains when I leaned against the door, finally letting out a long breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Later, I showered, slipped into bed, and let sleep take me.

I didn’t fall asleep with bitterness. Instead, I closed my eyes replaying his smile across the dinner table - the way his laughter seemed to fold me into safety.

I woke up before my alarm, which was strange in itself. Normally, it was the sound of Jason shuffling around or Kemi banging something in the kitchen that pulled me out of sleep.

But today, my eyes just opened, and for a long moment I lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying last night in pieces.

The restaurant.
The laughter.
The way Olawale’s eyes lingered on me like I was worth looking at.

I caught myself smiling, actually smiling, and quickly pulled the bedsheet over my face. What was wrong with me?
By the time I got to the kitchen, Kemi was already there, humming one of her gospel songs as she flipped akara in hot oil.

She turned when she heard my footsteps, her eyes narrowing. “Ehn-ehn, who is this one that woke up with light on her face?”
I rolled my eyes and headed straight for the kettle. “Kemi, abeg, don’t start.”

But she wouldn’t let it go. She put the spatula down and folded her arms, staring at me like a detective. “No, Shalewa. Your skin is even glowing. Which cream did you use overnight? Abi it’s man-cream?”

I burst out laughing, nearly spilling the hot water. “Man-cream? You are not serious.”
“Talk true,” she pressed. “Because this your good mood cannot be ordinary. Yesterday, you almost tore the whole world into two because of that useless Jide…Today, you’re moving around the house like person wey win lottery. Something happened.”

Her words made me pause for a beat. I thought of the way Olawale had sat back in his chair, watching me laugh like it was the only sound he wanted to hear.

The way he made me forget, even just for a little while.
I shook my head quickly, brushing the thought away before it made me soft. “Nothing happened,” I said, grabbing a plate. “Maybe I just slept well for once.”

But Kemi wasn’t fooled. She leaned in close, her grin wide and mischievous. “Shalewa… I’m watching you. And this watching ehn, I won’t stop until you tell me why your face is shining like this.”
I tried to glare at her, but deep down, though, I knew she was right.🤣

I wasn’t just working for me anymore; every decision I made had his little face attached to it.

Some days, I felt strong. Other days, I felt like life had robbed me of something soft. People don’t talk enough about how being a single mother changes the way you see love.

It wasn’t just about me anymore. If love came knocking, it had to knock twice, once for me, and once for my son.

So, I built walls. I carried myself with a smile, worked harder than anyone else, and poured all my free time into my boy.

When he turned two, I got a job at Eko Hotel, one of the biggest hotels in Lagos. I worked as a staff attendant, moving from housekeeping to restaurant shifts depending on the day.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady, and it paid enough to keep the lights on and to start saving little by little for Jason’s school fees.

The job came with crazy hours. Sometimes my shift was 12pm to 7pm, sometimes overnight.

I would rush back home just in time to prepare his breakfast, and then drop him at crèche. The days felt endless, like I was living two lives at once, a worker in uniform, bowing and smiling for strangers, then a mother, rushing to read bedtime stories, pack his bag and pray he stayed healthy so I wouldn’t miss work.

I wasn’t suffering, no. But it wasn’t easy either. I was surviving. I was learning to stretch money, learning to smile when I was tired, learning to keep my faith that things would one day get easier.

I wanted Jason to grow up proud of me, not seeing a mother who gave up too early.

By the time he started crèche, I began to breathe a little. I could drop him off, rush for my shift, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe I was getting a grip on life again.

And it was during one of those shifts, tired and hurrying along the hotel corridor in my staff uniform, that I bumped into him. Or rather, he bumped into me.

I had just finished a long shift at the hotel, balancing a tray in my hands, when someone brushed past me so hard I almost lost grip. No “sorry,” no glance back, nothing.

Something in me snapped. I turned and said sharply, “Excuse me, You almost made me spill everything!”

He stopped. Slowly. Turned. Looked at me like I had just offended his throne. He was tall, well-dressed, the type of man you could smell money on before he even spoke.

“You just bumped into me,” I said, my chest was already rising and falling,😭

The uniform on me making me feel invisible in his eyes. “The least you could say is ‘sorry.’”

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “And if I don’t say it… what will happen?”

I blinked, caught between irritation and surprise at his boldness. “Then it shows the kind of person you are,” I shot back, voice steady even though my heart was pounding.

Instead of apologizing, he just looked at me and started to walk away.

I was already so angry, I dropped everything with me, walked up to him, blocked him from leaving, I tightened my jaw, my hand still raised like I meant it. “If you try to walk away without saying sorry, I’ll give you the dirtiest slap you’ve ever received in your entire life.”

He froze, staring at me like he couldn’t believe what he just heard. For a moment, his lips twitched, almost like he wanted to laugh at the audacity. But his eyes, sharp, cold, offended, burned into mine.

No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not here. Not anywhere.

When he tried to sidestep me again, I moved quickly, blocking him once more. My chest was heaving but I didn’t care. “Say it,” I demanded, voice low but firm. “You’re not leaving my presence until you do.”

We stood there locked in silence, people were already staring, staff moving quickly past us but stealing glances. My supervisor would have my head if word got around that I was creating a scene with a guest, but at that moment, I didn’t care.

I was tired of being invisible, tired of being stepped on like I didn’t matter. Finally, his jaw tightened, and through clenched teeth he spat the word like it was poison.

“Sorry.”

I stared at him, measuring the weight of the word, the way it almost burned him to let it out. I looked at him from head to toe, I felt so irritated omggg😭, my lips curled slightly. “Fine.”

Then I stepped aside, grabbed my tray, and walked off without another word.

I didn’t look back, but I could feel his gaze boring into me, following me until I disappeared.

Weeks later, I had already forgotten about him sef. Or at least, I told myself I had.

Then one afternoon, during my shift, my friend Titi leaned close, whispering like she was dropping the hottest gist.

“You know that man,” she said.

I frowned. “Which man?”

“That rich and fine man (well, he looks very ugly to me) the one you dragged matter with that day,” she said, eyes wide with excitement. “He came last week. He was asking of you.”

My heart skipped. “Asking of me?”

Titi nodded eagerly. “He came twice sef. But you weren’t on duty. We told him. He just left. Said he’ll come back.”

I blinked, completely thrown. “What? Why would he…?” I trailed off, shaking my head quickly. “Abeg, forget it. I don’t know anybody.”

But that night, as I lay in my narrow bed, the words replayed in my head like an echo I couldn’t silence. He came. He was looking for me.

What could a man like that possibly want from me?

The next day when I clocked in, I didn’t expect to see him. But there he was. Standing by the reception desk like he owned the place, hands in his pockets, watching me the way someone waits for a storm to notice them.

I froze for half a second before rolling my eyes and walking straight past him. But of course, he followed.

“Finally,” he said, as if we had an appointment. “I’ve been here two, three times, but every time I come, you’re never on duty.”

I turned, sharp. “What exactly do you want from me? Why are you looking for me?” My tone was clipped, professional, but my eyes made it clear I was two seconds away from chasing him out myself.

He raised his hands slightly, as if to pacify me. “Calm down. You’re so hard on me.”

Something flickered in his gaze, half amusement, half wounded pride. Still, he chuckled low. “You think you know the kind of person I am. You don’t. I’m not what you think.”

“I have no reason to believe that. And frankly, no reason to care. Why are you looking for me? Say it quickly, because I have work to do.”

That was when his expression shifted. At a point, the cocky act slipped just a little. He looked almost… serious.

“Because…” he paused, as if the word itself was heavy. Then he looked at me, straight in the eye. “…because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The silence between us was sharp enough to cut glass.

I scoffed, folding my arms. “That’s your problem, not mine.” I turned to leave.

But he stepped in front of me, lowering his voice. “You can keep hating me if you want. Fight me, insult me, block me at doors like you did the last time. But don’t pretend you don’t feel this tension too. It’s not one-sided.”

I glared at him, heat rushing to my face. “Tension? The only tension here is my patience running out. Move.”

For the first time, his smile faltered. He looked at me with a quiet, stubborn intensity, as if my anger only pulled him deeper instead of pushing him away.

And against my will, I felt my chest tighten. And then he…

I stepped to the side, but he mirrored me. I moved again, and again he blocked me, his smirk returning like he enjoyed testing my limits.

“Why are you like this?” he asked, almost laughing, like he found my irritation entertaining.

“Why are you like this?” I shot back, lowering my voice so I wouldn’t cause a scene. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Yet you’re showing up here like you own me, like you have a right to even speak to me.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe because you’re the first person who’s ever looked me in the face and threatened to slap me.”

I folded my arms. “Then you should’ve stayed far away. Because I wasn’t joking.”

Instead of being offended, he laughed under his breath. Not a loud laugh, but that kind of low, rich laugh that made my skin prickle with irritation.

“You know what? Forget it,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t have time for your games if you don’t need a room cleaned, or food served, or anything that concerns my actual job, stop calling me over.”

This time, I walked past him. He didn’t block me again, but I could feel his eyes following me with that stubborn, quiet intensity.

And for the rest of my shift, I kept catching glimpses of him around, by the lounge, near the elevator, outside the restaurant, like a shadow refusing to leave.

By the time I clocked out, my coworkers were whispering, teasing.

“Babe, that fine man came back for you again o.”

“Girlll, abeg give us the secret nau, which charm you use on him?”

I ignored them all, my face set in stone.😭

That evening, I was exhausted. My shift had been long, and all I wanted was to get home to Jason, give him his dinner, and collapse into bed. I signed out, changed out of my uniform, and stepped out of the hotel lobby into the cool night air.

Then I froze.

Leaning casually against a black SUV parked right by the entrance was him. The same man I’d been trying to shake off inside the hotel. His jacket was off this time, shirt sleeves rolled, hands tucked into his pockets like he had been waiting a while.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

I muttered under my breath, “Oh God, not again…” and tried to stride past quickly, ignoring him like air.

But of course, he noticed.

“Finally,” he said, straightening. “I was beginning to think you’d escaped through the back door.”

I stopped short, turned to him sharply. “Why are you here? Don’t tell me you’ve been standing outside waiting for me.”

He gave a slow shrug, a little too calm for my liking. “Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t. Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters,” I snapped. “Because this is my life, not your playground. You can’t just… hover around me everywhere I go.”

He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that I could smell the faint cologne on him. “You talk like I’m stalking you.”

I folded my arms, glaring. “Aren’t you? You’ve come to the hotel, asked for me, now you’re here outside waiting for me. What does that look like to you?”

“It looks like… I’m not used to being ignored. And you…” his eyes lingered on me, steady, “…you’re ignoring me better than anyone ever has.”

I blinked, caught off guard. My chest tightened, but I forced myself to scoff. “Then go and find someone who cares. Because I don’t.”

I pushed past him, my steps fast, almost angry, partly because I didn’t want him to see how my heart was racing.

Behind me, his voice floated in the night air, calm, assured:

“We’ll see about that.”

And I hated how those words followed me all the way home.

My name is Shalewa. I don’t always introduce myself this way, but sometimes I feel like saying it out loud reminds me that I am still my own person not just “Jason’s mum.” I’m 28, and yeah a single mother.

Most days, my life runs on routine. Wake up, prepare Jason for school, rush to catch the staff bus, plaster on my professional smile for guests, endure long hours of people talking down at me, then drag myself home to start all over again.

It sounds exhausting when I say it like this, but it’s mine. My life. My choices. My survival.

And honestly I’ve made peace with it. I don’t need anyone to come and “rescue” me. I just want enough money to care for my boy and give him the life I never had.

Love? That door is closed. Bolted.

Because of Jason’s father.

I met him when I was in my early twenties. I was young, wide-eyed, and honestly just hungry for affection.

He was older and very handsome. At first, he made me feel seen. Special. I thought it was love. I wanted it to be love.

Then I got pregnant.

That was when everything changed. The charming smile disappeared, the promises evaporated.

Suddenly, I was “too demanding,” “too emotional,” “too expensive.” He pulled away, little by little, until he was gone completely.

The last time we spoke, he said, “You’ll figure it out, Shalewa. You’re strong.”

That was it.

No money. No support. No hand to hold in the hospital when I pushed Jason into the world. Just me.

So, I figured it out. Alone.

Raising Jason has been the hardest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever done. Nights when he had a fever and I cried quietly while sponging him down.

Days when I had to choose between transport fare and food. Moments when I wanted to scream, “Why me?” but had to smile for his sake.

Through all of it, I learned one truth: men are not my salvation.

I made a vow to myself the day I held Jason for the first time: I will never beg a man for love, money, or attention again. If it means working double shifts, fine. If it means missing out on companionship, so be it.

My focus is Jason. My work. My peace.

That’s why when some stranger tries to hover around me, I shut him down. Not because I’m bitter, but because I’m protective of myself, of my boy, of the little stability I’ve managed to build.

And if that makes me “hard,” then so be it.

The lobby was alive as usual. Laughter spilling from groups of guests, the sound of trolley wheels rolling over marble, the faint scent of coffee drifting from the café. Eko Hotel never really slept, it only shifted moods.

Behind the reception desk, I adjusted my name tag, Shalewa, and slipped into my mask for the day. A polite smile here, a nod there, the careful balance of being welcoming but never too familiar. Guests wanted efficiency, not stories.

It had been two years at this job, and I’d learned the rhythm well. Type, click, swipe, hand over keys. Always on my feet, always composed. Inside though, it was different. Inside, I was tired.

Inside, I was thinking about Jason’s fees, about what to cook for dinner, about the vow that had carved a wall between me and any man who thought his attention was a gift.

That wall was my safety.

So when I felt his presence, the man who had been showing up lately, the one who annoyed me with his audacity, it was almost like the universe was mocking me. He wasn’t even at the counter yet, but I could feel it.

That heavy, unsettling awareness when someone you’d rather ignore is nearby.

I inhaled, tightened my smile, and focused on the guest in front of me. My voice was calm, professional:

“Welcome to Eko Hotel, sir. Please, may I have your card?”

The day stretched long, as usual. Guests checked in and out, suitcases rolled across the marble floor, and the staff moved in quiet rhythm like a well-trained orchestra. Behind the front desk, I kept my shoulders straight, my uniform neat, and my smile steady.

It was my shift till evening, and I was already counting the hours till I could rush home to Jason. My thoughts were somewhere between his homework and what groceries I could afford on my way back when the lobby doors swung open.

He walked in.

Today, he wasn’t alone, three other men trailed behind him, all in sharp suits, briefcases in hand. They looked like they had money to discuss and decisions to make.

My pulse jumped without my permission, but I quickly pushed it down. I wasn’t here for distractions.

I adjusted my name tag and shifted my attention to the guest in front of me.

“Your room key, sir. Breakfast is served from 7am to 10am. Welcome to Eko Hotel.”

As I handed the key card, I dared a glance toward the group. He didn’t even glance back. Not a flicker of recognition, not even the arrogance of our last encounter.

He walked past the reception desk like I was invisible, his voice deep and smooth as he spoke to one of his men about the meeting room arrangements.

And just like that, he was gone, into the elevator, swallowed up by mirrored doors.

For a short moment, something inside me burned. Not because I missed him, no. It was anger. The way he ignored me shouldn’t have gotten to me, but it did.

After everything, the bump, the harsh words, him looking for me when I didn’t want him to, he now acted like I wasn’t even there.

I clenched my jaw, smiled at the next guest, and went back to work.

I had made myself a promise: men were not my focus. Jason was. My son was. My job was.

The week went by like usual, long shifts, quick meals, reading a story to Jason before bed, then falling asleep myself.

He was always around.

Not every day, but enough for me to notice. Sometimes with investors, sometimes with business partners. His voice carried across the lobby, calm but firm.

And every single time, he never looked at me.

Not once.

It felt almost planned, the way his eyes skipped me like I was part of the wall, the way he spoke to every staff member but me. Even when I stood right there, he would ask the person beside me instead of asking me.

Well it hurt.

Not because I wanted his attention, God forbid, but because it felt like a game. Like after that day, after I made him say sorry, this was his way of paying me back. Silence as punishment.

Even other staff noticed.

“Ah, that man dey come here steady o,” one colleague whispered. “Na big man. You never attend to him?”

I forced a laugh. “Me? No o. He doesn’t even know I exist.”

I left it at that. Or at least I tried.

But later, while clearing trays, I saw him again. Sitting by the chair, jacket on the chair, sleeves rolled up, his watch shining. He was listening to the man across from him.

Then, for just a second, his eyes met mine.

Cold. Blank. Just enough to make my heart skip, before he looked away like I wasn’t even there.

I bent to pick another plate, hiding my face.

If this was a game, I didn’t want to play. My son was waiting for me at home.

That night, the banquet hall was glowing. Soft lights on the chandeliers, waiters moving fast with trays, the smell of perfume and alcohol in the air.

I had been called last minute to cover the evening shift.

Big dinner, important clients, investors in town, everybody had to be perfect.

My name was already on the list, so I had no choice.

When I walked in, dressed in my uniform,

There he was.

At the center table, of course.

Surrounded by men in fine suits and women with perfect makeup. Laughing, talking like he owned the place.

I thought I could avoid him. Just serve other tables, keep my head down.

But no.

“Shalewa, table five. VIP,” my supervisor whispered, pointing at his table.

I almost sighed out loud.

Carrying the tray of drinks, I walked to the table. My steps steady, my face blank. I kept my eyes on the glasses.

Then his voice.

“Red for me,” he said. Low. Directed at me.

I acted like I didn’t hear.

I turned to the man beside him. “Red or white, sir?”

“Yes, red. Thank you,” the man said.

I nodded, served him, and acted like that was all.

But then his voice came again, sharper. “I said red.”

This time, I lifted my head just a little. Met his eyes for one second, then looked away quickly, like he wasn’t worth my time.

I placed the glass in front of the woman next to him.

“Excuse me,” the woman said, “I didn’t ask for…”

“I’ll have it,” he cut in, still looking at me, something burning in his calm face.

I set the tray down, bowed politely, and walked away without looking back.

My heart was beating fast, but I refused to turn.

If he wanted to play silence, I could play louder.

I didn’t care what happened at that table after. I went back to serving other guests, smiling when I had to, clearing plates, moving like nothing happened.

But inside, I was boiling.

Not because of him, but because life kept putting him in my way. First in the corridor, then him “looking for me,” now this. This man who thought ignoring me would shake me, now trying to call me out in front of his people.

I wasn’t giving him that satisfaction.

So I straightened my back, adjusted my tray, and kept working like he didn’t exist. Every time I felt his eyes on me, I bent over another table, laughed with a colleague, or just looked away.

When the dinner ended, I waited until his table was empty before clearing it. His chair was still warm. The empty glass still there. I picked it up like it was nothing and kept moving.

But deep down, I knew I had touched a nerve.

I had just finished a long shift on a Wednesday, my head pounding, my feet aching in those stiff hotel shoes. Jason’s crèche had called earlier that I should pick him up, so I rushed there before swinging back to the hotel lobby to quickly submit a report my supervisor needed.

Jason, in all his three-year-old energy, wriggled out of my hand the moment we stepped into the grand lobby. The polished floors, the bright chandelier lights, everything made him too excited. “Mummy, see big light! See big chair!” he shouted, running off before I could grab him.

“Jason!” I called, trying not to draw too much attention. I was halfway after him when he bumped straight into someone.

My heart froze when I saw who it was. Him. The same man who had been ignoring me for weeks now, like I was just another shadow in uniform.

Jason bounced back from the impact, about to fall, but the man caught him with quick hands. Instead of brushing him off or calling for security like most people would, he crouched down. On the marble floor of Eko Hotel, in his expensive suit, he bent to Jason’s level.

“Hey, champ,” his voice was softer than I had ever heard it. “Where are you running to like that?”

Jason blinked up at him with wide eyes. “I was going to show my mummy light.”

He chuckled, an actual chuckle, and it was so out of character from the cold, dismissive man I knew. “The lights will wait. You don’t want mummy chasing you, do you?”

Jason giggled. “No.”

I finally caught up, grabbing Jason’s hand firmly. “Jason, I told you not to run off.” My tone was sharp, partly because of exhaustion, but mostly because he was standing there.

I expected him to rise and ignore me like always.

But he looked up at me slowly, still crouched, and for a second… his gaze wasn’t harsh, wasn’t mocking. It was something else. Something dangerously close to warmth.

I swallowed, tightened my grip on Jason, and muttered, “Let’s go.”

And just like that, I turned away before I could read deeper into that look.

But as we walked out of the lobby, I could still feel his eyes following us, not with the arrogance I was used to though.

On the ride home, Jason wouldn’t stop talking.

“Mummy,” he said in that sing-song way kids use when they’re trying to make you answer.

“Yes, Jason?” I replied, distracted, eyes on the danfo buses cutting dangerously in front of our cab.

“That uncle is nice.”

My heart skipped. I pretended not to understand. “Which uncle?”

“The one that hold me when I nearly fall. He talk to me.” Jason’s little voice was full of wonder. “He bend down to my size. He say I should not make you chase me.”

I tightened my jaw, staring out the window. “Jason, not everyone who smiles at you is nice.”

“But he’s nice,” Jason insisted with the innocent stubbornness only a child could carry. “He look at me like he know me. I like him.”

I forced a smile and reached over to smooth his small curls. “It doesn’t matter, baby. You don’t have to like every stranger you meet.”

But long after Jason’s head rested on my lap, drifting into sleep, his words refused to leave me.

“He look at me like he know me.”

I hated that it echoed in my chest. I hated even more that, for a second back in that lobby, I had almost seen the same thing too.

It was another late evening at Eko Hotel. My shift had dragged me into overtime, and by the time I finally signed out, all I wanted was to get home, eat whatever was left in the pot, and curl up beside Jason.

But as I stepped out into the cool night breeze, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, I saw him.

Leaning casually on a sleek black SUV, his hands in his pockets, as if the whole Lagos traffic waited for him.

My stomach sank. I almost turned back inside, but it was too late.

His eyes were already on me.

“Shalewa,” he called, his voice steady, not raised, but carrying enough weight to pull me toward him.

I walked faster. I didn’t answer.

He moved, cutting into my path like he had rehearsed it. “Why do you avoid me like this? What is it exactly? What have I done that makes you treat me like a plague?”

I stopped, finally, my heartbeat loud in my ears. For a moment, I just looked at him.

Then I exhaled sharply. “Because I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

His jaw tightened, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. “Why?”

“Because men like you…” I shook my head, heat rising in my chest.

“Men who think they can push people around, who think apologies are beneath them… I’ve had enough of that. I don’t want your words, your attention, nothing. Just let me be.”

The night seemed to hold still between us.

I pulled my bag higher on my shoulder, walked past him, and refused to look back.

But then I heard him move. He wasn’t chasing me. He wasn’t trying to block me like before. It was just one step, slow and careful.

“Shalewa,” he called my name. His voice was soft now. Not the strong, proud tone. Not the arrogant voice of a man who liked to ignore me. This one was low, steady, almost careful.

I stopped walking. My mind told me not to stop, but my legs refused to move.

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know someone had already made you feel that way before.”

My chest grew tight. I had never told him details. But the way he said it, sounded like a man who had finally seen a locked door in front of him that he could not just push open.

It confused me.

He let out a deep breath. “I thought you were only being difficult with me. But now I see… it is more than that.”

The wind blew between us. Silence rested heavy in the air. I clenched my teeth, trying not to let my face soften.

“Don’t… don’t try to act like my therapist,” I said sharply. My voice was harder than I planned. “I told you before. Just leave me alone.”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes stayed on me. Softer now, “If that is what you want, I will do it. But Shalewa…”

His voice dropped even lower. “…I don’t think I can stay away. I have tried, I promise you. But it is not possible.”

Then, he stepped back. He gave me space.

I walked away into the night. But his words clung to me like the heavy Lagos heat, suffocating, impossible to remove.

One evening, I was carrying a tray during dinner service when I heard his voice behind me. Not loud. Not commanding. Just low. “You are working too hard. Don’t you ever rest?”

I didn’t answer. I walked past, my face blank. But inside, my chest squeezed.

Because he did not say it like a man trying to flirt. He said it like a man who was watching closely, like he noticed me.

And when I brushed him off, he didn’t argue. He didn’t insist. He just kept quiet, like he understood.

That was worse.

His silence, his softness, it forced me to think. It made me remember Jason’s little laugh when the man knelt in the lobby. It made me remember so many things.

And I hated that. I hated that some small part of me was starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he meant his words.

So I buried myself in work. I drowned in the hotel, shift after shift, pretending I did not see him waiting. Pretending I did not feel his patience pressing against me.

One night, past 11 p.m., I dragged myself out of the hotel. I was exhausted.

Jason was already at home, my sister had picked him up from crèche, so at least I didn’t have to worry about him.

But when I reached the roadside, I saw the car. Black. Clean. Waiting.

The window came down slowly. “Let me take you home, Shalewa.”

I froze. My jaw tightened. “I already told you, I don’t need a ride.”

“Not need,” he said calmly. “Maybe you want. You’ve been on your feet all day. Let someone help carry the weight, just for once.”

“Hmmm. Please, allow me. Let me take you home.”

I sighed loudly. I was irritated. But my legs were too tired to fight. Against my better judgment, I entered the car. I told myself it was only because I was too tired to start dragging with taxis and bus stops that night.😭😂

The car was quiet at first. Only the sound of the engine and the noise of Lagos outside. I kept my eyes on the road, refusing to look at him.

But he spoke, of course.

“You really don’t like me, do you?”

“Don’t ask me questions,” I snapped. “I don’t owe you answers.”

“True,” he said softly. “You don’t.”

And then he kept quiet. That silence was heavier than his arrogance had ever been.

We kept driving. Streetlights flashed across his face.

Still, I refused to soften. “Listen, I just want to work, make money, and go home to my son. That’s all. I don’t want anything else. I don’t need anyone else complicating my life.”

His hands stayed firm on the steering wheel. “Then I will stay simple,” he said quietly.

I turned, his eyes stayed on the road, but I felt the weight of his words.

The rest of the drive was silent. Heavy.

When we reached my gate, I quickly opened the door, ready to leave. But before stepping out, the question slipped out of my mouth.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

For the first time since we met, a real smile spread across his face. Not mocking. Not arrogant. Just warm.

“Olawale,” he said. “But you can call me Wale.”

I shut the door and walked away, whispering his name under my breath.

The rides became a thing, though I would never admit it out loud.

At first, I told myself it was just convenience. That I was too tired after my shifts, and if a car was waiting, why not?

Still, every time I opened that door, I carried my armor with me.

The first few rides, I said nothing. Just “good evening” and “please drop me here.” My voice clipped, my body turned towards the window. He didn’t complain. He just drove. Sometimes with music low in the background, sometimes in silence.

One night, after an especially rough shift, I let out a sigh I hadn’t planned to. He glanced at me. “Long day?”

I almost snapped back, “Don’t ask me questions.” But the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I just muttered, “Something like that.”

It felt strange. Letting even that much slip.

Two days after that night, Lagos traffic stretched the drive longer than usual. He adjusted the AC and reached for the radio, tuning it to an old Yoruba highlife song.

I didn’t mean to hum along, but when I caught myself, he was smiling faintly, eyes still on the road.

“Don’t read meaning into it,” I warned. “I just like the song.”

“Noted,” he said, lips curving.

He didn’t push further.

And that was the thing about Olawale, he wasn’t fighting me with force anymore. He was… waiting. Patient. Letting me burn myself out.

One week later, the rain came down hard, beating against the car roof like a drum.

I slipped off my shoes in the backseat, too tired to care, my feet aching from hours of standing. When I caught him looking in the rearview mirror, I straightened immediately.

“What?” I demanded.

He shook his head lightly. “Nothing. Just… you’re always carrying yourself like a warrior. I wonder if you ever get to rest.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

Because for the first time since Jason’s father walked out, someone had seen me past the armor.

I turned to the window again, the city lights blurring through the rain, my heart beating faster than it should.

I didn’t like it.

I didn’t like him.

And yet…

The rides were getting harder to refuse.

It happened on a night I wasn’t expecting.

The hotel had hosted one of those endless corporate dinners, the kind where people left the table messy with half-drunk wine glasses and napkins crumpled everywhere. My shift ended later than usual, my head pounding from pretending to smile at rude guests.

When I stepped outside, his car was there. Of course.

I slid in without a word, sinking into the seat. My whole body was tired, the kind of tired that lived in my bones.

For a while, silence stretched. The hum of the engine, the faint traffic sounds, the city lights streaming by. Then, out of nowhere, he said:

“You know, the way you frown could frighten a lion.”

I turned my head sharply. “Excuse me?”

He smirked, his eyes still on the road. “I’m serious. The way you squeezed your face when you sat down, if a lion saw you, it would just quietly go back into the bush.”

I tried to hold it. I swear, I tried.

But the image of a lion retreating because of me was so ridiculous… the laugh slipped out before I could stop it. Just a small one. Quick.

But it was there.

And when I realized, I froze. My hand went straight to my lips as if I could shove the sound back inside.

He looked at me briefly, then back to the road. And that smile, that knowing smile, spread slowly across his face. Not cocky. Not mocking. Just… warm.

I hated that it made my chest tighten.

“Don’t look too pleased with yourself,” I muttered, turning to the window. “That was an accident.”

“Hmm,” he said, dragging the sound out in that way that meant he didn’t believe me for a second.

I didn’t talk for the rest of the ride. But my reflection in the window betrayed me, my lips still curved so slightly upward, even though I kept forcing them straight.

And for the first time, I wondered if maybe… just maybe… Olawale wasn’t the enemy I had painted him to be.

The smiles became harder to hide.

At first, it was that one night. But then, it kept happening.

One evening, as he drove, he asked if hotel guests ever complained too much.

I went off, ranting about a woman who had asked me to “change the air” in her room as if I was God Himself.

I didn’t even realize how animated I’d become until Olawale started laughing deep, genuine laughter that shook his chest.

I wanted to stay annoyed, but the way he looked at me while laughing… I laughed too. Small at first. Then fuller. And when our eyes met in the middle of it, I looked away so fast my cheeks burned.

Then he offered me groundnuts he had bought from a roadside seller. I wrinkled my nose and said, “Do I look like a groundnut type of girl to you?” He just grinned and said, “You’ll be shocked.” I popped one in my mouth to prove him wrong.

Five minutes later, the whole bottle was empty. His grin said everything. My lips betrayed me with another reluctant smile.

And then there were the quiet ones. Moments when he didn’t even try to be funny.

Like when he asked, “Are you eating well?” after a long shift, and I caught myself smiling at the unexpected softness in his tone.

I hated it. Not him. But the way he was sneaking past my guard. Every smile felt like I was giving away something I swore to protect.

So, I doubled back. I would smile, laugh, then quickly fold my arms and remind him, “Don’t think this means anything. I still don’t like you.”

Each time, he’d just nod with that maddening calmness, like he had all the time in the world.

Like he knew I was already losing the battle I didn’t even want to admit existed.

And maybe… just maybe… I was.

Sometimes, we didn’t even talk much. The car would hum along the Lagos roads, the streetlights flickering past, and I’d catch myself humming a song under my breath.

One night, Olawale caught it and quietly turned down the radio. “Sing it louder,” he said. I scoffed, “Please, I’m not singing for you.” But my lips curved up in a smile I couldn’t hide, and he grinned like he’d won a trophy.

He pulled up in front of the hotel few days later after my shift and surprised me with a steaming pack of amala and ewedu. “I passed Mama Nike’s on my way,” he said casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal. I tried to keep my face straight, but the aroma betrayed me.

I took it, muttered “thanks,” and the first swallow I had in the car made me laugh out loud. “You’re lucky this is sweet,” I said between bites. He only replied, “I told you, I know what you like.” That smile snuck onto my lips again.

On Friday, Olawale happened to drop by when I was outside with Jason, trying to get him to finish his biscuit before we left for crèche. Jason, in all his cheekiness, pointed at Olawale and shouted, “Mummy’s friend!” I nearly choked. “He’s not my friend!”

I corrected quickly, shooting Olawale a warning glare. But Jason had already run up to him, tugging his trousers and giggling. Olawale bent down, gave him a high five, and whispered something that made Jason laugh so hard he fell on the floor.

I rolled my eyes, but my lips betrayed me again, stretching into another smile.

Even small things, like when he’d show up with cold bottled water on a particularly hot afternoon, or when he cracked a ridiculous joke during a ride just to see if I’d laugh, they started to add up.

It was annoying. How easy it was. How natural.

I’d catch myself smiling, then immediately fold my arms like a shield. I’d even mutter, “Don’t think this changes anything.”

But deep down, I knew something was shifting.

And he knew too.

One of those days, the city lights were all over the car windows, bright yellow and white colors passing by like moving paint. I sat in the passenger seat, quiet, with my hands squeezed together too tight on my lap.

It almost felt like I was waiting for something I couldn’t explain. Normally, our car rides were usually not too silent. For him, it felt normal, maybe even interesting. But for me, it always felt heavy, like I was carrying something alone.

But this particular night, Olawale decided to break that silence.

“Shalewa,” he said. His voice wasn’t harsh. It was calm. Almost like he was picking his words carefully.

“Are you married?”

“Lollll, I was beginning to think you were never going to ask” I mentioned.

“Nahh, I didn’t want to be forward. As at then you treated me like someone you hate so much so there’s no way I would have asked you in that situation.” He replied.

That single question hit me straight in the chest. My shoulders got stiff. My breath caught for a moment, and I just stared out of the window.

The road was filled with endless traffic lights flickering like tiny stars, and I almost felt like maybe the answer I needed was hiding out there.

After a pause that felt like forever, I said one word, flat, sharp. “No.”

He didn’t reply immediately, and I thought maybe that was the end. But then he started again. “Then why…”

Before he could finish, I turned sharply to look at him. “Don’t ask me that.” My voice came out harder this time. “Not today. Not now. I’m not in the mood for that talk.”

And then the car went quiet again, heavier than before. I could feel him glance at me, just once, then look away. He didn’t press further, didn’t argue, didn’t try to dig. And that, strangely, made me more irritated. A part of me wanted him to keep talking, to insist.

But instead, he gave me space. He respected the wall I had just pulled up.

I turned back to the window, trying to calm my breathing. My heart was beating so loudly, too loud for just one simple question. Why did it shake me so much? Why did I react like that?

I hated that he had seen me flinch, hated that I couldn’t hide it well enough.

The drive continued like that, with only the sound of the car filling the space between us.

My thoughts ran in circles, back to Jason, back to the life I had built on my own, back to why I didn’t want to give any man room in it. And yet, here I was, every night, sitting in Olawale’s car, letting him into a corner of my life I swore I had locked up tight.

When we finally got to my street, I was already preparing for the usual routine. He would park neatly by the corner, I’d say a quick goodbye, and then rush out before he thought of saying anything else. That’s how it had always been. But that night turned out different.

He slowed down, stopped, but didn’t unlock the doors. Instead, he turned to me fully. His eyes were steady, focused on me in a way that made my throat tight.

“Shalewa,” he said again, but this time his voice was softer, gentler, like he was trying not to scare me away. “I don’t want to just drive you home. Can I see you outside of this car? Outside of work? Just once. A date please.”

I almost laughed, but not because it was funny. More like because my whole body was fighting two different feelings at once. My first instinct was to say no, to brush it off, to remind him I wasn’t interested. I wanted to throw the words at him quickly...

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the window. “We’ll see,” I muttered, trying to sound dismissive. But even I could hear the small crack in my voice.

A few minutes later, I stepped out of the car, and while I walked away, one truth hit me, even though I refused to admit it to him, or to myself.

Olawale had gotten further than I ever planned to let him.

There are some things we inherit from our mothers that never get spoken about. I’m not even talking about the things we can hold in our hands or point to when someone asks what our mothers gave us.

Some of them live in the way we respond to conflict, the way we care for people, the way we receive love, and the way we treat ourselves when nobody is watching.

As women, we learn so much by observing other women. Before we understand what womanhood means, we are already watching it. We watch our mothers move through the world. We notice what they tolerate and what they avoid. We see how they speak to their husbands, how they care for their children, how they respond when they are hurt, and what happens when they need something for themselves.

Many of these lessons are never taught directly.
We simply absorb them. A mother may never tell her daughter that her needs should come last, yet a girl can learn that lesson from watching her mother serve everyone before thinking about herself. She sees food being prepared for everybody while her mother's own plate remains untouched. She watches rest get postponed because there is always another responsibility. Her mother's desires keep being moved to another day, and that day may never come.

A daughter can grow up believing this is what love requires. She learns to make room for everybody else before asking whether there is room for her.

By adulthood, asking for help can feel uncomfortable. Rest may come with guilt. Wanting something for herself can seem selfish, especially when she has spent years watching the woman who raised her put her own needs aside. This is how a woman can become generous with everyone except herself.

Another lesson can come from the way emotions are handled at home. Perhaps tears were treated as an inconvenience. Maybe anger was seen as disrespect. There may have been an unspoken expectation that everyone should keep the peace, even when something was deeply wrong.

A girl learns from those reactions. She begins to understand that saying exactly how she feels can create problems. Keeping things to herself feels safer. She becomes skilled at saying she is fine when she is anything but fine.

As she grows older, this can follow her into friendships, romantic relationships, the workplace, and even the relationship she has with herself.

She may struggle to say, “That hurt me.”
She may spend days thinking about whether she is allowed to be upset. She may apologise for having an emotional response before anyone has even accused her of doing something wrong.

There is something painful about becoming an adult and discovering that you have been treating your own emotions like an inconvenience.

Then there is the idea of strength.

Many of us watched our mothers carry things that should have been shared with someone else. We saw them handle family problems while keeping the household running. We watched them find a way to continue when they were exhausted. Their ability to endure was often praised, and we learned to associate strength with carrying pain without letting anyone see how heavy it had become.

That lesson can create women who struggle to ask for support.

We become the people others depend on because we learned early that being dependable was a good thing. Eventually, dependence can become so familiar that receiving care feels strange.

There is so much difference between being strong and believing we are never allowed to fall apart.
We deserve to know that difference.

A woman can be capable and still need help.
She can be responsible without carrying everything alone. She can have a difficult day without feeling that she has failed the people around her.

Another script many women inherit is the belief that their value comes from what they do for others.
When being useful becomes the way we receive affection, it becomes difficult to believe that we deserve love when we are not doing anything.
We may feel most secure when somebody needs us.
Being needed can begin to feel like proof that we matter.

That can become painful when we enter relationships where we are constantly giving and rarely receiving. We may remain because leaving would force us to confront an uncomfortable question: if we are no longer taking care of everyone, who are we?

We deserve an answer that has nothing to do with how useful we are.

We are human beings before we become daughters, wives, mothers, sisters, friends, employees, or caregivers. Our existence should not have to come with a list of services attached to it.

Then there is the lesson of staying small.
Many women were raised around the idea that too much confidence can make people uncomfortable.
We may have watched our mothers soften their opinions around certain people. We may have seen them reduce their achievements to avoid appearing proud. Perhaps they were taught that a good woman should be modest, agreeable, and easy to accommodate.

We can carry that into adulthood without noticing.
A woman can enter a room fully qualified for the opportunity in front of her and still wonder whether she is speaking too confidently.

She can receive praise and immediately explain why she is not as good as people think. She can have an achievement she is genuinely proud of and then feel the need to make it smaller.

At some point, we have to ask ourselves whether humility has become another name for hiding.

There is also the complicated relationship many women have with their emotions.
If our mothers were taught to keep their feelings private, they may not have known how to create space for ours.

A girl who expresses anger may be redirected.
Someone who asks for reassurance may be made to feel needy.

Eventually, we learn to regulate ourselves through suppression. We become uncomfortable with our own sadness. We question whether our anger is reasonable. We try to make our feelings smaller so other people can handle them.

Yet emotions do not become less real because we refuse to express them. They simply find somewhere else to go. This is why many adult women are learning emotional language later in life.
We are discovering that being able to name what we feel is not weakness. It is a form of self-understanding.

Another script is the belief that sacrifice is the highest expression of love.

We watched our mothers give up things for their families. Their dreams were postponed. Their rest became optional. Their personal desires were placed behind the needs of everyone else.
The love underneath those sacrifices may have been completely genuine. That is what makes this lesson complicated. We do not need to question whether our mothers loved us.

We can love the woman who raised us and still question what she was taught about love. If sacrifice becomes the measurement of devotion, then choosing ourselves can begin to feel cruel.
We may feel guilty for wanting a career that requires our attention.

We may feel selfish for wanting to travel. We may hesitate to pursue something because someone else needs us. We need to learn that love does not require the complete disappearance of the person giving it.

Perfection can become another way we try to feel safe. A girl who watches her mother worry about appearances may learn that mistakes are dangerous. She becomes careful about how she behaves because criticism feels like rejection.
Eventually, she may spend too much energy trying to look like she has everything under control.
The result can be exhausting.

There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes from being praised for having everything together when the truth is that you desperately need someone to ask whether you are okay.

Women also inherit ideas about men's comfort.
A daughter may watch her mother pay close attention to a man's mood before deciding how to behave. She learns to notice the smallest change in his tone. She begins adjusting herself around anger because keeping him calm feels important.

As adults, we may find ourselves managing another person's emotions before considering our own. We become experts at reading rooms and terrible at asking whether the room feels safe for us too.
We deserve relationships where another person's comfort does not require our constant self-erasure.

Then there is the belief that women cannot be trusted.
If a girl grows up hearing that other women are jealous, competitive, dramatic, or dangerous, those ideas can shape the friendships she forms later.
She may enter female friendships waiting for betrayal.

Another woman's success may feel threatening because she was taught to see women through the lens of competition.

Yet there is so much healing available in female friendship when women are allowed to meet one another without those old assumptions.

The scarcity one generation experienced does not have to become the worldview of the next.

Our bodies can carry inherited messages too.
Comments about weight, skin, hair, clothes, shape, and appearance can make a girl believe that her body exists for observation.
She begins seeing herself from the outside.
She learns to wonder how she looks before asking how she feels.

That can create a painful relationship with the body.
We spend years trying to return to a place where our bodies feel like homes instead of projects.

Conflict can create another script.
When silence is used to preserve peace, we may grow up believing that difficult conversations are dangerous.
We swallow resentment because saying what hurts feels like creating trouble.
We keep the surface calm while something underneath continues to grow.

Eventually, those unspoken feelings can affect relationships in ways nobody understands.
Learning to communicate directly can feel uncomfortable at first, especially when silence was the language we grew up speaking.

Still, honesty deserves a place in our relationships.

Love can also become confused with endurance.
Some women watched their mothers remain in painful situations because leaving was described as giving up.
They learned that loyalty means staying, even when staying comes at a great personal cost.
That belief can make it difficult to recognise when a relationship has become harmful.

We may feel ashamed for wanting to leave.
We may think a good woman should tolerate more.
We may stay because we are afraid that choosing ourselves means we have failed at love.
But enduring pain does not automatically make a relationship meaningful.

There are moments when leaving is an act of self-respect.
There are also times when forgiveness is encouraged before healing has had a chance to happen.
We may be told to let things go because holding onto hurt is considered unhealthy. Yet forgiveness does not erase the need for accountability.
A wound deserves to be acknowledged.
You can forgive and still remember what happened.

Peace should not require pretending that nothing happened.

Rest carries its own inherited guilt.
Many women watched their mothers work until exhaustion and still be praised for their strength.
That can make rest feel like something that must be earned.
There is always another chore. Another person to help. Another responsibility waiting.
If we keep believing that we are only worthy when we are productive, there will never be enough completed tasks to make us feel deserving of rest.
Our bodies deserve better.
We do not have to reach exhaustion before we are allowed to stop.

Perhaps one of the deepest wounds is learning to distrust our own instincts.
A woman may feel that something is wrong and immediately search for reasons to dismiss herself.
She may question her memory. She may doubt her judgment. She may give someone endless chances because she has been taught that her perception is probably mistaken.

Rebuilding trust in ourselves is part of growing.
Our instincts should not control every decision we make, but they deserve to be heard.

Then there is the pressure to carry everything without allowing anyone to see the weight. Many women become the emotional centre of their families.
We notice when someone is struggling. We think about what needs to be bought. We organise what needs to happen. We check that everyone is okay.

Eventually, this becomes so normal that nobody notices how much one woman is carrying.
Sometimes even she stops noticing. She simply thinks, “This is what I have to do.”
Until her body says otherwise. Until resentment appears. Until exhaustion becomes impossible to hide.
We are allowed to put some of the weight down. We are allowed to tell people that we are tired. We are allowed to need support. We are allowed to be cared for.

This is what healing from inherited emotional scripts really looks like. It is not about blaming our mothers for everything we struggle with.

Many of them were carrying their own inherited wounds. They were making choices with the tools available to them. Some of the things they taught us may have been the very things that helped them survive their own lives.

Understanding that can create compassion without requiring us to repeat the pattern.

We can love our mothers and still choose differently.
We can appreciate their sacrifices without making sacrifice the price of our own happiness. We can honour their strength while allowing ourselves to be softer. We can listen to their stories without allowing every lesson from their lives to become a rule for ours.

That is one of the most important parts of growing into ourselves.

We get to examine what we were taught. Some beliefs deserve to stay. Others need to end with us.
And maybe, that is one of the greatest gifts a woman can give the women who come after her: the chance to inherit something healthier.

A daughter should not have to spend her entire adulthood recovering from what she learned about being a woman as a child. She should be allowed to know that her needs matter. Her emotions can be expressed. Her dreams deserve attention. Her body belongs to her. Her voice has a place in the room.
Rest is part of being human. Love should not require her to disappear.

So, the work begins with us. Not because we are responsible for everything that happened before us, but because we have the opportunity to decide what continues through us. Some patterns can end here. And that can be a beautiful kind of inheritance too.

I used to think I was an overthinker. I mean, that was the label I gave myself every time I replayed a conversation in my head or wondered why someone's energy had changed.

If a friend became distant, I assumed I had done something wrong. If someone took hours or days to reply, my mind searched for reasons.

Maybe I said too much, I wasn't interesting enough, they were upset with me or maybe I had become too much to deal with.

I became very good at answering questions that nobody had asked. The strange thing is that I usually believed those answers.

Oh, thinking about it now, it was very exhausting.
It felt like carrying the weight of conversations long after they had ended.

One sentence could stay with me for days. One change in someone's behavior could affect my mood. One unanswered message could convince me that everything between us had changed.

For a long time, I blamed myself. I believed I needed to stop thinking so much. I told myself I needed to become less sensitive. I tried to ignore the questions that appeared in my mind because I thought they were the problem.

Then, I started paying attention to the people who made me feel calm. They existed. There were people in my life who replied when they said they would. If they became busy, they explained why. If something bothered them, they spoke about it instead of expecting me to read their minds. If plans changed, they let me know.

Around those people, I noticed my mind became much quieter. I was not checking my phone every few minutes. I was not trying to guess what they really meant. I was not creating stories to explain their silence. I simply trusted them.

That was when I asked myself a difficult question.
Was I really an overthinker?
Or had I spent years trying to make sense of situations where people refused to communicate clearly?

There is a difference between imagining problems that do not exist and responding to mixed signals.
When someone's words say one thing but their actions suggest something else, confusion is a natural response.

When promises are broken without explanation, questions are normal.

When affection disappears without a conversation, it is understandable to wonder what changed.

Yeah, we love to call that overthinking.

I am no longer sure that it is. I think human beings naturally search for understanding. Our minds do not enjoy unanswered questions.

When information is missing, we often fill the gaps with our own assumptions. Unfortunately, those assumptions usually come from our fears instead of the truth. That is how a delayed reply becomes rejection. That is how a short message becomes anger. That is how silence becomes proof that we are no longer wanted.

The mind tries to protect us.
Sometimes it does the opposite.

Poor communication can make even emotionally healthy people doubt themselves. When someone refuses to say what they feel, the other person often carries the burden of figuring it out.

They replay conversations, study messages, notice small changes, become detectives in relationships that were supposed to feel safe.

Many people underestimate the kindness of clear communication. Telling someone you need space is kinder than disappearing. Explaining that you are overwhelmed is kinder than leaving them to guess.
Being honest about your feelings is kinder than expecting another person to decode your behaviour.

Clarity is not harsh. It is an act of respect.

At the same time, not every fear comes from another person's actions. Some of my worries were born from old experiences that taught me people leave without warning.

Some came from disappointments I had never fully healed from. Some came from wanting reassurance more often than I admitted. Recognizing that did not make me feel ashamed. It helped me understand myself.

Healing is not about pretending those fears do not exist. It is about learning when they are speaking louder than reality. That is why I no longer believe every situation has only one explanation.

Sometimes we really are overthinking. Past pain can make ordinary moments feel threatening. A harmless delay can remind us of someone who disappeared years ago. A simple misunderstanding can wake up old fears we thought we had left behind.

A relationship built on inconsistent communication will make almost anyone feel uncertain. Constant confusion is not something we should normalize.
Neither is expecting people to survive on guesses.
The healthiest relationships are sometimes never the loudest.

Know where you stand. You don’t have to earn basic communication. You don’t have to spend your days trying to interpret hidden meanings.

There is enough honesty for trust to grow.
At least, that changed the way I see myself.
I no longer rush to call myself an overthinker every time I feel uneasy.

Instead, I pause and ask a different question.
Is this fear coming from me, or is this situation genuinely unclear?

So, maybe you have been blaming yourself for years. Maybe you have apologised for caring too much when, in reality, you were responding to uncertainty. Maybe you have spent so much time trying to become less emotional that you never stopped to ask whether the people around you were communicating in ways that made emotional safety possible.

Before calling yourself an overthinker, take a moment to look at the environment around you.
A peaceful mind does not always come from thinking less. Sometimes it comes from being surrounded by people who leave very little room for unnecessary guessing.

And if you discover that your own fears are speaking louder than the truth, treat yourself with the same patience you would offer someone you love.

Understanding yourself is just as important as understanding the people around you.
Both are part of building relationships that feel safe enough to rest in.

I have often wondered how many people are carrying a version of God they never met for themselves. Not necessarily because they rejected Him. Not because they hated Him. But because someone else introduced them to a person who does not exist in Scripture.

It is very possible to spend years loving God and still not know Him. It is possible to spend years fearing God without understanding His heart. It is even possible to build an entire faith around things He never said.

I have seen people describe God as though He is impossible to please. Every mistake becomes another reason to expect punishment. Every difficult season is treated as proof that He is angry. Every unanswered prayer becomes evidence that He has turned away.

After hearing those ideas often enough, they begin to feel true. The problem is that confidence does not make something correct. A loud voice can still be wrong. A respected person can misunderstand Scripture. A preacher can love God sincerely and still explain a passage incorrectly.

That is why I believe every believer has a responsibility to open the Bible for themselves.
No relationship grows through secondhand conversations.

Imagine trying to know your closest friend only by listening to other people's opinions. One person tells you they are impatient. Another describes them as cold. Someone else insists they cannot be trusted.
You believe every story without ever sitting down to have a conversation with the person themselves.

Years pass. One day you finally meet them. Instead of the harsh person you expected, you discover someone kind, patient, and deeply compassionate.

You immediately realize that you built your opinion on borrowed information. I sometimes wonder how many people will experience that same feeling when they truly begin reading Scripture.

Some of us have inherited ideas without asking where they came from. We accepted them because the people teaching us sounded certain. We assumed they had already done the work of studying.
So we stopped searching. We stopped asking questions. We stopped opening the pages for ourselves.

That is a very dangerous place to be.

Because the people speaking are still human.
Human beings have preferences. They have traditions. They have experiences that shape the way they understand Scripture.

Sometimes they explain the Bible faithfully. Sometimes they add their own conclusions without realizing it. Let me not even start to talk about most of the instagram reels I have been seeing lately. You begin to think if it’s the same bible you are reading that they are reading.

Sometimes fear is passed from one generation to another until it begins to sound like truth. I think one of the saddest things that can happen to a believer is becoming afraid of a Father they have never truly met.

There are people who approach prayer with fear instead of confidence because they expect rejection. There are people who believe every hardship is God's way of getting even with them. There are people carrying guilt for things Scripture never even calls sin.

Their hearts are exhausted. Their faith feels heavy.
Their relationship with God becomes something to survive instead of something to enjoy.

Then something beautiful happens.
They decide to read. Not to prepare a sermon.
Not to win an argument. Not to prove someone wrong. But simply because they want to know God.
And that changes everything.

The Bible begins to tell a different story.
They find a Shepherd who goes looking for one lost sheep. They meet a Father who runs towards His returning son before a single apology is finished.
They see Jesus sitting with people religion had already rejected. They watch Him touch those everyone else avoided. They hear Him speak words that heal broken hearts instead of crushing them.
The God they encounter in Scripture is far greater than the version fear created.

There is sadness in realizing how many years were spent believing things God never said. There is pain in remembering prayers filled with fear when they could have been filled with trust. There is disappointment in recognizing how easily human voices replaced the written Word.

I do not believe every person who teaches Scripture has bad intentions. Many teach with sincerity. Many genuinely want people to know God.

Some are passing down what they were taught because nobody encouraged them to search the Scriptures for themselves. That is why studying the Bible is not an act of rebellion against spiritual leaders. It is an act of love towards God.

It says, "I want to know You as You have revealed Yourself."

That desire protects your heart. When someone claims that God is cruel, you can search the Scriptures.

When someone says His love depends on your performance, you can search the Scriptures.

When someone insists that grace has limits you have never read about, you can search the Scriptures.

The Bible becomes your measure instead of another person's confidence.

Faith becomes deeply personal when Scripture is no longer something you hear only on Sundays. It becomes the place where your questions meet God's character.

It becomes the place where fear is corrected, the place where confusion finds clarity.

There have been moments in my own life when a single passage challenged ideas I had accepted for years. Not because the verse was new. Because I had finally taken the time to read it without assuming I already understood it.

That reminded me that knowing about God is different from knowing Him. One comes from collecting information. The other comes from meeting Him through His Word.

There are many voices competing for our attention today. Some speak with wisdom. Others speak with certainty but without truth. The difference is not always obvious at first. That is why every believer must return to the source. Regularly.

Not because reading the Bible earns God's love.
It doesn't. We read because we want to recognise His voice for ourselves.

The greatest loss is not misunderstanding a difficult verse. The greatest loss is spending your life serving a version of God created by human opinion while His true character has been waiting for you in the pages of Scripture all along.

Open the Bible. Read it with humility. Ask questions.
Take your time. Allow the words to challenge what you have always believed. If something you have heard cannot stand beside Scripture, let it go without fear.

God does not need our assumptions to defend Him.
He has already revealed Himself. Our responsibility is to know Him as He truly is, not merely as others have described Him.

That changes the way you pray. The way you worship. The way you see yourself. The way you love other people.

Most of all, it changes the relationship itself.
Because there is a world of difference between hearing about God...
...and finally meeting Him for yourself.

I wish I did.
Maybe then I'd have one more memory of them.🥺

The only thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed and asking where my mummy was.

Nobody answered me…

I asked where my daddy was.
Still nothing.

Then I saw my auntie crying.
And that was when I knew something terrible had happened.

A lot of people think children don't understand death.

Loll, we actually do.
Maybe we don't understand it the same way adults do, but we know when the people we love are never coming back.

After the burial, everybody went back to their normal lives.

Mine had already changed forever.
My auntie took me in.

She was my mum's elder sister.
Everybody praised her.

"God will bless you for taking care of your sister's child."
"You've done something wonderful."
"That little girl is lucky to have you."

Looking back now, I don't think anybody knew what they were leaving me behind to face.

Or maybe they just never imagined it.

My auntie had one son.
His name was Adebayo.
He was twenty - five as at the time I started living with them.

Everybody called him Bayo.
So I called him Brother Bayo too.
The first few weeks in their house were actually beautiful.🥹

My auntie bought me new uniforms.
She plaited my hair every Sunday night before school.

Whenever visitors came around, she'd smile proudly and say,
"She's my daughter now."

And yeahh...
I believed her. I actually believed her.
I even started calling her Mummy after some time.

The first day I called her that, she smiled at me.

"My daughter."

You have no idea how happy that made me. Because for the first time since losing my parents, I felt like maybe...
Just maybe...
Life was giving me another family.🥺

I didn't know the same house I thought had rescued me...
...was the same house where I would lose the rest of my childhood.

The first few months were okay.
Not perfect though. Nothing could ever be perfect after losing my parents.
But okay enough that I started smiling again.

I started making friends in my new school. I stopped crying every night.
Sometimes I'd even laugh so hard that I'd forget my parents were gone.

Then I'd remember...
And immediately feel guilty.

Almost as if laughing meant I had forgotten them.

Brother Bayo was nice to me too.
Very nice.

He'd buy me biscuits on his way back home.

Sometimes he'd buy those colorful ice creams children loved so much back then.

Whenever my auntie travelled, he'd help me with my homework.

He'd even defend me whenever I got into trouble.

"She's still a child, Mummy."
"Leave her."

I started to really like him as a brother because he made me feel like I still mattered.

Looking back now, I don't even know if he genuinely cared about me or if he was simply preparing me for what he wanted to do.

Maybe it was both.
I honestly don't know.

One Saturday afternoon, my auntie went to the market.

Her husband had travelled to Lagos for work.
So it was just the two of us at home.
I was in the sitting room watching cartoons.

I don't remember what cartoon it was.
I only remember laughing.

Brother Bayo came and sat beside me.
"What are you watching?" he asked.

I pointed at the television.
"This one."

He laughed.
"You don't even know the name."

"I know it."

"So tell me."

"I forgot."

He laughed again and rubbed my head.
Then he stood up.

"Come."

"Where?"

"My room."

"Why?"

"I want to show you something."

Hmmm, if someone had told seven-year-old me not to follow him...

I still would have followed him.

Because why wouldn't I?

He was my brother. At least...
That's what I believed.

I followed him into his room.

He closed the door behind us.
I didn't think anything of it.

His room was my favorite room in the house. He had comic books. Video games.

Sometimes he'd even let me press the buttons while he played.

"What do you want to show me?" I asked excitedly.

He smiled.

"Come here first."

I walked closer.

Then he carried me onto his bed.
At first, I thought we were going to play.

He looked at me for a few seconds.

Then he kissed my forehead.

I smiled.

Because that's what older brothers did...
Right?

Then he kissed my cheeks.
I giggled.

"Brother Bayo..."

He didn't answer.
He just kept looking at me.

His face had changed.
I didn't understand it then.

He touched my face.

"You won't tell anybody, okay?"

I frowned.

"Tell them what?"

He smiled again.

"Our little secret."

That was the first time I ever heard those words.

And of course, they didn't sound dangerous. They sounded exciting.

You know how adults sometimes whisper things to children to make them feel special?

That's exactly what I thought this was.

I smiled.

"Okay."

He rubbed my head.

"Good girl."

After that day, everything changed.
I remember coming out of his room feeling... different.

Confused.

I remember sitting in the sitting room again while the cartoon was still playing.

The same cartoon I'd been laughing at barely an hour earlier.

But I wasn't laughing anymore.

I just stared at the television.

When my auntie came back from the market, she found me exactly where she had left me.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"I don't know."

She touched my forehead.

"Are you sick?"

Before I could answer, Brother Bayo walked into the sitting room carrying one of the nylon bags from the market.

"Mummy, she's fine," he said so casually that even I believed him.

"She was just watching television."

My auntie looked at both of us for a few seconds.

Then she continued unpacking her things.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I kept replaying the afternoon in my head.

Not because I understood what had happened.

I didn't.

I just knew something didn't feel right.

So the next morning, I tried to ask him a question.

"Brother Bayo..."

"Hmm?"

"Yesterday..."

Immediately, he looked around to make sure nobody was close enough to hear us. Then he smiled.

"You promised."

I frowned.

"Promised what?"

"Our secret."

I immediately covered my mouth.

"Oh."

He smiled again.

"Good girl."

I didn't know I had been given a burden that was never mine to carry. I just knew there was something I wasn't supposed to tell anybody.

And because I loved him as a brother...
Because I trusted him... Because I thought family always protected each other... I kept quiet.

I had no idea that my silence was exactly what he was counting on.

Days passed. Then weeks. Life outside our house looked completely normal. I still went to school every morning, came back home every afternoon.
Sometimes I still played "Teacher and Students" with the children on our street. Other times we'd chase tyres down the road until somebody's mother shouted at us to stop making noise.

If you had seen me back then, you probably would have said I was a happy child. And maybe I was.
At least for a few hours every day.

The only time my heart started beating too fast was whenever school was about to close. Because that meant I was going home. And I never knew which version of Brother Bayo I was going to meet.

Some days, he was exactly the older brother I thought I had. He'd ask me how school went. He'd buy me biscuits. He'd help me solve my Mathematics assignment. He'd even joke with me until I laughed. Those days confused me the most.🥺 Because I'd start thinking... Maybe I imagined everything. Maybe nothing was actually wrong.
Then another day would come... And that little voice inside me would disappear again.

One evening, my auntie sent him to buy bread.
"Go together," she said. "And don't waste time."
"Okay, Mummy," I answered.

We walked to the bakery. Halfway there, Brother Bayo suddenly held my hand. I smiled at him.
To any other person walking past us, we looked like a normal uncle and his little niece. A family. Nothing more.

"You've been quiet lately," he said.
"I've just been tired."

He nodded.

Then he stopped walking and looked at me.
"You're not angry with me, are you?"

Lolll, I was confused.

Angry?
I hadn't even thought about being angry.
I didn't even have the words for what I was feeling.
So I shook my head.

"No."
He smiled.
"I knew my little girl wouldn't be angry with me."

When you're a child, you believe the adults around you. You believe the people who tell you they love you. You don't wake up one morning thinking,
"Maybe the people taking care of me are the same people hurting me."

After a while, I stopped trying to understand my own feelings. I just accepted them. If I felt confused...
I kept quiet. If I felt scared... I kept quiet. If I wanted to ask questions... I kept quiet. It became normal.

One afternoon after school, I came home with a drawing I'd made in class. It was a picture of my family. At least... The family I wanted. I drew my mum. My dad. Me. My auntie. My uncle. Brother Bayo. Even our old dog that died before my parents.
Everybody was smiling and holding hands.

When my teacher saw it earlier that day, she smiled and said,
"You have a beautiful family."
I smiled at her. Because I wanted to believe it.
That evening, I showed the drawing to my auntie.
"Mummy, look what I made."
She looked at it for a few seconds.
Then she said,
"This is really beautiful."
She even kissed my forehead.

Hmmmm, I can't even explain it.
But moments like that made everything even more confusing. Because how could someone be so kind... And still not notice what was happening right under her roof?

Even now as an adult, I'd defend her.
Maybe she genuinely didn't know.
Other times... I'd get angry.

How do you live in the same house with people and not notice anything?

Whenever people hugged me unexpectedly, I'd freeze. If my teacher asked me why I wasn't playing with the other children during break, I'd just shrug.
"I don't know."
That became my favourite answer.
"I don't know."

Because you can't explain something you don't even understand yourself.

A few weeks later, my class teacher called my auntie after school. I was sitting outside the staff room waiting for them. I couldn't hear everything they were saying. Only bits and pieces.

"...she has become withdrawn..."
"...doesn't participate like she used to..."
"...is anything happening at home?"

My heart started beating so fast. I don't even know why. Maybe I thought this was it, somebody had finally noticed, somebody was finally going to ask me the right question.

After a few minutes, my auntie came outside.
"Let's go home."

On our way back, she held my hand.
"Your teacher said you've been very quiet."

I looked down.

"Have people been bullying you in school?"
I shook my head.

"No."

"Then what is it?"

I opened my mouth. I really did. I wanted to tell her everything. But before any words came out...
I remembered the promise.
"Our little secret."

I remembered how much I trusted him, how badly I wanted everybody in that house to stay together. So I forced a smile.

"I'm okay, Mummy."

She squeezed my hand.

"I was beginning to worry."

Then she dropped the conversation.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if she had not dropped the conversation. If she had knelt down in front of me. If she had looked me in the eyes and asked,

"Did somebody hurt you?"

Maybe I would have cried, told her everything.
Or maybe... I would have still protected the very person who was hurting me.

A few months later, it was my eighth birthday.
Well... Not really a birthday. More like the anniversary of my parents' death. My birthday used to be my favourite day of the year. My mum would wake me up with kisses. My dad would carry me on his shoulders around the house, singing terribly on purpose just to make me laugh.🥲

After they died... Nobody celebrated birthdays anymore. At least not mine.

That morning felt like every other morning.
I wore my school uniform. Packed my bag. Ate my breakfast. And left for school. Not one person remembered. Or maybe they remembered and just didn't think it mattered anymore. I don't know.

School was different though.
My best friend, Amaka, found out it was my birthday. She gave me one sweet.

"Happy Birthday," she whispered before assembly.

That one sweet meant more to me than she'll ever know. I didn't eat it. I kept it inside my school bag the whole day. When I got home, I went to my room and looked at it again. I cried. It wasn't because of the sweet but because someone remembered me.
That was all I wanted. To be remembered.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
It was Brother Bayo.
"I heard it's your birthday."

I quickly wiped my face.

"I didn't know you knew."
"Of course I know."
He brought out a small teddy bear from behind his back.

One of those tiny ones they sold outside supermarkets.

It was really beautiful.

I hugged it immediately.

"Thank you!"

He smiled.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it!"

"Good."
"Don't let anybody take it from you."

"I won't."
He nodded.
"It’s a reminder that you'll always be my favourite."

That teddy bear became my most prized possession. I slept with it every night. I carried it around the house. Whenever my auntie asked me to put it away, I'd refuse.

"It's my birthday present."

She'd laugh and leave me alone.

Weeks later, our school announced a Parents' Day celebration. Every child was expected to come with a parent or guardian. The announcement made the whole class excited. Everyone started talking about who would come.

"My daddy is coming!"
"My mummy is buying me a new dress!"
"My parents are coming together."

I just sat there. My teacher noticed.

"Who'll be coming with you?"

"My auntie."

"Okay dear, that’s nice."

Inside me... I was praying.
Not for my auntie to come.
For my mum. For just one day.
I really wanted to look into the crowd and see her waving at me.🥹

Parents' Day came a week later. I wore my neatest uniform. My auntie even tied two pink ribbons in my hair that morning.

"You look beautiful," she said.

I smiled.

"Thank you, Mummy."

"I'll try to leave work early."

Those words stayed in my head.
Because "try" meant she might not even show up.
When I got to school, almost every child was already standing with their parents. Some mothers were taking pictures. Some fathers were carrying their children on their shoulders.

One little girl was feeding her dad meat pie while they both laughed.🥹 I couldn't stop looking at them. My teacher walked over.

"Has your guardian arrived yet?"

I shook my head.

"She'll come."

At least... I hoped she would.

The program started. The children started dancing. Some sang. Others recited poems. Every few minutes, I'd turn around to check the entrance. Still nothing. By the time the program ended, parents were taking their children home.

The compound became emptier.
My teacher sat beside me.

"You can wait inside my office until someone comes."

I nodded.

"It's okay." She said.

But of course it wasn't. I felt really bad.

Around two hours later, I saw a familiar car drive into the school compound.

I immediately stood up. My auntie. She hurried toward me.

"I'm so sorry."

She looked exhausted.

"There was too much work today."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not." She hugged me. "Did you eat?"
I nodded.

"Your teacher told me you did very well."

"I got a certificate."

"Really?"

I smiled for the first time that day.

"Yes."

She kissed my forehead.

"I'm so proud of you."

When we got back, Brother Bayo was already home.

"How did Parents' Day go?" he asked.

"I got a certificate."

"Really?"

I ran to my school bag and brought it out.

He looked at it and smiled.

"I'm proud of you too."

The following term, a new family moved into the compound beside ours. They had a daughter called Sade. She was my age. Eight years old.
From the very first day we met, we became inseparable.🥹

We did everything together. We played ten-ten every evening after school. We played suwe until somebody's mother called us inside. Sometimes we'd plait our dolls' hair and argue over whose doll was prettier.😂

Other times, we'd sit under the mango tree in our compound making up stories about the clouds.
Sade wanted to become a doctor. I wanted to become a lawyer.

"Why a lawyer?" she asked me one evening.
"So I can help people."

"What kind of people?"
I thought about it for a while. "I don't know yet."
She laughed.
"You'll figure it out."

For the first time since my parents died...
I had a best friend again. Someone who reminded me that I was still a child. And somehow...
Without even trying... Sade became the safest part of my life.

Sade started coming to our house almost every day after school. Sometimes we'd do our homework first. Other times, we'd throw our bags inside the house and run outside immediately before any adult could send us on errands.

One afternoon, we decided to build a small "restaurant" with sand. We borrowed old plates from my auntie. Picked leaves from the mango tree.
Used bottle caps as cups. According to us, we were the richest restaurant owners in Ibadan.🤣

"Welcome, customer," Sade said, trying not to laugh.
"What would you like to eat?"

"I want amala."

"We don't have amala."

"Okay. Give me rice."

"We don't have rice either."

"So what do you have?"

She pointed proudly at the sand.

"Special soup."😂😂

We laughed so hard that my auntie came outside.
"What are you two laughing about?"
"Nothing ooo." Sade answered.

Those little moments became my escape.
Whenever Sade was around, I forgot so many things. I forgot I wasn't living with my parents anymore. I forgot the sadness that followed me everywhere. I even forgot that I dreaded nighttime.

As time went on, Sade practically became another child in our house. My auntie liked her.
"If you're hungry, just serve yourself," she'd always tell her.

Sometimes she'd even ask both of us to follow her to the market. People in the neighborhood started calling us twins.

"Where's Sade?"

"If you see one, the other one is not far." We loved it.

One Saturday afternoon, we were both lying on the floor in my room, drawing with our colouring pencils.
Sade suddenly stopped colouring.

"Can I ask you something?"
"Hmmm?"

"Promise you won't be angry."
"I won't."

She looked at me. Then she asked,
"Why do you always become quiet whenever Brother Bayo comes home?"

My hand froze.
"What do you mean?"

"I've noticed it."

"I don't."

"You do."
She sat up properly.

"You'll be laughing with me one minute..."
"...then immediately you hear his car outside..."
"...you stop laughing."

I forced a smile.
"No, I don't."

"You do."

I became very scared. Nobody had ever said those words to me before. Not my auntie. Not my teachers. Not even me.

I finally realized somebody else had been watching me. I laughed awkwardly.

"You're imagining things."

She frowned.
"I'm not."

I quickly changed the subject.

"Let's go outside."

She didn't move.

Instead, she looked at me.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?"

My heart started beating fast.
I looked toward my bedroom door.
Then back at Sade.

I almost told her. I really wanted to. But then...
Those familiar words echoed inside my head again.

"Our little secret."

I swallowed. Forced another smile.

"I'm okay."

Sade didn't answer immediately.

She just nodded slowly.

"Okay."

But the way she looked at me told me she didn't believe me.

The next day, Sade came to our house again.

She was carrying two oranges.
"My mummy said I should give you one."

I collected it happily.

"Tell her thank you."

"I will."

We sat under the mango tree like we always did.
Neither of us said much. I think she was still thinking about our conversation from the previous day.
Or maybe... She was waiting for me to continue it.
After a while, she peeled her orange and smiled at me.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I like your name."

I laughed.

"My name?"

"Yes."

"What's special about Abike?"

She shrugged.

"It sounds beautiful."

"My mummy gave me that name."

She smiled.

"What does it mean?"

I looked at my orange.

"My mummy said it means a child to be cared for."

Sade's eyes lit up.

"Awwww, that’s so sweet."

"My daddy used to call me Abike mi."

I don't know why... But saying those words out loud made my chest tight. Nobody had called me that since they died.

Sade noticed my face immediately.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"No... it's not."

She reached for my hand.

"I wish I met your mummy."

"So do I."

For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
We just sat there listening to the children playing football down the street. Then Sade suddenly stood up.
"Race you to the gate!"

Before I could answer, she took off running.

"Cheater!" I shouted, running after her.

"You started before saying 'go!'"

"Too late!"
"You'll see!"

These were some of the happiest afternoons I had in that house because Sade made me remember that I was still a little girl.

Sometimes we'd spend hours talking about our future.

"You'll defend me when I get into trouble."

"I'll collect plenty money first ooo."🤣

"So you'll charge me?"

"Of course."

"Wicked girl!"

We both burst into laughter.

One Saturday afternoon, the rain refused to stop. The compound was quiet. There was no children outside.

Sade came over with a pack of biscuits.
"My mummy said we should share."

We sat on my bedroom floor, eating biscuits and listening to the rain hit the zinc roof.

"Abike."

"Hmmm?"

"Why do you never sleep over at my house?"

I shrugged.

"I don't know."

"My mummy has asked you many times."

"I know."

"And my daddy likes you."

"I know."

"So why do you always say no?"

I looked down at the biscuit in my hand.

The truth was... I wanted to. Many times. Especially on the days I wished morning would never come.

But every time I was about to say yes...
I'd hear Brother Bayo's voice in my head.

"Don't ever sleep outside this house without telling me."

"I just prefer sleeping at home," I lied.

She looked at me, then nodded.

"Okay."

She accepted my answer. But I noticed she was beginning to watch me more closely.

The next day, I came back from extra lessons that my auntie had signed me up for, but something felt... wrong.

The compound was unusually quiet.
Adults were standing in small groups, whispering. Nobody was laughing. Nobody greeted me the way they usually did.

As soon as my auntie saw me, she rushed over and hugged me so tightly that I could barely breathe.

I think she was trying to convince herself that everything was still normal.

"Go inside," she said.

"But Mummy—"

"I said go inside."

That was the first time she'd ever spoken to me like that.

I quietly walked into the house.

Brother Bayo's bedroom door was locked. I noticed scratches on the outside of the door.

One of the flower vases in the sitting room had shattered on the floor.

It felt like the whole house was holding its breath. About an hour later, I heard someone calling my name outside.

"Abike!"

It was Sade. I ran out immediately.
She was standing under the mango tree.

Her eyes were swollen. She looked like she'd been crying for hours. As soon as she saw me, she threw her arms around me.

I had never seen Sade shake before.

"What happened?" I asked.

She didn't answer. She just kept crying.
After a long time, she pulled away and looked at me.

"Abike..."

"Hmmm?"

She hesitated. Then she asked,
"Has Brother Bayo ever made you feel scared?"

The moment those words left her mouth... My heart stopped.

I looked at her. Then at the ground.
Then back at her. I wanted to lie.
I wanted to say no. I wanted to protect the secret the way I'd been taught to.

Instead... The tears came first.
I started crying so hard that I couldn't even speak.

Sade held my hand.

"You don't have to be scared anymore," she whispered.

I looked at her through my tears.

"What happened?"

Sade took a deep breath.

"He... he called me inside the house."

I held my breath.

"I thought he wanted to ask me where you were."

She shook her head.

"But something didn't feel right."

Her voice was trembling.

"I tried to leave."

She stopped talking so I reached for her hand.

"What happened after that?"

She looked away.

"He tried to stop me from leaving."

A tear rolled down her cheek.

"I fought him."

She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

"I bit him."

I stared at her.

"You did?"

She nodded.

"I bit him as hard as I could."

"And then?"

"I ran."

She let out a shaky breath.

"I didn't stop running until I got home."

Then she looked straight at me.

"Abike..."

"Hmmm?"

"I'm sorry."

I frowned.

"Why are you saying sorry?"

"Because the whole time I was running home, I kept thinking..."

She burst into tears again.

"...if this happened to me today..."
"...what if it has been happening to you for a long time?"

That question broke me. I couldn't answer her. I just cried. She cried too.

Word had already started spreading that something serious had happened in our house.

Neighbours gathered in small groups.
People whispered. Adults walked in and out of our sitting room.

Nobody allowed me to go outside again.
Around sunset, my uncle arrived home.
I'd never seen him look so angry.

He walked into the house without greeting anyone. A few minutes later, loud voices filled the compound.

And then, I heard Brother Bayo crying.
More like the cry of someone who had finally been caught. I sat on my bed, hugging my teddy bear.

I didn't know exactly what was happening. But I knew that something had changed.

And whatever happened next...
Our family might never be the same again.

About thirty minutes later...
Someone started banging on our door.
My auntie quickly stood up and my uncle opened the door.

It was Sade's mum.

I'd never seen her look like that before.
Her wrapper wasn't tied properly.
She hadn't even covered her hair.
She looked like she'd left her house without thinking twice.

The moment she entered our compound, she pointed straight toward Brother Bayo's room.

"Where is he?"

Nobody answered.

"I said WHERE IS HE?!"

My uncle sighed.

"Please... calm down."

"Calm down?" she shouted.

"You want me to calm down after what almost happened to my daughter?"

The whole compound had become quiet. Neighbours had started gathering outside our fence. Everybody was listening.

Sade's mum turned to my auntie.

"You trusted that man around children?"

My auntie burst into tears.

"I didn't know."

"You didn't know?!" Sade's mum's voice cracked.

"You mean to tell me this has been happening in this house and you didn't know?"

My auntie covered her face.

"I swear to God... I didn't know."

Sade's mum wasn't having it.

"I don't want explanations."

"I don't want tears."

"I want him arrested."

The sitting room fell silent.
Even I knew what that word meant.

Arrested ke?

My uncle finally spoke.
"Let's handle this as a family."

"No."
Her answer came immediately.
"There is nothing to handle."

"What he did is a crime."

"He should answer for it."

My uncle rubbed his forehead.

"Please... let's not make this bigger than it already is."

The moment he said those words...
I looked up at him.

Bigger than it already is?
I didn't understand everything adults were talking about back then.

But even at eight years old...
I knew something about that sentence didn't sound right. Sade's mum looked at him in disbelief.

"So you're more worried about the family's name than what happened to these children?"

Nobody answered her. She looked from my uncle, to my auntie, then finally at me.

That's when she really saw me.

She slowly walked toward me. Knelt in front of me. And held my hands.

"Abike..."

I looked at her. Her eyes filled with tears.
"My daughter, has he been hurting you too?"

My lips started trembling. I tried to speak. Nothing came out. I simply nodded.

The moment I nodded, she let out a cry that I still hear in my sleep sometimes. She pulled me into her arms and held me so tightly.

"Oh God..." "Oh God..."

She kept repeating those words. Over and over again. Then she turned toward my auntie.

"You mean this little girl has been suffering in this house and nobody protected her?"
Nobody answered.

Sade's mum stood up. She wiped her tears.

Then said, "If none of you will take this child to the police station..."

"I will."

Nobody argued with Sade's mum this time.
Even my uncle. He just sat there with his head in his hands. My auntie was crying so hard that she could barely breathe.

"I didn't know," she kept saying.
"I swear to God, I didn't know."

Sade's mum looked at her and said,
"If you truly didn't know, then today is the day you choose what kind of mother you want to be."

"You can protect your son or you can protect this little girl."

I don't think I'd ever seen my auntie look so broken.
She looked toward Brother Bayo's room. Then she looked at me. I thought she was finally going to walk over and hug me. Tell me she was sorry. Tell me none of it was my fault.

Instead... She started crying even harder.
"My son..." she whispered. "My only son."

Sade's mum immediately shook her head.
"No, don’t do that. This is exactly how girls get abandoned."

She pointed at me.

"Look at her, really look at her. She's eight years old. She lost both her parents. And now she has been carrying something no child should ever carry. If your first thought is still your son, then you've already failed her."

Nobody said a word.

I only the other hand, just sat there hugging my teddy bear. Looking from one adult to another. Trying to understand why everybody was crying.
My uncle finally stood up. He walked slowly to Brother Bayo's room. Knocked once. No answer.

He knocked again.

"Bayo."

There was silence.

"I know you're inside." Still nothing.
He sighed. Then he opened the door.

I couldn't see what was happening from where I was sitting. But I could hear them.

"Bayo!!! Tell me the truth."

Another long silence.

Then he said, "I made a mistake."

A mistake.

My uncle's voice became louder.

"A mistake?? You call this a mistake?"

"I asked you one question."

"Did you do what they're saying?"

Brother Bayo answered without hesitation.
"Yes."

The whole house froze.
Even the neighbours standing outside became quiet. It was the first time I'd ever heard him admit anything.

My auntie screamed. She ran toward the room.

"Tell me you're lying! Tell me this isn't true!"

Brother Bayo didn't answer. He just kept looking at the floor. My auntie slapped him, again and again.
Then she collapsed onto the floor crying.

"My own son..."
"My own son..."
"What have you done?"

I looked at him. He didn't look like the giant I had always been afraid of. He looked so small. Not because he had changed. But because the secret had finally been dragged into the light.

Sade's mum picked up her handbag. She looked at my uncle.

"I'm going to the police station. If you're coming with me, let's go. If you're not, I'll still go."

My uncle didn't answer immediately. He walked over to where I was sitting. Knelt in front of me. His eyes were red.

"Abike, I'm so sorry."

I didn't follow them to the police station that day.

I stayed back at home with one of our neighbours, Mama Bisi. She made me a cup of Milo. It was too hot. I held the cup in my hands for almost thirty minutes without drinking it.

"Drink it before it gets cold," she said softly.
I nodded. But I still didn't drink it.

Isn't it funny how life continues like nothing has happened? People still cook. Children still play outside. The sun still sets. Meanwhile... Your whole world has fallen apart.

Around 8 p.m., my auntie and uncle came back.
Sade's mum came in with them.

My auntie's eyes were swollen. My uncle looked like he had aged ten years in one afternoon.

Sade's mum walked straight to where I was sitting.
She knelt beside me.

"Abike."

"Yes, ma."

"We spoke to the police."

I didn't know what that meant.
I just nodded.

"They want to talk to you tomorrow."
Immediately, my stomach tightened.

"Me?"

"Yes."

I looked at my auntie.
Then at my uncle.
Then back at Sade's mum.
"Am I in trouble?"

Sade's mum quickly shook her head.
"No, my baby."

She held both my hands.
"You've done absolutely nothing wrong."

I frowned.

"But..."
She smiled sadly.

"You are not the one who did something bad."

"The adult is."

"Do you understand?"

“Yes ma.”

The next morning, we went to the police station. It was my first time ever entering one. I thought it would be scary.

Instead... It was surprisingly quiet.
One female police officer came over to us.

She smiled at me.

"Hello."

I hid behind Sade's mum.
She laughed softly.

"My name is Inspector Funke."

"What's your name?"

I looked at the floor.

"Abike."

"That's a beautiful name."

I looked up.

"Would you like some biscuits?"

I nodded.

She brought out a small pack from her drawer. The same type my dad used to buy for me after church on Sundays.

She didn't ask me questions immediately. We coloured in a colouring book first. She asked me about school. My favourite subject. My favourite food. Whether I liked cartoons.

I didn’t really understand what she was doing. But I think she wasn't trying to investigate first. She was trying to help an eight-year-old little girl remember that she was safe. After a while, she closed the colouring book.

"Abike..."

"Hmmm?"

"I'm going to ask you some questions."
"If you don't understand anything, tell me."
"If you don't remember something, that's okay too."
"And if you want to stop at any time, we'll stop."

I took a deep breath. Then I nodded.
"I'm ready."

Inspector Funke didn't rush me. As a matter of fact, she smiled at me all through.

After a while, she put her pen down.

"Abike..."
"Hmmm?"
"I need you to tell me about Brother Bayo."

The smile disappeared from my face.

I looked at the floor. I couldn't say anything. I didn't know where to start. How do you explain something you've never explained before?

How do you find words for something you didn't even understand yourself?

"I trusted him," I whispered.
She nodded.
"I know."
"I thought he liked me as his sister."

"I thought..."
I stopped. My throat felt tight.

"I thought maybe that's what families did."

Inspector Funke reached for the tissue box beside her. She didn't hand it to me immediately. She placed it on the table between us. Giving me the choice to take it. So, I did. She waited until I looked up again.

"Abike..."
"What happened to you was wrong."
"It was never your fault."
"You were a child."
"You deserved to be protected."

After we finished talking, she walked me back to the waiting area. Sade's mum stood up immediately.

"How did it go?"

Inspector Funke looked at her gently.
"She's very brave."

I remember hearing that word and feeling confused.
Brave? I didn't feel brave ooo. I felt tired. Very tired.

As we were leaving, Inspector Funke called my name one more time.

"Abike."

I turned around.

"I want you to remember something."
I waited.
"What happened to you will always be part of your story."
She smiled.
"But it does not get to decide who you become."

Brother Bayo wasn't arrested immediately.
The police told us they were still putting everything together.

Statements. Evidence. Medical reports.
To me... It just felt like waiting.

Two days later, news spread around the neighbourhood. Nobody knows exactly how it started. Some people said someone overheard the conversation in our compound. Others said one of the neighbours told somebody else.

Before evening...
Almost everybody knew.
People who had greeted Brother Bayo with respect just days earlier suddenly couldn't even look at him.

That afternoon, he stepped out of the compound, maybe to buy something, I don’t really know. But what I know was that he didn't make it to the end of the street.

A group of young men surrounded him. Nobody ever admitted to knowing who they were. Nobody admitted to seeing how it started either. All people said was...

"They heard what he did."

By the time my uncle got there, the boys had already disappeared. Brother Bayo was badly injured.
Everybody knew that If Sade hadn't escaped...

There might have been another little girl carrying the same secret I had been carrying.

Three days later, the police came. And this time, they weren't asking any questions. They were there for Brother Bayo. I watched from the window as they placed him inside the police vehicle. He never looked in my direction.

Months later, the case finally came to an end.
The judge found him guilty. He was convicted for repeatedly sexually abusing a child entrusted to his care. And yes, he was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison.

People asked me if I smiled when I heard the judgment. I didn't. There was no celebration. It didn’t change the fact that he sexually abused me.
Prison can punish a man. But it cannot give an eight-year-old little girl back her pride. So the sentence wasn't my healing, It was just accountability.

A few months after everything was over, my auntie came into my room. She sat beside me. She couldn't even look at me. Then she started crying.

"Abike..."
I looked up at her.

"I'm sorry."
She held my hands so tightly they almost hurt.
"I should have protected you., I had no idea Bayo was doing all of those things to you.”

Well, she finally said what I had needed to hear from her all along.

Years passed. I finished secondary school. Went to university. And just like Sade and I used to joke under that mango tree... I became a lawyer.🥹

Every time I stand up to speak for someone who has been silenced... A part of eight-year-old Abike stands with me. She reminds me why I chose this path. She reminds me that every child deserves someone who believes them the first time. If I could meet that little girl today...
I'd kneel in front of her. Hold both her tiny hands.
Look her straight in the eyes. And say,
"Abike..."
"None of it was your fault." 🥺

Before you go...
If Abike's story touched you, I want to tell you something. There are thousands of women walking around today with stories that never made it into words. Some were abused. Some were abandoned. Some were constantly told they were "too emotional." Some grew up believing their feelings didn't matter. And many of us are still carrying those little girls inside us.

That is exactly why I wrote my book, Permission to Feel, Freedom to Live.🥹

It's a book for every woman who has ever questioned her emotions. For every woman who learned to stay silent just to survive. For every woman who is tired of pretending she's okay.

Inside this book, we talk about the emotions we bury, the wounds we carry into adulthood, how our childhood shapes the women we become, and how healing begins when we finally give ourselves permission to feel.

If you've ever read one of my stories and thought,
"It feels like she's writing about me..." Then this book is for you.

If this story made you feel seen, I promise you... The book will take you even deeper. It might just help you understand parts of yourself you've never been able to explain.

Click the link in my bio to pre-order your copy today.

And if you're a woman...
I genuinely hope you give yourself this gift. You deserve to be understood. You deserve to heal. And above all... You deserve the freedom to feel.🤎🥹

Death has always frightened me.

Not because I do not understand that it is part of life. Not because I believe I can escape it. It frightens me because of what it leaves behind.

The silence. The empty spaces. The unfinished conversations. The birthdays that arrive without the people who were meant to celebrate them. The phone numbers that remain saved even though nobody will answer again. I think that is the part people do not talk about enough.

Death does not only take a person. It changes the lives of everyone who loved them. As a child, I thought death meant someone disappearing. That was the entire definition in my mind. Someone was here yesterday. Today, they are gone.

It sounded simple.

Growing up taught me that death is far more complicated than that. Someone can leave this world, yet continue living in hundreds of different places.

They live in the stories their family tells. They live in old photographs. They live in recipes that still taste like home. They live in habits their children unknowingly copied. They live in songs that make someone cry without warning. The body is gone.

The memories remain.

Grief is so confusing. Your heart knows someone has died. Your mind still expects them to walk through the door. You catch yourself reaching for your phone because something funny happened and they are the first person you want to tell.

Then reality interrupts.

The conversation will never happen.

No matter how many years pass, there are moments when the truth feels new all over again.

I have often wondered why death hurts as much as it does.

I do not think it is only because someone has stopped breathing.

I think it is because love suddenly has nowhere to go.

You still want to ask if they have eaten. You still want to hear their voice. You still want one more hug. You still want one more ordinary day.

Love does not disappear because a heartbeat does.

It remains inside the people who are left behind, searching for someone who is no longer here to receive it. Maybe that is why grief can feel so heavy. It is love carrying the weight of absence.

Death also has a way of exposing the things we thought we had plenty of.

Time.

We spend years believing tomorrow is guaranteed.

We postpone visits. We delay difficult conversations. We tell ourselves there will be another birthday, another holiday, another opportunity to say, “I love you.”

Then one day, tomorrow never comes.

Realizing that an ordinary afternoon was the last one. The last meal. The last laugh. The last goodbye. None of those moments announced themselves. They arrived looking like every other day.

That thought has changed the way I look at people I love. Life is far more fragile than we admit. It makes forgiveness feel more important than pride. It makes kindness feel less like a choice and more like a responsibility. It makes me wonder how many arguments were never meant to last as long as they did.

What about the life we leave behind?🥹 When people remember me one day, I doubt they will begin with the clothes I wore or the money I earned.

I hope they remember how I made them feel. I hope they remember that they felt safe with me. I hope they remember conversations that gave them comfort when life became difficult. I hope they remember laughter. I hope they remember love.

Because that is what remains after everything else disappears.

Death teaches the living. It reminds us that people are not permanent. It reminds us that our own lives are not endless. It asks difficult questions that many of us spend years avoiding.

Am I becoming the person I truly want to be?

Have I loved the people around me well?

Have I forgiven the people I needed to forgive?

Have I spent my days chasing things that will not matter when my life comes to an end?

There are days when I realize I have spent too much energy worrying about things that will not even cross my mind years from now.

There are moments when I remember that life is happening while I am waiting for the perfect time to begin.

Life is happening now. Not next year. Not even when everything is perfect.

Now.

We do not honor death by fearing it every day, we honor it by living differently because we understand what it teaches us. By saying the words we keep postponing. By apologising when our pride wants us to stay silent. By calling the people we miss. By spending time with those who matter. By creating memories instead of assuming there will always be another chance.

One day, every one of us will become a memory in someone else’s life.

When people remember your name, what story will it bring to their hearts?

I cannot decide how long my life will be. I cannot decide when death will come. The only thing I truly have is the way I choose to live before that day arrives.

This is an invitation to make sure the life we have is filled with the kind of love, compassion, courage, and presence that will continue living in the hearts of the people we leave behind.

Because death may take our breath away one day.

But the life we give to others can remain long after our final goodbye.