I was certain, truly certain, that I would be okay. I had built a life I liked. I had a career I was proud of, friends who filled my weekends, a mother who prayed for my "someday" harder than I ever did. Love was a door I never bothered to knock on. I figured if it wanted me, it would come and find me. I had learned to laugh that question off without flinching. I was, by every measure that mattered to me, okay.

But, oh well, It found me.

It found me on vacation, of all places, wearing the most ridiculous disguise: a booking error.

I was on holiday, the kind of solo trip I took every couple of years to remind myself I still liked my own company. The restaurant in Santorini was called To Kyma. I remember because I'd spent an embarrassing amount of time practicing my Greek pronunciation in the hotel room mirror, like a teenager before a first date, even though I was dining alone. The reservation was for 6:15, a table overlooking the caldera. I'd read about the sunset views, the way the light turned everything gold and crimson, and I wanted to see it. I wanted to witness something beautiful that belonged only to me.

I arrived at the restaurant at 6:10, around the same time a random man arrived and we both started, politely, to insist the table was ours, the hostess frowned at her list, then nervously smiled, apologising profusely. There'd been a mix-up. "The reservation was duplicated, you see, same time, same table preference, same name—" she said.

You have got to be kidding me. He said laughing.

The hostess looked between us, like a deer caught in headlights.

He offered to let me have it. I offered the same. We ended up sharing it instead, two strangers with matching names, eating dinner because neither of us wanted to make the hostess's night harder than it already was.

His name was Tamaratonye D Briggs. Mine, close enough to have caused the whole mix-up, was Tamarapreye I Briggs. We joked about it all through the meal, ran through our ancestry line to make sure we weren’t in fact related.

Our parents and grandparents must have consulted the same naming committee, he said, and I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my wine. He had a laugh that made other tables turn to look, not because it was loud, but because it sounded like it meant something.

I don’t remember most of what we talked about that night. But I remember he ordered the wrong wine on purpose because I’d said something dismissive about people who take wine lists too seriously, and he wanted to prove he wasn’t that kind of person. I remember thinking he had a good laugh, unhurried, the kind that comes from actually finding something funny rather than performing amusement. I remember that he hated the rain with a passion that bordered on irrational, because he had fallen into a ditch and almost got swept away in the flood as a teenager, that he'd never quite recovered from the helplessness of it all.

When the restaurant closed, we walked along the caldera, the stars scattered across the sky. He told me about the project he were designing back in Nigeria as the Architect, and I told him about my work as a Policy advisor. We exchanged numbers the way you do when you don’t expect to use them, more out of politeness than intention.

The next morning, I woke up and thought, well, that was lovely.

And I never expected to see him again.

I didn't think about him again after that trip. Not really. Not on purpose, anyway.

Months later, at a mutual friend’s wedding, the seating chart put me at his table AGAIN. Table 7, if memory serves me. When I saw his name card next to mine, I actually said it out loud, you have got to be joking, what are the odds??, and he looked up and grinned like he’d been waiting all evening for someone to notice.

Fancy meeting you here. He said with the most mischievous smile that I had ever seen.

We spent the whole reception comparing notes on how strange the odds were. A restaurant in another continent, months apart, and now this. He said maybe the universe was bad at scheduling but good at matchmaking. I told him that was the corniest thing I’d ever heard a grown man say at a wedding, and he said corny had gotten him this far, hadn’t it.

It had. That was the beginning of us.

He walked me to my car after, and stood there a while longer than the goodbye required. It started slow after that, a text here, a call there, the kind of getting-to-know-you that doesn't feel like effort because you actually want to know. Then it wasn't slow anymore. He made me laugh in the specific, helpless way that undoes a woman who has spent her whole life being composed.

He remembered small things, how I liked my food, that I hated being called "dear" but loved being called "you," that I always ordered dessert I said I didn't want and then ate all of it. I remembered things about him too. That he hated the rain. That he checked the locks twice before bed, every single night, without fail. That he loved fiercely and quietly, the way people do when they've decided, privately, that this is the one they intend to keep.

We dated the way I imagine most people do when it’s right, unremarkably. Dinners, long phone calls that went nowhere in particular, the slow accumulation of inside jokes. He met my mother and survived her interrogation with more grace than most men I’d have introduced her to. I met his sisters, who decided within an hour that I was theirs now and started including me in their group chat before he’d even asked me to be his wife.

I still remember the look on his face when he got down on one knee in the middle of the rain that had vowed not to stop, the engagement ring clutched in his trembling hand.

Will you marry me, please, he’d said, water streaming down his face, even though I hate this godforsaken weather. Do you understand what that means, ma’am? I love you more than I hate rain.

I love you too, I’d said, and by God, I meant it.

We got married two years after dating, in a small ceremony because neither of us wanted the spectacle, though our mothers still managed to smuggle in enough aso ebi for fifty people.

Married life with him was good in the way that doesn’t make for interesting stories, it was ordinary. Beautifully, blessedly ordinary. We argued about whose turn it was to do the dishes. He was terrible at remembering to buy things. I was terrible at admitting when I was wrong first. We had our rhythms, our Sunday mornings, our running joke about how he still, four years in, could not correctly guess what I wanted for my birthday no matter how many hints I dropped. It was ordinary, and I loved it precisely because it was ordinary. I had spent so long being fine on my own that I hadn’t known how good it would feel to have someone whose ordinary days were tangled up with mine. He was my home, and I was him, and I thought—naively, I see now—that this was how it would always be.

It’s raining today. I love the rain, always have, and I particularly loved the way it used to drive him mad because I’d stand under it too long and come down with a flu every single time, without fail, and he’d fuss over me for days afterward, half annoyed and half tender about it, some stubborn part of me refused to grow out of it.

But today he doesn’t have a choice. Neither of us do. I’m standing over his grave with the rain running down my face indistinguishable from everything else running down my face, and I laugh, actually laugh out loud when I said: the rain feels nice today, too bad love you can’t scold me.

It’s been a year. This is the first rain that has touched my skin since he died and I think some part of me has been in denial the whole time, waiting for a phone call that says it was all a terrible mistake, a duplicate reservation, a mix-up we'll laugh about one day.

Our fourth anniversary started the way our anniversaries always did, kisses in the kitchen, him singing off-key on purpose to make me laugh, the usual teasing about what he’d gotten me this year. Looking back now, I can see he’d been getting weaker for months, thinner, tired in a way he kept blaming on work. I didn’t see it then. You don’t see it when you’re not looking for it, and I had no reason to look.

He told me he’d made a reservation for later that evening. That wasn’t unusual, so I didn’t think anything of it. In the end we decided to stay in instead, something cozy, candles, music. He asked me to dance with him in the living room, no music at first, then just us swaying to our jam: “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” by Frankie Valli. We’d heard it at a wedding once and it became ours, the way couples do, claiming songs and memories and moments like they’re treasures meant only for us.

He held me close, and I felt the rise and fall of his chest, the steady beat of his heart against mine. I felt so safe in his arms. So loved. So complete. That’s when he told me.

I’m dying.

His voice didn't shake, but mine did, somewhere deep inside, before I'd even understood the words.

The cancer’s back, and it’s more aggressive this time. They say a few months, maybe less.

For a moment everything just stopped. My head went heavy, my throat closed up, and I remember looking at him the way you look at someone who’s just told a joke that landed wrong, waiting for him to say never mind. I kept saying it wasn’t possible, that he shouldn’t joke about something like that.

Don’t, please don’t joke about that.

Then I saw the tears in his eyes and I understood he wasn’t joking, and everything went dark for a while. When I came back to myself we were both on the floor, my head in his lap, and he looked lost, maybe sad, maybe just tired of carrying the secret alone.

I asked him when he’d found out. Months ago, he said. The doctors hadn’t been certain at first, and he’d wanted to be sure before he told me. Suddenly things I hadn’t questioned made sense, the frequent out of town trips he’d called work trips, the exhaustion he wrote off as nothing, blamed on work, the stack of paperwork he kept putting in front of me to sign, patient, insistent, never explaining why.

He’d been putting his home, his affairs in order the whole time.

I was his home.

He’d been quietly making sure the house would still stand without him in it.

You kept this from me for months? I managed to say.

Canim, please. I wanted to tell you. Every day I wanted to tell you. But I needed to be sure, and I needed to make arrangements, and I needed to—

Make arrangements? I sat up, my eyes burning with tears I refused to shed.

You kept this from me to make arrangements? Tamaratonye Briggs, I’m your wife. I’m supposed to be your partner. I’m supposed to—

I know. He was crying now, openly, unashamedly.

I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t bear the thought of watching you suffer. I thought if I could handle it alone, if I could make sure everything was taken care of, then maybe—

You don’t get to do that. The words came out harsher than I’d intended, but I couldn’t stop them.

You don’t get to protect me from this. That’s not how marriage works. We’re supposed to go through everything together. The good and the bad. The easy and the hard.

I know. We were both sobbing now, and I’d never seen him like this, so broken, so undone.

I know, My world. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to make sure you’d be okay. I wanted to make sure you’d be taken care of. I wanted to make sure that when I was gone, you wouldn’t—”

Stop. I pulled him into my arms, and we stayed like that for what felt like hours. Two broken people in the middle of a living room, clinging to each other like we could somehow make the world stop spinning.

Don’t talk about when you’re gone. You’re not going anywhere. We’re going to fight this. We’re going to find a way.

My love—

Promise me, Babe. Promise me you’ll fight again.

He pulled back, looked at me with those eyes, and I saw it—the resignation, the acceptance, the heartbreaking certainty that he was already gone.

I promise, he said, and we both knew it was a lie.

The months that followed were the hardest of my life.

I watched him fade. Slowly at first, then all at once. The strong man I’d married, the architect who designed the best structures in the country, the man who hated rain and loved me more than anything, I watched him become a shadow, a ghost, a whisper of the person he used to be.

But he never stopped fighting. He never stopped laughing. You never stopped loving me.

I slept with my head on his chest every night, listening to his heartbeat, terrified that one morning it would just... stop. I learned to read his body, to anticipate his needs, to be there for him in ways I’d never been there for anyone before.

He insisted on living. That’s what he called it: I’m not dying, Canim. I’m living. I’m living the best possible version of my life, and you’re in it, so it’s the best possible version there is.

I cried more than I thought a person could. I bargained with God the way people do when they’ve never bargained with anything in their life, told him I’d share whatever was left of mine, made promises I couldn’t even remember now.

Tamaratonye Briggs was my life in every sense that phrase could hold, and the idea of a day without him in it felt less like grief and more like the floor disappearing.

He died on an ordinary day, which somehow feels right for a man who never made a fuss about anything.

He’d asked me, that morning, to go get catfish pepper soup, his favourite, which I’d never liked much.

I’ll be right back, I said, and I kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. Don’t go anywhere.

Not going anywhere, he said, and smiled, and I believed him.

I came home and he was waiting on the couch. His eyes lit up when he saw me, the way they always did, and I thought, this is it. This is happiness. This is everything.

First time I don’t hate it, I said, taking a bite. We could do this every day, you know? If we wanted to.

Every day, he said, and there was something in his voice, something soft, something sad, something that sounded suspiciously like goodbye.

I put on our song, the one from that wedding playlist we’d danced to a hundred times since, and I sang along with my arms intertwined around his, my head on his shoulder, tears running down my face the whole time.

He was watching me with that look again, the one that made me feel like I was the most precious thing in the world.

Come here, I said, standing and reaching for his hand. Dance with me.

He took my hand, but he was tired, so I pulled him into my arms and held him up, the way he’d held me so many times before.

Tamarapreye. His voice was barely a whisper. I love you.

I love you too.

I’m happy I got to spend the rest of my life with you. You brought me more joy than I ever thought was possible, and I’m sorry—

Don’t. I squeezed his hand, his fingers intertwined with mine. Don’t apologise, Babe. The rest of our lives is still ahead of us. You have more than enough time to bring me joy. We have more than enough time.

Canim—

I pulled him closer, my tears falling onto his shoulder. I’m not listening to this. You’re going to be fine. We’re going to be fine. I won’t accept anything else.

And then, with a sound so soft I almost missed it, he breathed in his last breath and it felt, strange as it sounds, like satisfaction. Like he’d been waiting to hear that before he let go.

I didn’t notice.

Not right away.

Or maybe I pretended not to.

I kept holding him, kept whispering words of comfort, kept telling him about all the things we were going to do together, the trips we’d take, the books we’d read, the life we’d build. I kept swaying, kept pretending that everything was okay.

It wasn’t until the music stopped, until the silence hit me like a physical blow, that I felt the weight of his body slump against mine.

Babe

No response.

Tonye, wake up. We’re not finished dancing.

My love.

But he was gone.

I gently laid him down and laid beside him. I held his hand and cried, oh lord I cried and then held his hand tighter some more and cried even harder, I couldn’t bring myself to let go because letting go meant admitting that he was gone, and I couldn’t admit that because I couldn’t survive it.

I don’t know how long I stayed there with him. Maybe long enough that I lost track of the sun moving across the room. Eventually I called my best friend, I remember her voice breaking as she said, "I'll be right there." and then his, a man who cried as hard as I did that day, and who took charge of arrangements for the family because his sisters and I were incapable of doing anything.

The funeral was a blur. So many people. So many flowers. So many words that were supposed to comfort me but only made it worse, because none of them could bring him back.

I went through the motions. I smiled when I was supposed to smile. I cried when I was supposed to cry. I accepted condolences and food and offers to help, and I nodded along when people told me to “take care of myself,” even though I didn’t know how.

After that, the rest of the year blurred into one long procession of people, family, colleagues, condolences that all started to sound the same after a while. A part of my life ended with him, the part that had never had to imagine ordinary Tuesdays without another person’s laugh, my husband’s laugh in them.

The rain was getting heavier now, and it was time to head home. I found myself hurrying, out of habit, some old instinct telling me he would be upset if I caught a flu from standing out here too long.

My best friend was waiting by the car, the way she had been waiting for me, in one form or another, this whole year.

It was time to go back to the world. He always did make sure things would be easy for me, even now, even like this.

See you soon my baby ❤️, I love you forever.

Love,

Tamarapreye T. I Briggs❤️‍🩹.

Tee had taken about a thousand photos of me with the ring (his words: I need documentation of this moment from every possible angle), and we picked the most natural one, me laughing at something he’d said, the ring catching the light, mountains in the background.

The caption was simple:

She said yes. (Well, she said “yes, absolutely yes, a thousand times yes, forever yes” but I’m paraphrasing.) I’m marrying my best friend, and I still can’t believe she chose me. - T

The comments exploded within minutes.

Temi: FINALLY! I’VE BEEN KEEPING THIS SECRET FOR WEEKS AND IT WAS KILLING ME

Tonna: Congrats boss! Also Temi you owe me ₦50,000, you said he’d propose in Lagos

Zara: This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed. So happy for you both!

David: Called it. Congratulations Mr. Tejumade and Ms. Anu!

Marcus: About time! Congratulations Anu. We all saw this coming a mile away.

Ini: The Bennington project really delivered in more ways than one 😂

Gloria: MY BOSS IS GETTING MARRIED! I’m not crying, you’re crying. Congratulations! ❤️

And then, of course, there was Jay:

Jay: I CALLED THIS FROM THE RESTAURANT. THE RESTAURANT! Everyone owes me money. But more importantly, I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU I COULD SCREAM. Actually I am screaming. The neighbours just complained. Worth it. Love you both! 💕

My mother’s comment was peak mum:

Mum: Congratulations darling! The ring is beautiful (though I still think diamonds are more traditional). Your grandmother and I have already started planning. Call me. We need to discuss dates. And venues. And everything. Call me NOW.

Tee’s mother was more reserved but equally determined:

Mrs. Coker: Congratulations to my son and his beautiful fiancée. We should meet for lunch next week to discuss arrangements. I know an excellent wedding planner.

They’re already taking over, I said, reading through the comments.

Did you expect anything different?

No, but I was hoping for at least a week of enjoying being engaged before the planning madness started.

“We have approximately...” he checked his watch, “forty-seven minutes before your mother calls demanding we set a date.”

His phone rang. My mother’s name flashed on the screen.

“I stand corrected. Thirty seconds.”

Planning a wedding between two Nigerian families with Opinions (capital O intentional) was exactly as chaotic as expected.

My mother wanted a huge traditional wedding, full Yoruba ceremony with over five hundred guests, aso-ebi for everyone, live band, the works. “You only get married once, Anu. We should celebrate properly. All our family and friends need to witness this.”

Tee’s mother wanted something “tasteful and appropriate for the families”, which translated to elegant, understated, and at the Ikoyi Club with exactly the right people invited.

My grandmother wanted it at her church and had already spoken to the pastor about reserving the first Saturday in June.

That’s four months away, I protested when she told me.

Exactly! Just enough time to plan properly. What are you waiting for?

Grandma, we want at least a year to—

A year! Anu, I’m not getting any younger. I’d like to see my great-grandchildren before I die.

We’re not even married yet!

“And whose fault is that? June. First Saturday. I’ve already told Pastor Emmanuel.”

Tee found me having a minor breakdown in his office after that particular phone call.

“My grandmother is terrifying,” I said.

“I know. But she means well.”

“She’s already planned our wedding without consulting us.”

“So has my mother. And yours. I think at this point we just have to pick the parts we actually want and gently redirect the rest.”

“How do you redirect a force of nature?”

“Very, very carefully.”

We hired a wedding planner, Tolu, who came highly recommended by Temi and had apparently orchestrated several “family diplomatic incidents” (her words) into beautiful weddings.

Our first meeting with her was... enlightening.

“Okay,” Tolu said, pulling out her tablet. “Tell me your vision. What kind of wedding do you want?”

Tee and I looked at each other.

“Something that feels like us,” I said. “Not too formal, not too casual. Personal.”

“Good. And what does ‘us’ mean? Traditional? Modern? Fusion?”

“Fusion, maybe? We want to honour tradition but also make it our own.”

“Perfect. Guest count for the traditional ceremony?”

“My mother mentioned over five hundred,” I said carefully.

“Close family and extended family,” my mother had said. “Everyone needs to be there.”

Tolu nodded. “That’s common for traditional ceremonies. And the white wedding reception?”

“Three hundred?” Tee suggested.

“My mother has a list,” he explained.

“So does mine.”

“Okay, let’s say three hundred with room for flexibility for the reception,” Tolu said diplomatically. “Venue preferences?”

“Something with good natural light,” I said. “Maybe a garden or somewhere with a view.”

“Not the Ikoyi Club,” Tee added quickly.

“Your mother suggested the Ikoyi Club?”

“Strongly suggested. With a list of dates they have available and a reminder about our family’s membership status.”

Tolu laughed. “I’ve worked with Mrs. Coker before. Don’t worry, I know how to handle this. What about church?”

“My grandmother wants her church in Surulere for the white ceremony.”

“And what do you want?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? What did we actually want, separate from all the expectations and opinions and family politics?

“We want something meaningful,” Tee said, taking my hand. “A ceremony that feels like us—acknowledging where we come from but celebrating where we’re going.”

“And for the white wedding reception, I’ve been thinking...” I pulled out my phone and showed Tolu some photos. “What if we did it somewhere with sentimental value? Somewhere that means something to us?”

Tee squeezed my hand. “Where are you thinking?”

“Kigali. Remember we went on vacation there after your Ghana project? We promised to come back. It was where we really... settled into being together, you know?”

“You want to have our white wedding in Kigali?” Tee looked surprised but delighted.

“Only if you want to. It’s far from family, it might be complicated—”

“I love it. I love that you want to do it there. That’s perfect.”

Tolu was taking notes. “Kigali white wedding, Surulere traditional ceremony. I can work with this. But we’ll need to do logistics planning. Travel for guests, accommodations—”

“We’ll figure it out,” I said, looking at Tee. “Together.”

Dress shopping was an entire production. I’d decided to go with a popular wedding designer, someone whose work I’d admired for years and get custom dresses (the church ceremony, the reception, maybe even some of the traditional wear events).

I brought the bridal designer and Gloria.

“This is going to be the best part of planning,” Gloria said as we headed to the designer’s showroom.

“Better than the cake tasting?”

“Way better. This is about you looking like the most gorgeous bride ever. That’s important.”

The designer, Chioma, was incredible. She understood exactly what I wanted, elegant, simple, with just enough detail to be interesting. We did fittings over the course of four months, and she created:

1. A stunning white wedding dress, fitted bodice, flowing train that made me feel like a princess without being too much

2. A gorgeous iro and buba and gown set for the traditional ceremony in coral, blue and gold with intricate beading

3. A reception dress for after the ceremony, something fun and easier to move in for dancing

“This one makes you look like a queen,” my grandmother said when she saw the video of the iro and buba during a fitting.

“You’re going to make Mr Tee cry,” Gloria added, watching me in the wedding dress.

“That’s the goal,” I said, still smiling at my reflection.

The first joint planning meeting with both mothers was... an experience.

Tolu had suggested neutral ground, a private room at a nice restaurant where everyone could be civil and well-fed.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Coker,” my mother said, extending her hand.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Adeyemi,” Tee’s mother replied with a polite smile.

They sized each other up like generals preparing for battle.

“Shall we sit?” Tolu suggested brightly.

The meeting started well enough. Everyone agreed the wedding should be beautiful. Everyone agreed our happiness was paramount. Everyone agreed the food should be excellent.

Then we got to the details.

“For the traditional ceremony, I think a proper aso-ebi for all the guests is essential,” my mother said. “It’s important that everyone is dressed appropriately and unified. I’m thinking we do multiple colours, different colours for different family groups.”

“That could work,” Mrs. Coker agreed, though her tone suggested she found the whole thing slightly excessive. “Though the white wedding should perhaps be more understated.”

“Understated? Mrs. Coker, this is their wedding! We should celebrate!”

“Of course we should celebrate. But there’s a way to do it with grace and dignity.”

I caught Tee’s eye. This was going to be a long afternoon.

“What if,” Tolu interjected smoothly, “we did the traditional ceremony exactly as Mrs. Adeyemi envisions, full celebration, aso-ebi, all the family and then the white wedding in Kigali is more intimate and elegant? That way, everyone gets what they want.”

Both mothers considered this.

“Kigali?” my mother asked. “You’re having the white wedding in Kigali?”

“It has sentimental value for us,” I explained. “We went there together, and it’s where we really solidified our relationship.”

My mother’s expression softened. “That’s actually quite romantic, my dear.”

“It’s also practical,” Mrs. Coker noted. “It naturally limits the guest list to those most dedicated to attending. Hundred people is more manageable than five hundred for the logistics.”

“Exactly,” Tolu said, relief clear in her voice. “So we have: traditional ceremony in Surulere with five hundred plus guests, full aso-ebi, family celebration. White wedding and reception in Kigali with hundred guests, elegant and intimate.”

“When?” my mother asked.

“First Saturday in December,” I said, after consulting with Tee. “It gives us time to plan properly, and December feels right. Festive, but intimate.”

“December,” my grandmother had agreed when I called her. “I can work with that. Better than June anyway, less chance of rain.”

Crisis averted. For now.

Cake tasting was an adventure. Tee had strong opinions about cake, which both delighted and terrified the bakers..

“This one is too sweet,” he said, trying the fifth sample.

“It’s cake. It’s supposed to be sweet.”

“There’s sweet and then there’s diabetes in a slice. This is the latter.”

The baker looked pained.

“What about this one?” I tried a chocolate sample. “This is good.”

“Chocolate is too predictable.”

“Since when do you care about being predictable?”

“Since our wedding cake became a representation of our taste and sophistication.”

I stared at him. “Who are you and what have you done with my fiancé?”

He laughed. “Okay, I might be taking this too seriously.”

“You think?”

We eventually settled on a three-tier dark chocolate and vanilla cake with fresh flowers (my choice) and a groom’s cake that was red velvet and lemon (his compromise for giving up on the main cake flavour).

We were planning our honeymoon when the first disagreement happened.

“Norway,” I said, showing Tee photos on my laptop. “In winter. Look at these landscapes.”

He looked skeptical. “It’s dark for over twenty hours a day.”

“Exactly! Perfect for staying in bed with my husband.”

That made him pause. “What?” I asked.

“You keep calling me that.”

“Calling you what?”

“Husband. You called me your husband.”

“That’s what you’ll be in six months.”

“Say it again.”

“Husband.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Me too.”

He pulled me into his arms. “Okay. Norway it is. We’ll stay in bed and look at the Northern Lights and be disgustingly romantic.”

“And eat expensive fish.”

“And eat expensive fish,” he agreed.

He leaned over and kissed me, the fight was completely forgotten, replaced by planning our Norwegian honeymoon in detail. Midnight sun season was ruled out (even we understood that wouldn’t work). We settled on December, right after the wedding, so we could go directly from Kigali.

“My family is going to think we’re insane,” Tee said.

“Absolutely insane,” I agreed happily.

“But we’ll be happy insane.”

“The best kind of insane.”

But then we got back to logistics.

Tee’s bachelor party was, according to Kunle, “perfectly Tee—organised, thoughtful, and mildly chaotic.”

They went back to Rwanda, hiking, gorilla trekking, and an evening at a nice restaurant in Kigali and knowing who Tee was, definitely going to inspect the venues and other arrangements.

“How was it?” I asked when he got back.

“Incredible. Also exhausting. Kunle thought climbing to see the gorillas would be ‘easy.’ It was not easy.”

“Did you see them though?”

“We did. And it was worth every painful step.” He showed me photos, mountain gorillas in their natural habitat, the group sweating but smiling, Kigali’s city lights at night.

“You look happy.”

“I was. But I also spent the entire weekend thinking about you.”

“Sap.”

“Your sap. In three months, officially and legally your sap.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Me neither.”

Jay planned my bachelorette party with the energy of someone who’d been waiting her entire life for this moment.

“We’re going to Zanzibar,” she announced.

“We are not going to Zanzibar for a bachelorette party.”

“Yes we are. I already booked the villa.”

“Jay—”

“Girls’ trip. Four days. You, me, Temi, Gloria, and your cousins. Beach, spa, good food, no wedding planning allowed.”

“That’s excessive.”

“You’re marrying a Coker. Excessive is the baseline.”

She had a point.

The trip was exactly what I needed. Four days of sunshine and cocktails and swimming in impossibly blue water. No decisions, no family politics, no stress. Just my favourite people celebrating with me.

My cousins were hilarious—Ayo kept making jokes about my “very organized husband-to-be” and how different he was from my ex. Ola spent most of the time giving me unsolicited advice about marriage (”Let him have his space but not too much space; stay mysterious but also be vulnerable; support his dreams but make sure he supports yours too”).

On the last night, we sat on the beach watching the sunset, and Jay raised her glass.

“To Anu, who taught me that it’s okay to be scared of love but braver to choose it anyway. Who showed me that the right person makes everything worth it. Who’s about to marry the best guy and live happily ever after like she deserves.”

“I’m not crying,” I said, crying.

“Yes you are,” Kemi said, also crying. “We all are. This is beautiful.”

Ayo raised her glass. “To our Anu, who found love in the most unexpected place and is brave enough to build forever with it.”

“To love,” Gloria added.

“To growth,” Ola said. “I watched you become braver, stronger, more whole because of Tee. That’s what real love does.”

“I love you all so much,” I managed.

“We love you too,” Jay said. “Now drink up. We have a wedding to get you to in three months.”

The month before the wedding was pure chaos.

Final dress fittings (all four dresses perfect, no alterations needed). Last-minute vendor confirmations. Family arriving from everywhere (my uncle and his family from London, Tee’s cousins from New York, various relatives I hadn’t seen in years descending on Lagos with opinions about everything).

We did our family introduction ceremony three weeks before the wedding, a smaller, intimate introduction affair with close family on the first day and the bigger ceremony left for the traditional wedding. I wore the iro and buba in coral and gold first, Tee was in agbada, and our families formally “joined” us.

Watching my father’s family present me to Tee’s family, seeing the ritual of families becoming one family, it made everything feel more real. More permanent. More forever.

“You look beautiful,” Tee whispered when we had a moment alone.

“You look pretty good yourself.”

“I can’t believe in three weeks, you’ll be my wife.”

“Wife,” I repeated, testing the word. “I’m going to be your wife.”

“How does that feel?”

“Terrifying. Exciting. Perfect.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, pulling me close. “Perfect.”

The rehearsal dinner was right after the court wedding. Tolu had organised it perfectly, intimate gathering of our closest family and friends at a beautiful restaurant in Victoria Island, everyone telling stories and toasting to our future.

Jay’s speech made me cry (again).

“I knew from the restaurant,” she said, raising her glass. “From the moment Anu told me about the perfume guy, I knew. She had this look on her face, like the world had shifted slightly and everything was different now. Like she’d just realized something important but was too scared to say it out loud.”

Everyone laughed softly.

“And I watched over the next two years as she went from ‘we’re just working together’ to ‘okay maybe I have feelings’ to ‘I’m completely in love with him but terrified.’ And through it all, Teju was patient. Persistent. Present. He never pushed, never demanded, never made her feel like she had to be anything other than herself.”

She looked at me, eyes shining, then raised her glass higher.

“To Anu and Teju. May your love always be as patient, as persistent, and as perfect as it is right now. May you keep choosing each other every single day. And may you always remember that the best love stories are the ones where both people are brave enough to stay.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

Kunle’s speech was next, full of embarrassing stories about teenage Tee and his complete inability to talk to girls.

“He once tried to impress a girl by reciting the periodic table,” Kunle said, grinning. “The entire periodic table. She walked away after Helium.”

“That was one time!” Tee protested, laughing.

“My point is, Teju has never been smooth. But with Anu? He’s been nothing but thoughtful and intentional and completely himself. That’s how I know this is real. He’s not trying to be someone else. He’s just... Teju. The best version of Teju. And Anu brings that out in him.”

He raised his glass.

“To my best friend and his brilliant, beautiful, stubborn fiancée. May you always argue about work and laugh at each other’s jokes and support each other’s dreams. May you always choose each other, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Temi’s speech was predictably chaotic.

“I have a forty-slide presentation documenting your entire relationship from the Bennington project to today,” she said. “But I’ve been told that’s inappropriate for a rehearsal dinner.”

“Very inappropriate,” Tolu confirmed.

“Fine. I’ll just say this: I’ve never seen Mr. Teju happier. And I’ve never met anyone who challenges him the way Anu does. You’re perfect together. And I’m claiming credit for at least twenty percent of this relationship happening because I absolutely encouraged both of you to stop being idiots and just admit you liked each other.”

“Five percent,” Tee called out.

“Fifteen percent and that’s my final offer.”

Everyone laughed.

After all the speeches, after the dinner, after most people had left, Tee and I sat outside under the stars.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“About marrying you? Not even a little bit.”

“About the wedding?”

“Terrified. So many things that could go wrong.”

“They won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I know that even if everything goes wrong, if it rains, if the flowers die, if someone’s aso-ebi doesn’t arrive, if the band gets stuck in traffic, we’ll still end the day married. And that’s all that matters.”

“When did you become so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise. You’re just now noticing.”

I laughed, leaning into him. “I love you.”

“I love you too. My almost-wife.”

“Say it again.”

“Almost-wife. In two days, just wife.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Me neither.”

The morning of the traditional wedding was beautiful chaos.

I woke up at my mother’s house (tradition dictated we spend the night before apart) to Jay bursting into my room with coffee and excitement.

“IT’S YOUR WEDDING DAY!”

“What time is it?”

“Seven AM. We have a lot to do.”

“The ceremony isn’t until one.”

“Exactly. Six hours. Let’s go.”

The house was already buzzing with activity. My mother directing the caterers for the setup, my cousins and other relatives arriving with aso-ebi and opinions, various aunties setting up the getting-ready space.

Hair and makeup started at six. The team Tolu had hired was incredible, efficient, talented, and completely unfazed by the chaos around them.

Jay helped me into the iro and buba for the traditional ceremony first. The coral and gold were stunning, my cousin Ayo did my gele with expertise, creating an intricate design that took thirty minutes but was absolutely worth it.

“You look like a queen,” they said, watching the transformation.

“A very beautiful queen,” Gloria added.

My grandmother appeared with her phone, camera already out. “Smile! You’re a bride!”

By 11:30, I was in full regalia for the traditional ceremony, the iro and buba perfectly fitted, my gele towering elegantly, my makeup immaculate, my jewellery gleaming.

“Your father would’ve loved to see you like this,” my mother said, tears in her eyes.

“I think he’d be proud,” my grandmother added.

The venue in Surulere was packed. Five hundred plus people, family, extended family, family friends, colleagues, everyone my grandmother deemed important. The energy was electric.

Tee arrived in full agbada, white and gold, looking like a prince. When he saw me dance in with my friends, his face transformed. Pure joy, pure love, pure awe.

The traditional ceremony was beautiful, the families unified, the rituals honoured, the celebration in full swing. We danced, we laughed, we let our families shower us with blessings and money and best wishes.

By 4 PM, the ceremony was complete. We’d officially been joined as husband and wife in the traditional sense.

But we still had the white wedding to do.

We flew to Kigali 3 days later, leaving the Lagos chaos behind for something intimate and ours.

Two days later, at 11 AM, the white wedding ceremony began.

The venue was stunning, a garden overlooking the city, flowers everywhere (white roses, orchids, birds of paradise), the space transformed into something magical. Only hundred people, which made it feel personal and intimate.

As I waited to walk down the aisle, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked happy. I looked like a bride. I looked ready.

Through the doors, I could hear the orchestra starting. Our song. Our love song.

“Can’t Help Falling in Love”, the rendition Tee and I had danced to in his kitchen at midnight, laughing and happy and so completely in love it hurt.

I took a breath. Then another.

The doors opened.

For a moment, I just stood there, taking it all in.

The garden looked like a dream. White flowers everywhere (my favourite, roses and orchids), candles flickering, afternoon light creating patterns of gold through the trees. Our closest friends and family filling the chairs, Jay in the front row already crying, Temi next to her recording everything on her phone, Gloria looking proud, both our teams scattered throughout, Tee’s mother in the front looking elegant and emotional, my grandmother beaming despite the travel, my mother already weeping into her handkerchief.

But I barely saw any of them.

Because at the end of the aisle, Tee was waiting.

He looked incredible, tuxedo perfectly tailored, looking nervous and handsome and like everything I’d ever wanted without knowing I wanted it. Kunle stood beside him as best man, grinning. The groomsmen lined up, all looking sharp.

And when our eyes met, Tee’s expression shifted from nervous to awed. His hand went to his chest, right over his heart, and he mouthed “wow.”

Then he started crying.

Just standing there at the end of the aisle, tears streaming down his face, not even trying to hide it.

Kunle handed him a handkerchief. Tee ignored it, too busy staring at me like I’d hung the moon.

My uncle placed my hand in Tee’s, and I felt it, that sense of rightness, of coming home, of everything falling into place.

“Hi,” I whispered.

“Hi,” he whispered back. “You’re so beautiful I can’t breathe.”

“You’re not supposed to say that until the vows.”

“I don’t care. You’re perfect.”

The officiant began speaking about love and commitment and two people choosing each other every day. About building a life together, about patience and partnership and promise.

Then it was time for our vows.

We’d decided to go traditional for the official vows (”I, Anuola, take you, Tejumade...”) and then add our personal promises after.

When the traditional vows were done, Tee pulled out a folded piece of paper. His hands were shaking.

“Anu,” he started, voice thick with emotion. “I wrote this down because if I tried to wing it, I’d just stand here crying and saying ‘I love you’ over and over. Which, for the record, I do. Love you. So much it still sometimes scares me.”

Soft laughter from the congregation.

“Two years ago, I walked into a restaurant and noticed someone sitting alone in a corner, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. And I thought, ‘there’s someone who knows what she wants.’ Then you closed your eyes and said my cologne smelled amazing with this look on your face like you’d just experienced something transcendent. And I thought, ‘okay, she’s more than I assumed. She’s everything.’”

I was already crying.

“You’ve challenged me every day since then. Made me think harder, work better, love deeper. You’ve taught me that being vulnerable isn’t weakness, that asking for help isn’t failure, that letting someone in doesn’t mean losing yourself. You’ve taught me what it means to truly partner with someone, to build something together that’s stronger than what either of us could build alone.”

He paused, wiping his eyes.

“I promise to love you fiercely and gently, passionately and patiently. I promise to challenge you when you need pushing and hold you when you need comfort. I promise to be your safe place when the world is too much, and your adventure partner when you’re ready to explore. I promise to remind you every single day that you’re worthy of love, that you deserve good things, that you don’t have to earn my affection.”

More tears from both of us.

“I promise to support your dreams and celebrate your victories and sit with you through your disappointments. I promise to make you laugh when you’re taking life too seriously, and to take you seriously when you need to be heard. I promise to always let you wear my cologne even though it’s technically mine.”

Everyone laughed through their tears.

“I promise to choose you. Every day, every moment, in every way. When it’s easy and when it’s hard. When we agree and when we don’t. When you’re at your best and when you’re struggling. I choose you, Anuola. Today, tomorrow, forever.”

He folded the paper, tucking it back into his pocket.

“You’re my favourite person, my best decision, my forever home. Thank you for closing your eyes and inhaling deeply that night. Thank you for taking a chance on a stranger with cologne. Thank you for being brave enough to let me in. You’re everything, Anu. You’re everything.”

The officiant was tearing up. Half the congregation was crying. I was absolutely sobbing.

It was my turn.

I pulled out my own paper, hands shaking so badly Jay had to help me unfold it.

“Tejumade,” I started, voice cracking. “I’m going to try to get through this without completely falling apart, but no promises.”

“Too late,” he whispered, smiling through his tears.

“Two years ago, I was in a restaurant celebrating a work win, trying to convince myself I was fine being alone. Then you sat down next to me and completely changed my life without even knowing it. You gave me your cologne, you did a ridiculous curtsy that made me laugh for the first time in months.”

Tee grinned through his tears.

“You’ve been making me laugh ever since. But you’ve also been there for the hard moments, the doubts, the fears, the moments when I wanted to run because I was scared of how much I felt. You never let me run. You stayed, even when I was difficult, even when I pushed you away, even when I told you we were a mistake.”

I took a shaky breath.

“I promise to stay too. Through the easy days and the hard ones, through system crashes and work emergencies and whatever life throws at us. I promise to believe you when you tell me I’m worthy of love, even on the days when I doubt it. I promise to let you take care of me and to take care of you in return. I promise to be your partner in everything, the big decisions and the small moments, the adventures and the quiet evenings at home.”

Tears were streaming down both our faces now.

“I promise to laugh with you, even when your jokes are bad. I promise to support your dreams while you support mine. I promise to be vulnerable with you, even when it’s scary. I promise to grow with you, change with you, build a life with you.”

I looked up at him, barely able to see through my tears.

“Thank you for being patient while I figured out how to let you in. Thank you for the late-night calls and the endless gifts. Thank you for seeing me, really seeing me and loving what you saw. Thank you for being my person.”

“Always,” he whispered.

I folded my paper, tucking it into Jay’s hands because I couldn’t hold onto anything anymore.

“You asked me once if I thought we were a mistake. I said yes, and I’ve regretted those words every day since. Because Tejumade Coker, you are not a mistake. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re my favourite person, my safe place, my adventure, my home. You’re my forever.”

“So are you,” he said, voice breaking. “Forever.”

The officiant was full-on crying now. So was basically everyone in the garden. Even Tee’s mother was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Do you, Anuola Adeyemi, take Tejumade Coker to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”

“I do,” I said clearly, voice ringing through the garden. No hesitation. No doubt.

“And do you, Tejumade Coker, take Anuola Adeyemi to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”

“I do,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Absolutely, completely, forever I do.”

“Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Tejumade, you may kiss your bride.”

He did.

Right there in front of our families and friends and God and everyone, he kissed me like we were the only two people in the universe. Like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. Like I was the answer to every question he’d ever asked.

The garden erupted in applause and cheers. The orchestra started playing something joyful and triumphant. Somewhere, Temi was definitely recording everything. I could hear Jay whooping. Our mothers were both openly weeping. Gloria was taking photos. Marcus and Ini were clapping. Kunle was grinning like a fool. My cousins and other friends were screaming congratulations.

But all I could focus on was Tee, my husband, my partner, my forever person, smiling at me like I’d hung the moon and stars and everything in between.

“Hi, wife,” he whispered against my lips.

“Hi, husband.”

“Ready?”

“For what?”

“Everything. The rest of our lives. All of it.”

I squeezed his hand. “With you? Absolutely.”

And we walked back down the aisle together, not toward our future, but into it. Past the cheering guests, through the rose petals that were definitely not part of the plan but Jay and Temi were throwing at us anyway, into the sunlight streaming through the garden.

Into our forever.

The reception was everything we’d hoped for and more.

The garden venue was transformed, fairy lights strung between trees, flowers everywhere, tables set with our colours (blush and gold, elegant and romantic), a dance floor that was already calling to us.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time ever, Mr. and Mrs. Coker!”

Mrs. Coker. I was Mrs. Coker now.

Our first dance was to one of our song, a live performance of “You & I” by the band we’d hired. Tee pulled me close, and we swayed together, ignoring everyone watching, just existing in our bubble.

“I can’t believe we’re married,” I whispered.

“I can’t believe you’re my wife.”

“Say it again.”

“My wife. Mrs. Coker. Anu Coker.”

We danced, and the world faded away. Just us, the music, and the beginning of forever.

Dinner was incredible. The caterers had outdone themselves, jollof rice that had people fighting over seconds, Amala and Ewedu, and about twelve other dishes that disappeared faster than we could keep track of.

Speeches started after dinner.

Kunle went first, telling more embarrassing stories about Tee and making everyone laugh.

Jay went next, making everyone cry (again).

“To Anu and Teju. May your love always be as strong as it is right now. May you always choose each other. May you build a beautiful life full of laughter and adventure and quiet mornings and interesting conversations and all the beautiful moments in between. May you be happy. Always.”

“Cheers!” everyone chorused.

Then Tee’s mother stood up. Everyone went quiet, this was unexpected.

“I’ll be brief,” she said, and I could see where Tee got his no-nonsense approach. “When Tejumade first told me about Anuola, I had... concerns. Not about her, about whether he was ready for the commitment marriage requires. Whether he understood what he was choosing.”

Oh no. Where was this going?

“But watching them together today, seeing the way my son looks at his wife, hearing the promises they made to each other, I have no more concerns. Anu, you’ve made my son happier than I’ve ever seen him. You challenge him, support him, love him. And Tejumade, you’ve chosen well. Very well.”

She raised her glass.

“Welcome to the family officially, Anuola. Take care of my son. And Tejumade, take care of your wife. She’s precious.”

“I will, Mum. I promise.”

I was crying again. Tee handed me his handkerchief.

“You’re going to dehydrate,” he whispered.

“Shut up,” I said, laughing through my tears.

The cake cutting was adorable chaos. Tee insisted on feeding me cake gently (”I’m not smashing cake in my wife’s face on our wedding day”), which earned him appreciative murmurs from the women in the room.

Then it was my turn. I looked at him, considered my options, and very carefully, very gently... smashed a tiny bit of frosting on his nose.

“Anu!”

“What? That wasn’t smashing. That was... decorating.”

He laughed, pulling me in for a kiss.

Then came the bouquet toss.

“Single ladies!” the DJ called. “Gather round!”

Jay, Temi, Gloria, and several other friends gathered, laughing and positioning themselves.

I tossed the bouquet, and Temi jumped, actually launched herself into the air and caught it, holding it triumphantly above her head.

“I TOLD YOU!” she screamed. “I TOLD YOU I WOULD GET IT!”

Everyone cheered and clapped for her. Tonna was laughing so hard he could barely stand. Even Tee’s team was whooping for their colleague.

Our team should us gifts they had gotten us back in Nigeria before the reception ended. Gloria had collected money from everyone at the office and presented us with an envelope. “For your honeymoon,” she said. “We all wanted to contribute to your happiness.”

Marcus and Ini gave us a beautiful photo frame engraved with our names and wedding date.

Temi, Tonna, Zara, and David showed us their gift: a gift basket full of gourmet items and a handwritten note from the whole team: “To the couple who proved that sometimes the best things grow from the soil of professional relationships. We wish you every happiness together.”

Tee was visibly moved. “You guys—”

“We’re invested,” Temi said simply. “You’re our favourite love story.”

As the night was winding down, Tee found me at our table and extended his hand.

“One more dance, Mrs. Coker?”

“Always, Mr. Coker.”

We swayed together under the fairy lights, exhausted and happy and married.

“Best day of my life,” he whispered.

“Mine too.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saying yes. For choosing me. For being brave enough to let this happen.”

“Thank you for being patient. For not giving up. For loving me even when I was being an idiot.”

“Especially when you were being an idiot.”

“Especially then.”

We stood there, swaying to the music, surrounded by the people we loved, celebrating the beginning of our forever.

And I thought about the journey, from strangers in a restaurant to this. From “you smell amazing” to “I do.” From cologne and curtsies to vows and forever.

Two years. Two years of learning and growing and choosing each other. Two years of late-night calls and system crashes and fights and makeups and distance and closeness and doubt and certainty.

Two years to build something real.

And now we had a lifetime to keep building.

“I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you too. Forever.”

“Forever,” I agreed.

And we danced into our future, together.

“You’re being unreasonable,” I said during a particularly heated discussion about dinner plans.

“I’m being unreasonable? You want to cook fish when we both know—”

“That I’m not the greatest in the kitchen, yes, I know. That’s why I suggested we order from that place you like.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Why didn’t you say that?”

“I was testing to see if you’d be supportive of my choices.”

“Anu—”

“I’m kidding. Sort of.”

He laughed, pulling me close. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“But you love me anyway.”

“Always anyway.”

We’d developed rhythms as a married couple, Sunday morning breakfasts had expanded to include planning the week ahead, date nights now sometimes meant just falling asleep on the couch together watching terrible TV, and we’d learned to navigate each other’s moods and needs with the ease of practice.

Life as the Cokers was... good. Really good.

We’d fully merged our lives now. The apartment in Ikoyi was truly ours, decorated with things we’d chosen together, filled with memories we’d made. Wedding photos on the walls, the original perfume bottle on our dresser (empty now but too precious to throw away), books from both our collections mixed on the shelves.

“I got an email today,” Tee said one evening. “The Bennington team wants to do a case study on the project. They’re calling it ‘one of the most successful integrations in company history.’”

“That’s amazing!”

“They want to interview us. Together. And they want to include a section on ‘managing professional relationships during complex projects.’”

I laughed. “Are we going to tell them the truth? That half the project meetings involved us trying not to flirt while discussing system architecture?”

“Absolutely not. We’ll be completely professional. Talk about phased integration and middleware solutions and nothing about how I fell in love with you while you were arguing about data clustering.”

“You’re such a liar. You’re going to tell them everything.”

“Maybe.” He pulled me off the counter, wrapping his arms around me. “But only the good parts. The part where I gave you my cologne and you said it smelled incredible. The part where we fought and made up and figured out how to build something real. The part where I proposed in a Swiss meadow and you said yes a thousand times.”

“I did say yes a lot of times.”

“You were very enthusiastic. It was adorable.”

I kissed him, long and sweet, tasting like wine and home and forever.

“I have something to tell you,” I said against his lips.

“Good something or bad something?”

“Good something. Really good something.”

He pulled back to look at me, searching my face. “What is it?”

I took his hand and placed it on my stomach.

For a moment, he just stared at me. Then at his hand on my stomach. Then back at me.

“We’re... you’re... we’re having a baby?”

“We’re having a baby.”

“Anu.” His voice broke. “We’re having a baby.”

“We are.”

He kissed me then—soft and reverent and full of wonder. “How long have you known?”

“Found out this morning. Wanted to tell you in person, not over the phone while you were at work.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Are you happy?”

“Happy? Anu, I’m—” He stopped, overcome. “I’m everything. I’m thrilled and terrified and so incredibly happy I don’t have words for it.”

“Good. Me too.”

We stood there in our kitchen, his hand on my still-flat stomach, both of us crying happy tears.

“We’re going to have a baby,” he whispered.

“We are.”

“Our baby.”

“Our baby.”

He dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead against my stomach. “Hi, baby. I’m your dad. I can’t wait to meet you.”

I ran my fingers through his hair, my heart so full it hurt.

“Our grandmothers are going to lose their minds,” I said.

“They’re going to be impossible.”

“Absolutely unbearable.”

“I can’t wait to tell them.”

Later that night, lying in bed with Tee’s hand still on my stomach, I thought about everything. The journey from strangers to friends to lovers to spouses to parents-to-be. From a random encounter to building a life together.

Two and a half years ago, I’d walked into a restaurant not looking for love. And I’d found it anyway, in the most unexpected way, with the most unexpected person.

I’d found my forever in a stranger’s kindness. In a bottle of cologne. In a ridiculous curtsy that made me laugh when I’d forgotten how.

And every day since, Tee had been proving that sometimes the best things happen when you’re not looking. When you’re just being yourself, living your life, open to the possibility that magic can happen on an ordinary Tuesday evening.

“What are you thinking about?” Tee asked, his voice sleepy.

“How we got here. From the restaurant to this—married, expecting, building a life.”

“Best restaurant I ever walked into.”

“Best cologne I ever complimented.”

“Best curtsy I ever performed.”

I laughed. “It really was ridiculous.”

“It worked though.”

“It did.”

He tightened his arms around me. “I’m so glad you said it out loud.”

“Said what?”

“That my cologne smelled good. I’m glad you didn’t keep it in your head. I’m glad you took that chance, said that random thing, let yourself be spontaneous.”

“Me too. Best spontaneous decision I ever made.”

“Changed both our lives.”

“Yeah. It really did.”

We fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other, his hand on my stomach where our baby was growing.

The one that started with a random encounter and became forever.

The one that proved that sometimes, when you least expect it, the universe gives you exactly what you need.

And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, what you need comes with a generous smile, excellent taste in cologne, and a willingness to do ridiculous curtsies in restaurants.

Sometimes, love finds you when you’re not looking.

And when it does, it changes everything.

THE END

Here’s to finding love when you’re not looking.
Here’s to choosing each other every day.
Here’s to spring rolls and cologne and forever.
Here’s to new beginnings.
Here’s to grace, apologies, and moving forward.

With all my love,
Anu Coker ✨

P.S. - Our baby is on the way. A whole new chapter begins.

P.P.S. - Temi is already planning the baby shower and has sent approximately seventeen different design options. We’re not even six months pregnant yet.

THE ACTUAL END

(Or is it just the beginning? 💕👶)

It was loud tonight, not in a bad way, just the comfortable kind of loud that comes from full tables and good food and people who are genuinely happy to be wherever they are. My friends Beebah and Araoluwa are mid-conversation about something that happened at Beebah’s office, and I’m laughing at the right moments, eating my food (the thing I actually ordered, not the thing I thought I should order), and thinking that tonight is a good night.

Then Beebah’s eyes shift over my shoulder. Her face does something complicated.

Oh, she says.

That’s all. Just “oh.” But I’ve known Beebah for over twelve years, so I know that “oh” means something. I turn, slowly, the way you do when some instinct is already warning you that whatever you’re about to see is going to cost you something.

He’s standing by the entrance.

Tall, well-dressed, scanning the room with that easy confidence that I once found so infuriating and so magnetic at the same time. And next to him is a woman—pretty, light-skinned, slim, wearing the kind of effortless outfit that suggests she didn’t try very hard and that’s exactly the point.

He spots our table and his face arranges itself into a smile. He says something to the woman beside him, and they start walking over.

“Beebah! Ara!” He opens his arms, warm and easy. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

Beebah and Ara stand and hug him. Introductions are made. His girlfriend smiles, she seems lovely, genuinely. I don’t hold it against her.

I look at my phone.

Zai. His voice drops slightly when he says my name. I don’t look up. Hey.

I look up then, the way you’d look at a stranger who accidentally walked into you on the street. Polite blankness. Nothing more.

Sorry, do we know each other? I ask.

The smile falters. It’s me. Amir.

I study his face for a moment with the same careful expression I’d use to examine a restaurant menu in a language I don’t speak. Then I shake my head. I don’t think so. Nice to meet you though.

He stands there for a beat too long. His girlfriend tilts her head, confused. Beebah and Ara have gone completely still.

I’ll let you guys catch up, I say, returning to my phone.

He clears his throat. Says something to them about finding a table. They watch him walk away, then they turn to me with identical expressions of what just happened.

Zai—

How’s the chicken? I ask Ara. I’m thinking of ordering it next time.

Zai, that was Amir. You know him.

Mm. I don’t think so.

He’s literally— Beebah starts.

I’ve never met that man before in my life. I take a sip of my drink, calm, settled. Now what were you saying about your office? Something about the new manager?

They look at each other. They look at me. They understand—they are perceptive women who love me. They let it go.

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A Year Ago

Amir had been in my life in the peripheral way that childhood friends of mutual friends often are, present enough to be familiar, absent enough not to matter. We’d cross paths at gatherings, exchange pleasantries, exist in the same spaces without occupying them together.

Then, sometime last October, he started occupying more of my space.

A comment on my Instagram photo that wasn’t just a fire emoji, something specific, something that showed he’d actually looked. A DM a few days later, something about a book he’d noticed on my shelf in the background of that photo. We talked about the book. Then we talked about other books. Then we talked about other things: work, family, the particular exhaustion of being a Nigerian child who grew up with Nigerian parents and their very Nigerian expectations.

He was funny. That’s what I remember most from the beginning. Not handsome (though he was), not charming (though he was that too), but genuinely funny in the way that made me forget myself. Made me laugh too loudly in my bedroom at 11 PM, covering my mouth like someone might hear.

I told myself it was nothing. People talk. People DM. It doesn’t always mean something.

But then the calls started.

Long, winding, going-nowhere-in-particular calls that somehow lasted three hours. He called on random Tuesdays just to tell me something funny that happened at work. He remembered things, the name of my childhood dog, the thing I’d said about my difficult relationship with my mother, the name of the road where I grew up.

He listened. That’s the thing about Amir that I keep coming back to, even now, even after everything. He actually listened.

Here is the thing about growing up fat that nobody tells you, or maybe they tell you all the time in ways that don’t use words:

You learn to disappear.

Not physically, God knows that’s not an option when you take up as much space as I do. But in every other way? I became an expert.

At work, I have always chosen the projects that happen behind the scenes. The ones where the credit goes to someone else and I stay comfortably invisible. I have sat in meetings and watched my ideas come out of other people’s mouths, ideas I’d whispered during a coffee break, ideas I’d written in shared documents, ideas that became “great points” when someone else raised them out loud. And I never corrected it. Not once. Because correcting it would require me to say “actually, that was mine,” and saying that would require people to look at me, to acknowledge me, to see me.

And I couldn’t bear to be seen.

Even with Beebah and Araoluwa, my oldest friends, the people who know me best, I made myself smaller. I didn’t laugh too loudly. Didn’t speak too long. Ordered the salad when I wanted the pasta, the water when I wanted the wine, the sensible thing when I wanted the indulgent one. Not because I was on a diet. But because somewhere along the way I had absorbed the message that I was already too much. Too big, too loud, too much space, too much presence. The least I could do was try to offset it.

I skipped gatherings that required photographs. Avoided events where there would be dancing, where bodies were watched and commented on. I turned down invitations to things I genuinely wanted to do because the thought of being the largest person in the room, the thought of being seen as the largest person in the room made my chest tight with a particular kind of dread.

I told myself I was introverted. I am introverted, actually, that part was true. But introversion is about where you get your energy. What I was doing was something different. I was systematically reducing myself to a size that I thought the world could tolerate.

And then Amir called on a Wednesday evening and said, I want to take you to dinner.

Not “we should hang out sometime.” Not “let me know when you’re free.” He said: I want to take you to dinner. This Saturday. There’s a place in Apo that I’ve been wanting to try and I want to try it with you specifically.

I remember sitting with that sentence for a moment. Trying to find the trick in it. Looking for the part where it was a joke, or a misunderstanding, or something that could be explained away.

Me? I said.

And he laughed, not unkindly. Yes, Zai. You. Specifically you.

Why?

Because I like talking to you. Because you make me laugh. Because I’ve been trying to find a reason to spend more time with you for three months and this feels like the right one.

My heart did something embarrassing. I tried to talk myself out of it the way I always did, he’s just being friendly, he feels sorry for you, this is what it looks like when someone is being polite, but he wasn’t being polite. He was being clear.

Okay, I said, before the fear could win. Yes. Saturday.

The first dinner was in a restaurant that wasn’t too crowded and wasn’t too quiet. He’d chosen it deliberately, I realised later, the right amount of ambient noise, the right amount of space, not so fancy that I’d feel self-conscious but nice enough to feel like an occasion.

He pulled out my chair. He asked what I wanted to eat and then didn’t comment when I ordered the thing I actually wanted. He looked at me when I was speaking, not around me, not over my shoulder, not at his phone. At me.

I kept waiting for it to feel wrong, for the other shoe to drop, for the moment where the reality of me sitting across from him in a restaurant would become uncomfortable for one or both of us.

It never came.

We talked until the restaurant started turning off lights as a polite hint. He walked me to my car. He stood there in the parking lot, leaning against his car, in no hurry to leave.

Same time next week? he asked.

You haven’t even gone home yet.

I know. Same time next week?

I smiled. I couldn’t help it. Same time next week.

There were four more dinners. Four long, beautiful, unguarded evenings that I was not remotely prepared for.

He texted good morning on days we hadn’t spoken. He sent me voice notes when something made him think of me, something a colleague said, a scene in a film, a road he drove past that reminded him of something I’d mentioned. He showed up at my doorstep one afternoon with a book I’d mentioned wanting to read and said he’d been passing the bookshop and thought of me.

You didn’t have to do that, I said, standing in my doorway holding the book.

I know, he said simply. I wanted to.

I asked him once, awkwardly, stumbling over the words; What are we doing, exactly? Because I want to make sure we’re on the same page.

He didn’t hesitate.

I’m trying to convince you to be my girlfriend, he said. I thought I was being relatively obvious about it, but I can be more explicit if that helps.

You want—me to be your girlfriend.

Yes.

Me.

Zai. His voice was gentle, a little exasperated. Yes. You. Specifically you. Why do you keep saying it like that?

Because. I gestured vaguely at myself—at all of myself.

Because what?

You know because what.

He was quiet for a moment. Then: I need you to say it, because I want to know exactly which part of yourself you think disqualifies you.

I couldn’t say it. So I shook my head, and he didn’t push, but he reached out and held my hand and said, I see you, Zai. Exactly as you are. That’s the point.

I believed him.

God help me, I believed every single word.

The sixth dinner was supposed to be the night.

He’d told me he wanted to take me somewhere special. He’d been distracted all week, nervous in a way that was sweet, texting me to confirm I was still coming, asking what I was wearing, not in a weird way, in a nervous way, the way someone asks when they’ve been planning something and they want the pieces to fit.

I spent three hours getting ready. I tried on six outfits and rejected all of them and then circled back to the second one. I did my makeup twice. I told Beebah I was going out and when she asked with who I said “just a friend” and hated myself for it because it wasn’t true anymore, he wasn’t just a friend, but saying his name out loud felt like tempting fate somehow.

He picked a restaurant on the outskirts of the city. Quiet, tucked away, not the kind of place you stumble into. I noticed that in a distant way, noticed the remoteness, noticed the low likelihood of running into anyone we knew, but I tucked the noticing away and didn’t examine it too closely. I was good at not examining things too closely when the examination might cost me something I wanted.

We were two hours in. The food was incredible, the conversation was warm and easy, and there was something building between us, I could feel it, that specific kind of anticipation that gathers right before something shifts.

Then he stood up to use the restroom and was on his way back to the table when we heard a voice from across the restaurant.

Amir! Bro!

Three men. Young, loud, the easy confidence of people who move through the world without giving it much thought. They spotted him immediately. His back straightened.

One second, he mouthed to me, and in that second, in that fraction of a second between “one second” and whatever came next, something shifted in his face. Something rearranged itself. Something that had been open quietly closed.

He turned around and walked toward them, and I watched it happen with a distant confusion that I didn’t yet have a name for.

And then one of them looked past him, at me, at our table set for two with the remains of two dinners and two glasses of wine.

You came with someone?

And Amir said, without a pause, without a hesitation, without even a flicker of consideration, No. I came alone, just got here.

I think I stopped breathing.

The room didn’t go quiet, it stayed exactly as it was, full of noise and light and other people’s lives, but something inside me went completely silent. Like a switch.

I watched him talk to his friends. Watched the easy laughter, the back-slapping, the natural comfort of a man among his people. Watched him never once look back at the table where I was sitting. The table where two glasses of wine and two empty plates told a very clear story that he was pretending not to have written.

One of his friends glanced over at me. I was just a woman sitting alone in a restaurant. Nothing to see here.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for my hands to go cold. Long enough for the waiter to come by and ask if I needed anything and for me to say I’m fine, thank you in a voice so steady it surprised even me.

He came back eventually. Slid back into his seat like he was returning from the bathroom, not from erasing my existence.

Sorry about that, he said.

I looked at him. Just looked at him.

Zai—

Did you know they would be here?

What? No—

You chose this restaurant specifically. You said it was quiet. You said—

I didn’t know they’d be here, I just— He stopped. Ran his hand over his face. Can we just... can we finish dinner?

You told them you came alone.

The silence that followed was different from all the comfortable silences we’d built over months of conversation. This one had weight to it. This one pressed.

I can explain.

You told them you came alone. I said it again because I needed to hear it twice, because the first time my brain had tried to find another interpretation. There wasn’t one.

He opened his mouth. Something came out, I don’t remember what. I remember the lump that rose in my throat, sudden and enormous, a physical thing. I remember pressing my lips together very hard. I remember the specific effort of not crying in a restaurant, of keeping my face arranged in something neutral, because I had spent my whole life perfecting the art of not taking up too much space and that included emotional space, that included the space of a woman breaking quietly in a restaurant where the man across from her couldn’t even claim her in front of his friends.

I picked up my bag.

Zai—

Thank you for dinner, I said, and my voice was very even and I was so proud of that voice, in that moment, in that particular way you’re proud of yourself for things no one should have to be proud of. I’ll send my part to you.

I walked out.

I couldn’t tell you if I sat in the parking lot for five minutes or forty-five. I know I sat there. I know I stared at my trembling hands on the steering wheel. I know the tears came quietly, the way tears do when you’re not performing sadness for anyone, when you’re just... sad.

I drove home.

And in the car, in the dark, in the minutes between the restaurant and my apartment, the signs arranged themselves in front of me with a clarity that felt almost cruel.

He had never introduced me to his friends. In over six months of talking, of calls and dinners and showing up at my door with books, he had never once said “my friend Zai” to anyone in a way that suggested they knew about me.

He had never spoken up when I got teased. There was an evening, 2 months ago, at a gathering where one of the men at the table made a joke, a not particularly creative joke, the kind that fat people have been hearing since before we could understand what it meant, and I had laughed along (I was good at laughing along) and Amir had said nothing. I had noticed it. I had filed it away and chosen not to look at it.

He had never, in the presence of mutual friends, spoken to me in a way that suggested we were more than acquaintances. Not warmly, not specifically. Just politely. Conveniently.

He had chosen a restaurant on the outskirts of the city on a Wednesday evening.

The writing was on the wall. It had always been on the wall. I was just short-sighted, or perhaps not. Perhaps I had seen it perfectly clearly and chosen not to read it, the way you choose not to read a letter you already know contains bad news.

Then came the calls.

He called twenty-three times that night. I watched my phone light up from across the room and didn’t move toward it.

He texted: Please just let me explain.

He texted: You’re misunderstanding what happened.

He texted: I was protecting you. You know you’re a private person Zai. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

I sat with that last message for a long time.

You’re a private person.

He was almost right. He was so close to right that it would’ve been easy to accept it, to let it become the story, the story where I was simply private and he was simply protecting me and we were simply two people whose different communication styles had created a misunderstanding.

But private and hidden are not the same thing.

I am private. I don’t broadcast my emotions to strangers. I don’t document my life for public consumption. I choose carefully who I let close and I let very few people close and this is a deliberate choice that I make from a place of self-possession.

Hidden is different. Hidden means someone else is making the choice. Hidden means someone is calculating the cost of being associated with you and deciding it’s too high. Hidden means you are an inconvenience to someone else’s image. A thing to be managed. A thing to be acknowledged in private and denied in public.

I know hidden. I had been hiding myself for years. I recognised it when I saw it done to me, and the recognition was worse than the hurt. Because it meant he hadn’t invented something new. He had simply done to me what I had spent my whole life doing to myself.

He had decided I was too much. Too visible. Too present. Too noticeable. And so he had made me smaller, the way I had been making myself smaller for as long as I could remember.

I want to tell you something about the way I have always imagined my own happiness.

When I close my eyes and picture the version of my life that is full, fully loved, fully successful, fully joyful, the woman in that vision is not me. Not this me. She is thinner, somehow. She takes up less space. She moves through rooms without calculating the distance between chairs. She sits in photographs without angling her body or choosing the corner or choosing not to come at all. She orders what she wants. She laughs as loudly as she feels. She does not pre-apologise for her presence.

And for a long time I thought this was just... ambition. A future self to work toward. A goal.

But sitting in my car outside my apartment at midnight, I understood something I had never quite put into words before:

I had been deferring my own worthiness.

I had been telling myself, quietly, consistently, without ever directly saying it, that love and success and visibility were things that belonged to a future version of me. A smaller version. A more acceptable version. And because I believed this, I had accepted it when others believed it too. I had half-expected Amir to see me the way I saw myself, something lovely but conditional. Something to appreciate in private and not quite claim in public.

And he had.

And the most devastating part was that somewhere in my heart, beneath all the hurt, was a whisper that said: what did you expect?

I told that whisper to be quiet.

Then I cried until I fell asleep. And for days later the tears couldn’t stop flowing

He called everyday for the next week, showed up at my house and office several times but I couldn’t bring myself to see him. Two weeks later on a Wednesday morning, he called three times. I answered on the fourth.

Zai, please. Just listen.

I’m listening.

What happened last night—it’s not what you think. I panicked. Those guys, they’re—it’s complicated. Our dynamic, the way they talk about women, I was protecting you from that.

By pretending I didn’t exist. My tone was firm and low

By keeping your private life private. You’ve always said you value your privacy—

I value my privacy. I don’t value being made invisible by someone who claims to care about me.

That’s not—Zai, I care about you. I have feelings for you. You know that.

I know you have feelings for me. I believe that. My voice was steady. I also believe that those feelings are real but that they are not enough.

What does that mean?

It means that loving someone is not sufficient reason to be with them if you are ashamed of them. I don’t think you are a bad person, Amir. I genuinely don’t. But you were ashamed of me that night. You can explain it in a hundred different ways—protecting me, privacy, complicated friendships, and all of those things might be partially true. But the truth underneath all of them is that when the moment came, you decided your comfort was more important than my dignity. And that’s a choice. I understand it. But I’m not going to accept it.

Silence.

Zai—

I don’t want you to apologise, I said. I think we just want different things.

I want you—

You want a version of me that doesn’t require you to be courageous, I said quietly. You want the parts of me that are convenient. And I understand that. I have wanted the same thing from myself for a very long time.

I let that sit for a moment.

But I’m done making myself smaller, Amir. I’m done choosing tasks that keep me behind the scenes. I’m done ordering the safe thing. I’m done not laughing too loudly. I’m done pretending I’m okay with being hidden—by you, or by anyone, or by myself.

Zai, please—

“Thank you,” I said. For real. For the months that were good. For making me believe, even for a little while, that I was worth pursuing. I mean that.

Then why are you ending this?

Because believing I’m worth pursuing means I have to act like it too. I took a breath. Take care of yourself, Amir.

I hung up.

So that’s the story. That’s why, when he walked into a restaurant six months later and said “Zai, hey,” I looked at him with the blankest expression I had and said I didn’t think we’d met.

Not because I’m vindictive. Not because I wanted to make him squirm (though I’ll admit there was a small, human, completely understandable part of me that appreciated the discomfort on his face).

But because the woman who sat at that dinner table a year ago and trembled while a man denied her existence is not who I am anymore. She doesn’t live here. She took up her space, her full, real, completely valid space and moved on.

And I don’t know her anymore.

Later that night, after the restaurant, Beebah and Ara cornered me in the parking lot.

Tell us the truth, Beebah said.

I looked at my two best friends. Ara had her arms crossed. Beebah had her phone in her hand like she’d been about to call someone and changed her mind.

How long have you known he was your childhood friend? I asked.

They exchanged a look.

We didn’t know how to tell you, Ara said. When you first hinted about him, we weren’t sure it was the same person—

And then by the time we were sure, things seemed to be going so well, and we didn’t want to—

It’s okay, I said. I’m not upset.

Zai—

I mean it. I leaned against my car. The night air was cold and the city was loud around us and somewhere inside the restaurant, Amir was having dinner with his girlfriend and his easy smile and his careful choices. I genuinely mean it. I’m okay.

What happened between you two? Ara asked softly.

I thought about the restaurant a year ago. The lump in my throat. The drive home. The endless missed calls. The voice notes I’d listened to seventeen times trying to find something in it that would make accepting his explanation possible.

He was ashamed of me, I said simply. And I wasn’t ready to be ashamed of myself.

They were quiet for a moment. Then Beebah stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me, and Ara joined from the other side, and we stood there in the parking lot—three women hugging in the dark and I laughed, surprised by the lightness of it.

I love you both, I said.

We love you more, Ara said.

We’ve always seen you, Beebah added quietly. You know that, right? We’ve always seen you.

And that, I think, is what I had always needed to believe.

Not that the right man would see me. Not that the right job or the right outfit or the right diet would make me visible.

But that I was already visible. Already worthy. Already full. Already enough.

That I had always been taking up exactly the right amount of space.

And that anyone who made me feel otherwise, including myself, was simply wrong.

So here I am.

Still fat, still in my twenties, still occasionally ordering the salad before I catch myself and ordering what I actually want. Still working on letting myself laugh too loudly, speak too long, sit in the front of photographs instead of behind other people’s shoulders.

Still a work in progress.

But mine. Fully, completely, unapologetically mine.

With love and a full plate,
Zai 🖤

(If you’re anything like me and reading this. I hope you’re well. I really do.)

“What happened?”

I told her everything, the fight, the things we’d both said, the look on Tee’s face when I suggested we’d made a mistake.

“Do you actually think it was a mistake?” she asked.

“No. But I’m scared, Jay. Scared that I’m going to mess this up. The project, the relationship, everything.”

“So you tried to end it before it could end badly on its own?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“Because it is stupid.” She handed me a tissue. “Anu, you’re the smartest person I know. But sometimes you’re also the dumbest.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“I’m serious. You have this incredible man who loves you, yes, loves you, don’t even try to deny it and you’re pushing him away because you’re scared. That’s not brave. That’s not protecting yourself. That’s just... sad.”

She was right. I knew she was right.

“What do I do?”

“You fix it. You apologise. And you figure out how to let someone be there for you without treating it like a weakness.”

“What if he won’t listen? What if I really messed this up beyond repair?”

“Then you fight for it. You don’t just give up because it’s hard. That’s not the Anu I know.”

I gave him three days. Three days to cool off, three days for me to figure out what I wanted to say, three days of absolute misery.

The project continued, but now every interaction was painfully formal. Tee was professional, courteous, and completely closed off. No personal comments, no lingering looks, no warmth in his voice when he said my name.

It was exactly what I’d asked for, and it was killing me.

Temi cornered me after a project review on day two.

“What did you do?”

“What makes you think I did something?”

“Because Tee looks like someone kicked his puppy, and you look like you haven’t slept in a week. So, what happened?”

I gave her the abbreviated version. By the end, she was shaking her head.

“You’re an idiot.”

“That seems to be the consensus.”

“He’s in love with you, Anu. Like, genuinely, deeply in love with you. And you told him you were a mistake.”

“I didn’t say he was a mistake. I said us dating while working together was—”

“Do you hear yourself? You’re splitting hairs to avoid admitting you got scared and ran.”

“I know!” The words burst out louder than I intended. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt him. I just... I don’t know how to fix it.”

Temi’s expression softened. “You start by being honest. Tell him you were scared. Tell him you’re sorry. Tell him what you really want.”

“What if he doesn’t want to hear it?”

“Then at least you tried. But Anu? That man has been gone for you since before you even started dating. I don’t think three days is going to change that. He’s hurt, not heartless.”

On the morning of day four, I showed up at his office at 6 AM with coffee and courage.

David looked surprised to see me. “Ms. Anu? You’re here early.”

“Is he in?”

“Yes, but—”

I didn’t wait. Just walked straight to Tee’s office and knocked.

“Come in.”

He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes and his desk was covered in project files. He looked up, saw me, and his expression shuttered.

“Ms. Anu. Do we have a meeting I forgot about?”

The formal address hurt more than I expected. “No. I just needed to talk to you.”

“If it’s about the project—”

“It’s not. Can I sit?”

He gestured to the chair across from his desk. I sat, clutching the coffee cups like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “For what I said. For pushing you away. For being so focused on proving something that I forgot what actually mattered.”

“Anu—”

“Please let me finish. I’ve been practicing this for three days and if I don’t say it now, I’m going to lose my nerve.”

He nodded.

“I was scared. I am scared. This whole thing, us, the project, trying to balance everything, it terrifies me. And when I get scared, I push people away. It’s what I did after my ex, it’s what I’ve been doing my whole life, and I did it to you when you didn’t deserve it.”

I took a breath.

Tee was quiet, his expression unreadable.

“You were right. I’ve been trying to prove that I deserve to be here, that I’m good enough, that I earned my place. And somewhere along the way, I forgot that you’re not someone I need to prove anything to. You already see me. The real me, with all my flaws and fears and stubborn need to do everything myself. And you’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” he confirmed quietly.

“I don’t want easy,” I continued. “I want this. I want us. Even when it’s hard, even when I’m difficult, even when we fight about budget allocations and user training.”

Baby—

"I'm not done." Tears were streaming down my face now. "I love you. I'm in love with you. I have been since that silly curtsy in the restaurant, maybe even before that when you gave me your cologne like it was nothing. And I got scared because I've never felt this way about anyone, and the idea of losing you terrified me so much that I tried to push you away first."

"I know I hurt you. I know three days of silence doesn't erase that. But I need you to know that you're not a distraction or a complication or a mistake. You're the best thing that's happened to me in years, and I was an idiot to suggest otherwise."

He smiled slightly at that.

“But I need you to be patient with me. Because I’m going to mess up. I’m going to forget to let you in sometimes. I’m going to work too hard and sleep too little and probably have at least three more meltdowns before this project ends.”

“Only three?” he asked.

“I’m being optimistic.”

Silence. Long, stretching silence that made my heart pound.

“Are you finished?” he asked finally.

“Yes.”

He stood up, came around the desk.

He stood up, came around the desk, For a moment I thought he was going to ask me to leave, but instead he pulled me to my feet and into his arms. “I don’t want easy either. I want you, messy, brilliant, stubborn, beautiful you. All of it.”

“Even when I’m being stupid?”

“Especially then. Someone has to balance out my arrogance.”

I laughed, and it felt like breathing again. “I really am sorry.”

“I know. I’m sorry too. I pushed when I should’ve given you space. I made assumptions instead of listening.”

“We’re both disasters.”

“Perfect disasters though.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Together.”

“Together,” I agreed.

He kissed me then, soft and sweet and full of promise. When we pulled apart, he was smiling. "I love you too. I've been miserable for three days because I love you and I thought I'd lost you."

"You haven't lost me. You won't lose me. I promise."

"That's all I've ever wanted." He kissed my forehead. "Well, that and for you to take breaks and eat regular meals and stop working yourself into the ground."

"Don't push your luck."

He laughed, that real, unguarded laugh I'd missed desperately for three days. "Fair enough. One promise at a time."

“The coffee’s probably cold by now,” I said.

“I don’t care.” He pulled me closer. “I missed you.”

“It’s been three days.”

“Three very long days.”

We stood there for a moment, just holding each other. Then David’s voice came through the intercom:

“Dr Teju, your 7 AM is here. Should I... reschedule?”

We pulled apart, laughing.

“Give me five minutes, David,” Tee called.

“Take ten,” David replied. “You both look like you need it.”

Temi’s voice joined in: “Take twenty. We’ve been taking bets on when you’d make up and I said today, so don’t make me lose money.”

“Goodbye, Temi,” Tee said firmly, but he was grinning.

“Congratulations on figuring it out!” Tonna added. “Zara owes me lunch now!”

“I hate all of you,” Tee announced to his team.

“No you don’t!” they chorused back.

I was laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. “Your team is impossible.”

“They’re invested in our relationship. It’s actually kind of sweet if you ignore how completely inappropriate it is.”

“They’re not wrong though. We needed to figure it out.”

“Yeah.” He kissed my forehead. “We did.”

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Two weeks later, Tee got the Ghana project. Three months in Accra, leading a major infrastructure integration for a telecommunications company.

“I don’t have to take it,” he said. We were in his apartment, the project proposal spread out on his coffee table.

“Yes, you do. This is huge for your firm.”

“But it means being away for three months.”

“I know.” I took his hand. “But we’ll figure it out. We’re good at figuring things out.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Besides, it’ll be good practice for when you have other international projects.”

“You’re being very mature about this.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

He left on a Tuesday. I didn’t cry until I got home and found a gift on my bed, a beautiful journal with a note:

“For all the thoughts you don’t say out loud. I’ll be back before you fill it. I promise. - T”

The first week was hard. We called every day, but it wasn’t the same as having him here. I missed his laugh, his presence, the way he’d show up with food when I was working late.

Then the gifts started arriving.

The first was a care package, my favourite snacks, a new perfume (not the one from the restaurant, something different but equally gorgeous), and a handwritten letter that made me cry happy tears in Gloria’s office.

“I know you said you’re fine, but I also know what ‘fine’ means in Anu-speak. So here’s some fuel for those late nights. Take care of yourself. I’ll know if you don’t. - T”

The second week brought flowers with a note: “Saw these and thought of you. Well, I think of you constantly, but these especially reminded me of you. - T”

The third week was a book I’d mentioned wanting to read months ago, with sticky notes marking his favourite passages and comments in the margins.

"Page 47 - This made me think of you."

"Page 103 - We should discuss this when I get back. I have thoughts."

"Page 286 - This character is absolutely you. Brilliant and infuriating in equal measure."

By the fourth week, Jay was laughing at me.

“He’s wooing you from another country.”

“He’s not wooing. He’s just... being thoughtful.”

“Anu. He sent you a custom playlist titled ‘For When You Miss Me(Which I Hope Is Often)’ with a note saying he made it on the flight over. That’s wooing.”

She wasn’t wrong.

When I mentioned it on our next call, Tee just smiled.

“I was sending gifts so that even if you didn’t see me, you still had to think of me whilst I was away.”

“I think about you anyway.”

“I know. But I wanted to make sure you knew I was thinking about you too. That distance doesn’t change how I feel.”

“Which is?”

“Completely, ridiculously, inconveniently in love with you.”

My heart stopped. We'd said "I love you" before, but something about hearing it again, after everything we'd been through, made it feel new.

"You love me?"

"Of course I love you. How is this still a surprise to you?"

"Because sometimes I still can't believe this is real. That you're real. That you chose me."

"Anu." His voice was soft, serious. "I will always choose you. Every single day, I choose you. And I'm going to keep saying it until you believe it."

"I'm working on believing it."

"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere. Ghana is temporary. We are forever."

"Forever," I repeated, testing the word.

"Forever," he confirmed. "If you'll have me."

"Yes. Absolutely yes."

The three months passed slowly and quickly at the same time. We made it work. Three months of phone calls and care packages and video chats where we’d just sit in comfortable silence, both working on our respective projects but together in spirit.

He told me about the challenges of the Ghana integration, the cultural differences he was navigating, the street food he was discovering (and the one time he got food poisoning and called me at 2 AM just to hear my voice).

I told him about the final phases of Bennington (almost done, finally), about Gloria’s latest dating disaster, about Jay’s new job offer and my grandmother’s insistence on planning our wedding before we were even engaged.

“Your grandmother is planning our wedding?” he asked, amused.

“She has a whole planning sheet. It’s terrifying and kind of sweet.”

“What does she have planned?”

“Traditional ceremony, full Yoruba wedding, about six hundred guests.”

“Six hundred?”

“Apparently she has a lot of friends. And enemies who need to see her granddaughter marry well.”

He laughed. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

“We’re not even engaged.”

“Yet,” he said pointedly. “We’re not engaged yet.”

My heart did that fluttery thing. “Tejumade Coker, are you planning something?”

“Maybe. You’ll have to wait and see.”

When he finally came home, I was waiting at the airport with flowers (turnabout was fair play). He dropped his bags the moment he saw me and swept me into a hug that lifted me off my feet.

“I missed you so much,” he said into my hair.

“I missed you too.”

We stood there in the arrivals hall, holding each other, ignoring the people streaming around us.

“Come on,” he said finally. “Let’s go home.”

“Your place or mine?”

“Doesn’t matter. Wherever you are is home.”

That night, at his apartment, I had a moment. Everything was perfect, too perfect. We were curled up on his couch, and I was wearing one of his shirts, and he was playing with my hair, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” I sat up. “This is all happening so fast, Tee. We’ve only been together for eight months. Eight months and I’m already thinking about futures and forevers and what if I’m wrong? What if this feeling fades? What if—”

“Cookie—”

“No, I’m serious. What if five years from now, you realise I’m not what you wanted? That I’m too difficult or too ambitious or—”

He pulled me back down, tucking me firmly against his chest.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “When you’re with me, you don’t have to be anything but a soft princess. You don’t have to be strong or perfect or have everything figured out. You can just... be. Scared, uncertain, whatever you’re feeling. I’m not going anywhere.”

“How do you know? How do you know this is forever?"

"Because I've spent the last three months in another country, and every single day I woke up thinking about you. Because I can't imagine my life without you in it. Because when I think about the future, any future, you're there. You've always been there."

He wiped my tears with his thumbs.

"And maybe the feeling will change. Maybe in five years, it'll be different. But I think it'll be deeper. Stronger. More certain. Because we'll have five years of choosing each other, of fighting for each other, of building something real."

"I'm working on believing that," I whispered.

"I know. And I'll keep reminding you until you do. That's what forever means."

I curled back into him, letting his words sink in, letting myself believe, really believe, that this was real. That he meant it. That I deserved this.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too. Even when you spiral."

"Especially when I spiral?"

"Especially then. Someone has to talk you down from the ledge."

"Lucky me."

"Lucky us," he corrected, like he always did.

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The Bennington project wrapped two weeks ahead of schedule.

The final presentation was flawless. The client was thrilled. My team was celebrating. Tee’s team was already being pulled into their next project.

We’d done it. Against odds and stress and one spectacular fight and three months of distance, we’d actually done it.

The celebration dinner was at a nice restaurant in Victoria Island, both teams together, finally able to relax and enjoy what we’d accomplished. Speeches were made, champagne was poured, and Temi embarrassed both Tee and me with a presentation titled “The Bennington Project: A Love Story (With Some Technology Stuff).”

“I hate you,” I told her while everyone laughed at a slide showing Tee and me in deep discussion, with hearts photoshopped around our heads.

“You love me,” she countered. “I’m documenting history here. Your future kids will want to know how their parents fell in love.”

“Kids?” I choked on my champagne.

“Give it time,” she said knowingly.

After dinner, Tee suggested a walk. We ended up at Bar Beach, watching the waves crash against the shore, the city lights sparkling behind us.

“I have something to ask you.

My heart stopped. This is it. He’s going to—

“We’ve been dating for almost a year now,” he continued. “Technically more if you count the month where we were both clearly into each other but pretending to be professional.”

“Tee—”

“And in that time, you’ve challenged me, frustrated me, inspired me, and made me happier than I’ve been in years. You make me want to be better, work harder, think deeper. You make everything more interesting just by being part of it.”

He took my hands, and I realised they were shaking.

“So I wanted to make it official. No more ‘we’re seeing each other’ or ‘it’s complicated.’ I want you to be my girlfriend. Officially. Publicly. No more hiding or playing it down or pretending this is anything less than what it is.”

I started laughing. “Tejumade Coker, are you asking me to go steady?”

“I’m asking you to be mine. Completely. If you’ll have me.”

“Yes. Absolutely yes. Though technically we’ve been ‘official’ for months.”

“I know. But I wanted to ask properly. To make it a moment. To—” He paused, looking sheepish. “I actually had a whole plan. Was going to ask during the sunset, maybe with some flowers, but I got nervous and the words just came out.”

“It was perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed me there on the beach, with the waves as our soundtrack and Lagos as our witness.

“I love you,” he said against my lips.

“I love you too. Even when you’re nervous and rambling.”

“Especially then?”

“Especially then.”

The next several weeks were a blur of happiness. We settled into rhythms, learned each other’s quirks, built a life together.

We met each other’s extended families. I sat through endless Sunday dinners with various aunties who all had opinions about our relationship timeline. He endured my grandmother’s not-so-subtle hints about great-grandchildren.

“Your grandmother asked me when I was going to ‘do the needful,’” he reported after one particularly intense family gathering.

“What does that even mean?”

“I think it means propose. She was very clear about her expectations for a traditional ceremony.”

“She’s impossible.”

“She’s sweet. In a terrifying, slightly manipulative way.”

We traveled together, a long weekend in Cape Verde, a week in Zanzibar, three days in Kigali for a conference that turned into an extended vacation. We learned that Tee was a meticulous planner and I was spontaneous to a fault, and somehow we made it work.

We fought, but we’d learned how. No more running away or shutting down. We’d sit, talk it through, even when it was hard.

“I don’t like when you commit to things without discussing them with me first,” I said after he’d agreed to host his family’s Christmas dinner without asking.

“You’re right. I should’ve asked.”

“Thank you. And I’m happy to host, I just wanted to be part of the decision.”

“Noted. It won’t happen again.”

These small moments of compromise and communication, they were building something solid, something real.

Later that week, Tee seemed nervous. Jumpy. Like he was working up to something.

We were cooking dinner at his place, actually, I was attempting to help while he did the real work, when he suddenly put down his knife.

“Cookie, I—” He stopped. Started again. “There’s something I want to—” Stopped again.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Never mind. Can you hand me the salt?”

This happened three more times over the next two weeks. He’d start to say something, then stop. Look at me like he was gathering courage, then chicken out.

“Is everything okay?” I finally asked. “You’ve been acting weird.”

“Weird? No. I’m not weird. Everything’s fine. Great. Perfect.”

“Jelly Bear—”

“I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

He was the worst liar I’d ever met.

Then he suggested the Switzerland trip for our one-year anniversary.

"I want to do something special," he said. "Celebrate a whole year of us."

"Switzerland seems excessive for one year."

"Nothing's excessive when it comes to you."

"You're such a sap."

"Your sap," he corrected.

"My sap," I agreed.

“I have something to ask you,” he said one of the days, and his hand went to his pocket.

Then he pulled out his phone. Just his phone.

“I, uh, wanted to check with you about dates for the Switzerland trip. For our anniversary.”

The disappointment was crushing, which was ridiculous because we’d only been together a year and it was way too soon for proposals anyway.

“Yeah,” I managed. “Dates. Sure.”

He looked at me strangely. “You okay?”

“Fine. Just tired.”

But I wasn’t fine. Because I’d just realised I wanted him to propose. Wanted it desperately, terrifyingly, completely.

And he had no idea.

And then came Switzerland...

Our one-year anniversary fell on a Tuesday, which felt appropriately random for a relationship that started with a compliment in a restaurant.

I found out that Tee had been planning the Switzerland trip for weeks, though he’d been weirdly secretive about the details. “Just pack for cold weather and trust me,” he’d said when I’d asked for the itinerary.

“That’s ominous.”

“That’s romantic. There’s a difference.”

We flew into Zurich and then took a train to Interlaken, watching the Swiss countryside unfold like a postcard. Mountains, lakes, villages that looked like they’d been painted into existence. It was breathtaking.

Tee held my hand the entire journey, but he seemed nervous. His palm was sweaty, and he kept checking his phone like he was waiting for something.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Perfect. Why?”

“You’ve checked your phone seventeen times in the last hour.”

“Have I? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Tee—”

“Look!” He pointed out the window at a particularly stunning mountain view. “Isn’t that incredible?”

He was definitely up to something.

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We checked into a small boutique hotel with a view of the Alps that made me want to cry. Our room had floor-to-ceiling windows, a balcony overlooking the mountains, and a fireplace that Tee immediately insisted on lighting even though it wasn’t that cold.

“Ambiance,” he explained, fiddling with the logs.

“It’s sixty degrees outside.”

“Romantic ambiance.”

I laughed, wrapping my arms around him from behind. “You’re being weird, but I love you anyway.”

He turned in my arms, suddenly serious. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even when you’re acting suspicious and lighting unnecessary fires.”

“I’m not being suspicious.”

“You absolutely are. But I’ll let you keep your secrets. For now.”

He kissed me, soft and sweet, and for a moment everything was perfect.

The next day, Tee suggested a hike.

“There’s this trail I read about,” he said over breakfast. “Goes up to this incredible viewpoint. The wildflowers should be in bloom.”

“You read about a hiking trail? You, who once told me that ‘nature is best appreciated from a distance, preferably through a window’?”

“I’m expanding my horizons.”

“Uh-huh.”

But the hike was actually beautiful. The trail wound through meadows filled with wildflowers, purple, yellow, white, bursting with colour against the green grass and distant mountains. Tee had packed a picnic (when did he have time to arrange a picnic?), and we stopped at a clearing halfway up.

“This is perfect,” I said, spreading out the blanket he’d brought.

“Yeah.” But he wasn’t looking at the view. He was looking at me, with that expression that still made my heart stutter after a year.

We ate cheese and bread and strawberries, talked about everything and nothing, laughed about Temi’s latest conspiracy theory about our relationship (she was convinced we were going to have twins because “the universe loves symmetry”).

“She’s insane,” I said.

“She’s invested. There’s a difference.”

“Your whole team is invested. It’s actually kind of sweet.”

“Kind of terrifying, you mean.”

“That too.”

After lunch, we kept hiking. The trail got steeper, and I was starting to regret my footwear choices when we rounded a corner and—

I stopped. Just completely stopped.

The viewpoint was... there weren’t words. We were on a plateau overlooking a valley, with mountains rising on all sides, and the meadow around us was absolutely covered in wildflowers. It looked like something out of a fairy tale.

“Tee,” I breathed. “This is—”

“I know.”

We walked to the edge, where someone had placed a wooden bench. The view was impossible, too beautiful to be real, too perfect to exist outside of paintings or dreams.

“How did you find this place?” I asked.

“Research. Lots of research.” He was fidgeting with something in his pocket. “Baby, there’s something I want to—”

His phone rang. He looked at it, cursed, and answered.

“Yes? Now? But I—” He listened, his face falling. “Okay. Okay, I understand. Give me twenty minutes.”

He hung up, looking devastated.

“What’s wrong?”

“Work emergency. The Ghana client, there’s a critical system failure and I’m the only one who knows the architecture well enough to talk them through the fix.”

“Oh no.”

“I’m so sorry. This was supposed to be perfect and now—”

“Hey.” I took his hands. “It’s okay. Work happens. We’ll come back up here later.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad? This is your job. It’s important.”

He looked at me like I’d just given him the world. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Now go fix their system before they panic.”

The call took three hours. THREE HOURS of Tee pacing on our hotel balcony, talking through system diagnostics and emergency protocols while I watched the sunset over the Alps alone.

When he finally hung up, he looked exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I’m so, so sorry Cookie. I ruined our anniversary.”

“You didn’t ruin anything. You did your job. Besides, we still have tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow we’re supposed to go to Lauterbrunnen. I have this whole thing planned and—” He stopped, running his hand through his hair in frustration. “This isn’t how today was supposed to go.”

“How was it supposed to go?”

“Better than this.”

I pulled him inside, made him sit on the bed, and wrapped myself around him. “Today was perfect. We hiked, we saw incredible views, we ate overpriced cheese. The fact that work interrupted doesn’t make it less perfect.”

“You’re being very understanding about this.”

“That’s because I love you. Even when Ghana has terrible timing.”

He laughed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You gave me your cologne and did a ridiculous curtsy.”

“Best decision I ever made.”

The next morning, Tee seemed more nervous than ever. We took a train to Lauterbrunnen, the valley of waterfalls, and it was like entering another world. Seventy-two waterfalls cascading down sheer cliff faces, the sound of rushing water everywhere, mist in the air that caught the sunlight and created rainbows.

“This is magical,” I said, watching one of the falls.

“Wait until you see where we’re going for lunch.”

He’d arranged a private cable car ride up to a mountain restaurant. PRIVATE. Just the two of us, ascending through the clouds while the valley spread out below us.

“Tee, this must have cost a fortune.”

“Some things are worth it.”

The restaurant was small, intimate, with maybe ten tables and a view that defied description. We were above the clouds, surrounded by peaks, and I felt like we’d left the world behind entirely.

Lunch was incredible, traditional Swiss food that melted in your mouth, wine that made everything feel warm and golden. But Tee barely ate. He kept checking his watch, glancing at the door, fidgeting with his napkin.

“Okay, what’s going on?” I finally asked.

“What? Nothing.”

“Tejumade Coker, you are the worst liar I have ever met. What are you not telling me?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I—”

The waiter appeared with dessert. Tee looked like he wanted to cry.

We finished lunch (well, I finished lunch; Tee pushed his food around), and then he suggested a walk.

“There’s a meadow nearby. Supposed to have an incredible view.”

“More incredible than this?”

“Different incredible.”

The meadow was about a fifteen-minute walk from the restaurant, through a forest path that opened suddenly onto the most perfect clearing I’d ever seen. More wildflowers (how were there always more wildflowers?), a small stream running through it, and mountains everywhere you looked.

And in the center of the meadow, somehow, impossibly—a small setup. A blanket spread out, champagne chilling in a bucket, rose petals scattered around.

I turned to Tee. “Did you—?”

"I had help. The hotel concierge is very efficient." He took my hand, leading me to the blanket.

“Okay, this is officially the most romantic place I’ve ever been,” I said.

“Yeah.” Tee’s voice was shaky. “Anu, I need to—I have to tell you—”

His phone rang again.

I watched him look at it, watched the internal struggle on his face, watched him make a decision.

He declined the call.

“Tee, if it’s work—”

“It’s not. It’s Temi. Being nosy. She can wait.” He took both my hands. “Anu, I need to say something and I need to say it now before I lose my nerve or another emergency happens or the universe decides to intervene again.”

“Okay...”

“I’ve been trying to do this since we got here. I had a whole plan, the first viewpoint, with the sunset, and it was going to be perfect. Then Ghana happened. So I thought, okay, the restaurant, during dessert. But you looked so happy and I got nervous. And then I thought the meadow, but I’ve been building this up in my head and now I’m rambling and you’re looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.”

“Tee, breathe.”

He took a shaky breath. “Do you remember what you said during our fight? About everything happening too fast, feeling unreal?”

“I remember.”

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot. About how to show you that this is real, that I’m real, that what we have isn’t going to disappear.” He pulled something from his pocket—a small velvet box. "I've been carrying this ring around for two months," he said. "Terrified I'd lose it, checking my pocket every five minutes like some kind of paranoid person. Temi knew. David knew. My entire team knew and has been placing bets on when I'd finally do this."

“So I wanted to bring you here, to this place that’s so beautiful it almost doesn’t seem real, and tell you that even in a place this perfect, you’re the most beautiful thing I see.”

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.

"My Cookie, My Baby, My World" he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I want to spend every waking and sleeping hour with you,” he continued, his voice getting steadier, more sure. “I want to grow old with you, argue about budget allocations and who’s burning the vegetables. I want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep holding you every night. I want to build a life with you, a real, messy, beautiful life full of calm dinners and terrible dance attempts and late-night work calls and quiet Sunday mornings.".”

"I want to be there when you're brilliant and when you're scared. When you're confident and when you doubt yourself. I want to remind you every single day that you're worthy of love, that you deserve good things, that you don't have to earn affection or prove yourself to be valued."

Tears were streaming down both our faces now.

"I want to support your dreams and challenge your assumptions and make you laugh when you're taking life too seriously. I want to be your safe place and your adventure partner and the person you come home to at the end of every day."

"Jelly Bear—"

"I want forever with you. Not the perfect, Instagram-worthy version of forever. The real one, with fights and makeups and burned breakfasts and system crashes and moments of doubt and moments of absolute certainty. I want all of it, as long as I get to do it with you."

He was fully crying now, his voice breaking.

"I love you more than I knew it was possible to love someone. You're my best friend, my favourite person, my forever home”.

“I know we’ve only been together a little over a year. I know by any logical timeline this is too soon. But Anu, I’ve known since the restaurant. Since you opened your eyes and looked at me like I’d given you something precious instead of just a bottle of cologne. I’ve known since our first real conversation, our first fight, our first makeup. Every moment with you has just confirmed what I already knew.”

He took a breath, steadying himself.

He opened the box. The ring was stunning, a sapphire surrounded by small diamonds, unusual and perfect.

He got down on one knee right there in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers and mountains and impossible beauty.

“Anuola, will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life proving that you are worthy of every bit of love I have to give? Will you be my partner, my best friend, my wife my forever person?”

I was crying. Full-on ugly crying, tears streaming down my face, completely unable to speak, just nodding.

“That’s not an answer,” he said, smiling through his own tears.

“Yes,” I finally managed. “Yes, absolutely yes, a thousand times yes.”

He slid the ring onto my finger, perfect fit, of course, and then he was standing and I was in his arms and we were both crying and laughing and kissing.

“I was so nervous,” he admitted between kisses.. “What if you said no? What if it was too soon? What if—”

“I would never say no. Never. You’re my person, Tee. You’ve been my person since you gave me that perfume and made me believe in random kindness.”

“It wasn’t random. I knew even then.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, I suspected. Heavily suspected.”

We stood there for a long time, just holding each other, the mountains witnessing our promises.

I pulled back to look at the ring properly. The sapphire caught the light, deep blue like the ocean, surrounded by diamonds that sparkled like stars.

"It's perfect. How did you know?"

"I remembered you mentioning once that you'd always loved sapphires. And that you thought traditional engagement rings were beautiful but you'd want something a little different. So... sapphire. Different but beautiful. Like you."

"You remembered that? That was months ago. I barely remember saying it."

"I remember everything you tell me." He wiped my tears with his thumbs. "I told you—I write it all down. Everything that matters to you matters to me."

I started crying again. “How are you real?”

“I ask myself the same thing about you.” “So, fiancée, what do you want to do now?”

“I want to call everyone we know and scream about this ring.”

“Very romantic.”

“Then I want to come back here, to this exact spot, and just... be with you. No phones, no work, no world. Just us.”

“I can do that.”

We did call people eventually. Jay screamed so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. "I KNEW IT! I TOLD YOU! From the restaurant! I CALLED IT!"

"You did. You absolutely did."

"Can I be maid of honor?"

"Was there ever any doubt?"

"I love you both so much. Tell Tee he did good. Really good."

My mother cried happy tears. "Finally! Let me see the ring. Show me. Show me right now."

I held up my hand to the camera.

"Oh, my baby. It's beautiful. He has excellent taste. Your grandmother is going to die when she sees this."

"Please don't tell her until we're ready for the full interrogation."

"Too late. She's right here. She says congratulations and she already has the venue picked out."

"Mum—"

"I'm so happy for you, darling. So, so happy."

Tee's mother was surprisingly warm when we called her together.

"Congratulations to you both," she said, and I could see where Tee got his smile. "Anu, welcome to the family officially. Take care of my son."

"I will. I promise."

"And Tejumade—you chose well. Don't mess this up."

"I won't, Mum."

Temi answered the phone already screaming. "FINALLY! Do you know how hard it's been keeping this secret? Tonna owes me so much money. I said Switzerland, he said he'd chicken out and do it back in Lagos."

"You bet on our engagement?"

"Obviously. This is the most romantic thing that's happened in our office ever. We're all very invested. When's the wedding? Can I help plan it? I have ideas."

"Temi—"

"I'm thinking spring. Garden ceremony. But I'm open to other seasons if you have a vision."

"We literally just got engaged an hour ago."

"So you're saying you don't have a date yet? I'll make a spreadsheet."

After all the calls, we went back to the meadow. Watched the sunset paint the mountains gold and pink and purple. Made promises and plans and dreams.

"I want at least a year engagement," I said. "Time to plan properly, not rush."

"Whatever you want."

"And I want to write our own vows."

"Already planning to make me cry in front of everyone?"

"Obviously."

"Fair enough. What else?"

"I want Jay as maid of honour. And I want Temi somewhere in the wedding party because she's apparently been shipping us since day one and she'll never forgive us if we don't include her."

"She'll be thrilled. What about the venue?"

"Something that feels like us. Not too formal, not too casual. With good food and better wine and room for both our families without it feeling like a stadium."

"So basically exactly what we want and nothing like what our mothers will suggest."

"Exactly."

He laughed, pulling me closer. "This is going to be interesting."

"Everything with us is interesting."

"True. But I wouldn't have it any other way."

We sat there as the sun set, wrapped in blankets, drinking champagne, planning our forever in that perfect meadow in Switzerland.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"For what?"

"For being patient with me. For not giving up when I pushed you away. For loving me even when I didn't know how to let you."

"Anu." He turned to face me. "You don't have to thank me for loving you. Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done. Everything else, the patience, the persistence, the choosing you every day, that's not hard work. That's joy. That's privilege. That's exactly what I want to do for the rest of my life."

"I love you so much."

"I love you too. My fiancée."

"Say it again."

"My fiancée. My future wife. My forever person."

"I'm never going to get tired of hearing that."

"Good. Because I'm never going to get tired of saying it."

Now comes the really fun part: planning a wedding with two opinionated families, navigating engagement while building a life together, and finally, FINALLY getting to the day when Anu becomes Mrs. Coker.

Part 5 is coming—the wedding, the vows, the forever. The conclusion you’ve all been waiting for.

Love and sapphires,
Anu 💍✨

Tee had assembled his team in the Meridian Building’s main conference room, five people who all looked terrifyingly competent. I’d brought Gloria and two of my senior engineers, Marcus and Ini.

“Everyone, this is Ms. Anuola Adeyemi and her team from Bennington,” Tee said, gesturing to us with that same professional smile he’d worn in his office. “Ms. Anuola, meet my team: Temi, our integration specialist; Tonna, systems analyst; Zara, project coordinator; and David, who you’ve already met.”

Temi, a woman in her early thirties with box braids and the sharpest eyeliner I’d ever seen, looked between Tee and me with barely concealed amusement. “So you’re the famous Ms. Anu.”

“Famous?” I asked, confused.

“Mr Teju doesn’t take on projects personally anymore,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “He usually just consults and lets us handle implementation. But for Bennington, he insisted on being hands-on. We were curious why.”

I felt my face heat up as Tee cleared his throat. “Bennington is a complex project that requires—”

“Uh-huh,” Tonna interrupted, grinning. “Sure, boss. Very complex.”

Tee shot him a look that would’ve been intimidating if Tonna hadn’t just laughed.

The meeting itself went smoothly, we reviewed the phased integration plan, assigned responsibilities, set up weekly check-ins. But the entire time, I was hyperaware of Tee sitting across from me, occasionally catching my eye when someone made a point, his mouth quirking up at the corners like we were sharing a private joke.

After everyone left, Gloria cornered me in the hallway.

“Okay, what was that?”

“What was what?”

“That whole...” she waved her hand vaguely, “energy between you and Mr. Tejumade. And why does his team look at you two like they’re watching a rom-com?”

I sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“Anu. I’ve been your PA for three years. I know when you’re hiding something.”

So I told her, the restaurant, the perfume, the coincidence of him being our consultant. By the end, Gloria was grinning like she’d won the lottery.

“This is the best thing that’s happened to this company since the Bennington deal.”

“Gloria, we’re just working together. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm. And I’m just a PA, not the person who’s about to watch this unfold with popcorn.”

She was impossible. And unfortunately, she was also right.

I’d been doing so well. Keeping things professional, maintaining distance, focusing on the work. Then I made the mistake of visiting the Bennington site to check on Phase One implementation.

I was reviewing the server room setup with Marcus when I caught a whiff of that scent. The one that was all too familiar. The one that made my stomach flip and my brain short-circuit.

I turned around, and there he was, Tee, in a casual button-down with the sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly attractive while discussing technical specifications with one of the site engineers.

“You smell amazing as always,” I said before my brain could catch up with my mouth.

He looked up, and that slow smile spread across his face. “Hi, Dr. Teju.”

I blinked. “What?”

“That’s what you called me just now. Dr. Teju. Very formal.”

“I did not—” I stopped, replaying the moment. I absolutely had. “I meant Mr. Tejumade.”

“Sure you did.” He excused himself from the engineer and walked over to me. “If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought you were avoiding me.”

My heart was doing that annoying racing thing. “Now why would you think that?”

“Because you’ve rescheduled our last two project sync meetings, you only respond to my emails with one-word answers, and this is the first time you’ve been on-site when you knew I’d be here.”

“Everything has just been busy. I’m not avoiding you.”

“Then have dinner with me.”

“I—what?”

“Dinner. Tonight. There’s a new phase implementation timeline we need to discuss, and I’d rather do it over food than another video call.”

“That’s... we can discuss that via email.”

“We could. But I’m asking you to dinner.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Professional dinner. To discuss the project. Completely appropriate.”

I knew what he was doing. Knew that “professional dinner” was code for something else entirely. And I knew I should say no.

“I’ll love if we keep this professional,” I said, even as my resolve was crumbling.

“It will be. I promise. Just two colleagues, discussing project timelines, over food.”

“Professionals,” I repeated. “Which means boundaries and—”

“And nothing inappropriate. I know. 7 PM? I’ll send you the address.”

He walked away before I could argue, leaving me standing there wondering what I’d just agreed to.

Marcus appeared at my elbow. “Was that Mr. Tejumade?”

“Yes.”

“And did you just agree to dinner with him?”

“Professional dinner. To discuss the project.”

“Mm-hmm. And I’m the president of Nigeria.”

“Marcus—”

“Anu, I’ve worked with you for five years. I know what ‘professional dinner’ means. Just... be careful, okay?”

“It’s not like that.”

“If you say so.”

But it absolutely was like that, and we both knew it.

I told myself I had legitimate reasons for visiting the Bennington site. Checking progress, reviewing implementation, ensuring quality control. All perfectly valid, professional reasons.

The fact that Tee was usually there? Complete coincidence.

“You’re here again,” Temi said on my third visit that week, amusement clear in her voice.

“Just checking on Phase One completion.”

“Uh-huh. And the fact that Mr Teju is in the server room has nothing to do with it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She just laughed and went back to her tablet.

I found myself wandering toward the server room, then past it, then back again. I was looking at the entrance, again, when I heard his voice behind me.

“You miss me?”

I spun around. Tee was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, that knowing smile on his face.

“I—no. I’m just checking the progress.”

“Yeah, right. You’ve looked at that entrance over a hundred times already.”

“Exaggerated much?” But I was smiling despite myself. “I just haven’t seen you in a while.”

“A while? Anu, we had a video call yesterday.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” he agreed, something softening in his expression. “It’s not.”

We stood there, the hallway suddenly feeling too small and too big at the same time.

“Searching for something, Ms. Anu?” he asked.

“No, I’m just looking at the progress.”

“The progress you’ve already reviewed three times this week?”

“Quality control is important.”

“Very important.” He stepped closer. “Or maybe you’re here because you missed me?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see how the implementation was going.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“How’s it going?”

I finally looked at him properly, really looked at him. There were tired lines around his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping well. His shirt was slightly rumpled, like he’d been here since early morning.

“You look exhausted,” I said.

“Thanks. That’s exactly what every man wants to hear.”

“I’m serious. When’s the last time you slept?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Gloria mentioned you’ve been working late every night this week.”

“Gloria needs to mind her business.”

“Gloria cares about you. We all do.” He paused. “I do.”

My heart stuttered. “Tee—”

“I know. Professional boundaries. But I’m allowed to care about your wellbeing as a colleague, right?”

“Right. Colleague.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced either. “So would you finally have dinner with me? Real dinner this time, not the professional kind we keep pretending to schedule.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because...” I gestured vaguely between us. “This. Whatever this is. It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Yes, it does. You’re my consultant. We’re working together. There are rules and boundaries and—”

“And you’ve been visiting this site three times a week hoping to run into me,” he finished. “So maybe the boundaries aren’t as clear as you think they are.”

He was right. God, he was right, and I hated it.

“One dinner,” he said. “If you hate it, if it’s awkward, if it confirms that we should keep things strictly professional, fine. But give us a chance to figure out what this is without the project hanging over our heads.”

“The project is literally why we’re here.”

“I know. But we’re more than just the project, aren’t we?”

Were we? I’d been trying so hard not to think about it, not to acknowledge that every time I saw him, my heart did this stupid fluttery thing. That I looked forward to our calls, even the ones about boring technical specifications. That I’d been wearing his almost finished perfume every single day and thinking about him every time I did.

“Okay,” I heard myself say. “One dinner.”

His smile was blinding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But if this goes badly—”

“It won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. Because you’re you, and I’m me, and we’re good together. Even you can’t deny that.”

I couldn’t. That was the problem.

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The project consumed everything. We were on calls daily, sometimes multiple times a day. Tee was brilliant, demanding, and had zero patience for half-measures. He pushed me, challenged every assumption, made me justify every decision.

It should’ve been frustrating. Instead, I found myself looking forward to our meetings.

The dinner had gone well. Too well. We’d talked for four hours, long after the food was gone and the restaurant was closing. We’d laughed, argued about system architecture, discovered we both loved a terrible reality TV show and had strong opinions about the best Fried rice in Lagos.

And then we’d both agreed to keep things professional.

It lasted exactly three days.

“That won’t work,” he said one evening, two weeks into implementation. We were on a video call, him in his home office, me at my dining table surrounded by takeout containers and project files. It was 9 PM.

“Why not?” I challenged.

“Because you’re thinking linearly. The Morrison system doesn’t process requests linearly. If you feed it sequential data, it’ll bottleneck at the third phase.”

“So what do you suggest?”

He was quiet for a moment, and I watched him think, the way his brow furrowed, how he tapped his pen against his desk. “What if we batch the requests instead? Send them in clusters rather than sequences.”

I pulled up the system architecture, running through the logic. “That... could actually work. But we’d need to modify the intake protocol.”

“Not necessarily. We could use a middleware buffer to—”

“—aggregate the requests before they hit Morrison. Yes!” I was already sketching it out. “Tee, you’re a genius.”

“I know,” he said, but he was smiling. “This is why you pay me the big money.”

“Your fee is absolutely ridiculous, by the way.”

“And yet, here we are at 9 PM on a Thursday, and I’m solving problems you couldn’t crack.”

“I could’ve cracked it,” I protested.

“Eventually. I just saved you three weeks of trial and error.”

“Your humility is truly inspiring.”

He laughed, that real, unguarded laugh I was starting to collect like precious things. “Go eat something, Anu. Those containers behind you look like they’ve been there since lunch.”

I glanced at the cold food I’d forgotten about. “How do you even know that?”

“Because I can see the timestamp on the receipt, and your handwriting hasn’t changed position in four hours.” He leaned closer to his camera. “When’s the last time you took a break?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

There was something in his voice, concern, warmth, that made my chest feel tight. “I’ll eat after we finish.”

“We’re finishing now. Go eat, take a proper break, and we’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

“Tee—”

“That’s not a suggestion, Ms. Anu. That’s your consultant telling you that you’re no good to this project if you burn out in month two.”

I wanted to argue, but he was right. “Fine. But only because you’re being annoyingly reasonable.”

“I’ll take it.” He paused, then added quietly, “Take care of yourself, okay?”

And then he ended the call before I could respond.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the blank screen, trying to ignore how much those four words affected me.

Jay walked in, took one look at my face, and sighed. “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

“So much trouble,” I admitted.

During an on-site visit to the Bennington offices, something happened.

We’d been implementing the first phase of integration, and something wasn’t working. The data was transferring, but the validation protocols were failing at random intervals. We’d been troubleshooting remotely for three days with no progress.

“We need to see it in person,” Tee had said. “Sometimes you can’t diagnose a problem through a screen.”

So we’d driven out to the Bennington site together, just the two of us, because his team was handling another client emergency and mine were all tied up with other projects.

The drive was ninety minutes of surprisingly easy conversation. We talked about everything except work, his childhood in Lagos (old money, boarding school in England, pressure to join the family business before he’d chosen his own path), my university years (scholarship student, chronic overachiever, that one semester I’d tried to join a dance group and failed spectacularly).

“You? Dancing?” He glanced at me, amused.

“I have rhythm,” I protested. “I just... don’t have coordination.”

“That’s a very diplomatic way of saying you can’t dance.”

“I can dance! I just can’t dance well. There’s a difference.”

“I’m going to need video evidence of this.”

“Absolutely not. That footage is buried and will never see the light of day.”

He was still laughing when we pulled into the Bennington parking lot.

The issue turned out to be a legacy firewall setting that no one had thought to check. We fixed it in twenty minutes, ran validation tests for another hour, and by the time we were done, it was past 7 PM.

“Want to grab dinner before we head back?” Tee asked, packing up his laptop. “There’s a place nearby that’s supposed to be good.”

I should’ve said no. Should’ve maintained professional boundaries. Should’ve remembered that this was my consultant, my colleague, nothing more.

“Sure,” I said instead.

The restaurant was small, intimate, with warm lighting and a menu that made everything sound like poetry. We ordered, and then we were just... talking. About everything and nothing. Books we’d read, places we wanted to travel, that universal experience of family members asking when you’re going to settle down.

“My mother has a list,” Tee said, shaking his head. “Actual names of ‘suitable girls’ that she updates quarterly.”

“That’s horrifying and also kind of impressive organisation.”

“She colour-codes them by family connections.” He took a sip of wine. “What about you? Does your family do the whole ‘when are you bringing someone home’ thing?”

“My grand-mum has upgraded to ‘I’m not getting any younger and I’d like to see my grandchildren before I die’, especially when her friends grand-children are getting married.’

“Subtle.”

“She’s never been one for subtlety.” I pushed my food around my plate. “After my last relationship, though, she’s backed off a bit.”

I hadn’t meant to bring it up. Hadn’t talked about it with anyone except Jay in months. But something about the low lighting and the wine and Tee’s easy presence made it spill out.

“The bet thing?” he asked quietly.

I looked up, surprised. “How did you—”

“You mentioned having a rough few months when we first met. I might have... looked into it.” He had the grace to look sheepish. “Not in a creepy way. Just wanted to understand what you were dealing with.”

“That’s definitely at least a little bit creepy.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He met my eyes. “For what it’s worth, he was an idiot. Anyone who would treat you like that doesn’t deserve a second of your time.”

My heart was doing that complicated thing again. “Tee—”

“I know,” he said quickly. “Professional boundaries. I know. But I’m allowed to think you deserved better, right? As your acquaintance?”

“Acquaintances,” I repeated, and something in my voice must’ve changed because his expression shifted.

We were sitting across from each other, but it suddenly felt like no distance at all. I could see the exact moment he decided to say something, the way he leaned forward slightly, opened his mouth—

My phone rang. Ini’s name flashed on the screen.

“I should—” I started.

“Yeah. Of course.”

The moment broke. I answered the call (minor crisis, easily solved), and by the time I hung up, Tee had already paid the bill and we were heading back to the car.

The drive back was quieter. Not uncomfortable, just... weighted. Like we were both thinking about what almost happened and what it meant.

When he dropped me off at my apartment, he waited until I was at the door before saying, “Anu?”

I turned.

“For the record, I’m really glad we’re working together. Even if it’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “Me too.”

I didn’t tell Jay about dinner. Didn’t know how to explain that something had shifted, that the lines I’d drawn so carefully were starting to blur.

Things were starting to align perfectly and that’s when i met her. Her name was Ivie, and she was stunning.

I met her during a project update meeting. She’d walked into the conference room like she owned it, designer bag, perfect hair, and headed straight for Tee.

“Darling, you left this in my car,” she said, handing him his tablet.

My stomach dropped to my feet.

Tee looked surprised but accepted it. “Ivie, we’re in a meeting—”

“Oh, I know. I just wanted to make sure you had it.” She glanced around the room, her eyes landing on me. “You must be Anu. Tee talks about you constantly.”

“Does he?” I managed, keeping my voice neutral.

“All the time. ‘Anu figured out the Morrison integration,’ ‘Anu had this brilliant idea about data clustering.’” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s nice to finally meet the woman who’s consuming all my boyfriend’s time.”

Boyfriend!.

The word hit like a physical blow.

Tee stood up. “Ivie, this really isn’t—”

“I know, I know. Work mode.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you tonight. Don’t work too late.”

And then she was gone, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume and my shattered assumptions.

The meeting continued, but I barely heard any of it. Teju had a girlfriend. Of course he did. Men like him didn’t stay single. And whatever I thought had been building between us was clearly just professional rapport and my own ridiculous imagination.

After the meeting, Temi pulled me aside.

“Don’t read too much into that,” she said quietly.

“Into what?”

“Ivie. She’s...” Temi hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

“It seems pretty straightforward to me.”

“Just... talk to him, okay? Before you make assumptions.”

But I didn’t want to talk to him. Didn’t want to hear about his relationship or how happy he was or confirm that I’d been a complete fool.

For the next two weeks, I kept every interaction strictly professional. No late-night calls unless absolutely necessary. No personal conversations. No lingering glances or almost-moments.

If Teju noticed, he didn’t say anything. But his messages got shorter, his tone more formal, and the easy rhythm we’d found disappeared.

Jay noticed immediately.

“What happened with Tee?”

“Nothing happened. We’re working together. That’s all it ever was.”

“Anu—”

“He has a girlfriend, Jay. A gorgeous, sophisticated girlfriend who brings him his tablet and kisses him in front of colleagues. Whatever I thought was happening was just in my head.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“Why would I? It’s none of my business who he dates.”

“Because you have feelings for him and you’re being a coward about it.”

I threw a pillow at her. She dodged, laughing.

“I’m right and you know it!”

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But like they say about truth not been hidden, It came out during a crisis.

We’d just completed Phase Two implementation when the whole system crashed. Not a small glitch, a complete, catastrophic failure that threatened to undo months of work.

We were in the Meridian Building conference room at midnight, my team, his team, everyone exhausted and stressed and running on coffee and panic.

“I don’t understand,” Marcus was saying, pulling up diagnostics. “The integration tested perfectly. Every single validation passed.”

“Then why is it failing in production?” I demanded, more harshly than I meant to.

“Maybe because we rushed Phase Two to meet an arbitrary deadline,” Tee said, his voice tight.

“That deadline wasn’t arbitrary. It was what the client needed.”

“What the client needed was a working system, not a rushed implementation that crashes on day one.”

We’d been snapping at each other all evening, the stress and frustration and weeks of weird tension finally bubbling over.

“If you had concerns about the timeline, you should’ve said something,” I shot back.

“I did say something. You ignored me because you were too busy avoiding me to actually listen.”

The room went silent. Everyone suddenly found their laptops very interesting.

“Can we not do this here?” I said quietly.

“Fine. Conference room two. Now!”

We left our teams and walked in tense silence to the smaller conference room. The moment the door closed, we both started talking at once.

“You’ve been avoiding me—”

“You have a girlfriend—”

We stopped. Stared at each other.

“What?” Tee said.

“Ivie. Your girlfriend. The one who showed up at our meeting and kissed you in front of everyone.”

“Ivie isn’t my girlfriend.”

“She literally called you her boyfriend.”

“Because she’s delusional,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “We went on three dates six months ago. I ended it because there was no connection. She keeps showing up anyway, and I’ve been too polite to make a scene, but she’s not my girlfriend. She never was.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” He took a step closer. “Is that why you’ve been freezing me out? Because you thought I was dating someone?”

“I wasn’t freezing you out.”

“Anu, you stopped taking my calls. You barely look at me in meetings. You’ve been treating me like a stranger for weeks.”

“Because I thought—” I stopped, not sure how to finish.

“What? What did you think?”

“That I was being stupid. That I was reading things into this that weren’t there. That you were just being professional and I was the idiot catching feelings for her consultant.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“You have feelings for me?” Tee asked, his voice careful.

“I—” This was it. The moment I could backtrack, laugh it off, save face. “Yes. I have feelings for you. Which is completely unprofessional and probably violates about seventeen different contract clauses, but there it is.”

He was quiet for so long I wanted to sink through the floor.

“Say something,” I whispered.

“I’ve had feelings for you since the restaurant,” he said finally. “Since you closed your eyes and said my cologne smelled incredible with that look on your face like you’d just tasted something divine. Since you laughed at my ridiculous curtsy. Since you argued with me about taking the perfume and then accepted it anyway.”

“Tee—”

“I took this project because I wanted a reason to be around you. I know that’s probably the least professional thing I’ve ever done, but I couldn’t let someone else work with you. The thought of another consultant spending hours on calls with you, getting to see you think through problems, making you laugh—I couldn’t stand it.”

He was close now, close enough that I could smell that perfume that had been torturing me every day for five months.

“This is a terrible idea,” I said, but I didn’t move away.

“The worst,” he agreed.

“We’re working together. There are contracts. Professional boundaries. Your team already thinks something’s going on.”

“They’re not subtle, are they?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

It was such a simple question, but it held everything, all the complications and risks and reasons this could go wrong.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “What do you want?”

“Honestly?” He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I want to take you to dinner. Real dinner, not ‘discussing the project’ dinner. I want to make you laugh. I want to hear about your terrible dance phase and your family and what you’re reading and what makes you happy. I want to see where this goes without the project hanging over us.”

“The project doesn’t end for another seven months.”

“I know.”

“And even then, we’ll probably work together again. Your firm now handles most of our big integrations.”

“I know that too.”

“So what do we do?”

He smiled, soft, genuine, vulnerable in a way I’d never seen him. “We could wait. Finish the project, maintain boundaries, do everything properly.”

“We could,” I agreed.

“Or...” He paused. “Or we could acknowledge that this thing between us isn’t going away, and figure out how to navigate it together.”

“That’s risky.”

“Everything worth having is risky.”

He was right. And I was tired, so tired of pretending I didn’t feel this, didn’t want this.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay?”

“Let’s figure it out together.”

His smile could’ve lit up the entire city. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But we have rules. Work stays work. We tell our teams so there’s no weirdness. And if this doesn’t work out—”

“It will.”

“If it doesn’t,” I insisted, “we handle it like adults and the project doesn’t suffer.”

“Deal.” He held out his hand, and I took it. His grip was warm, solid, sure.

“We should probably fix the system crash first though,” I said.

He laughed. “Yeah. Probably.”

We went back to the main conference room, where both teams were pretending they hadn’t been speculating about what was happening. Temi looked up, saw our faces, and grinned.

“Did you two finally figure it out?”

“Focus on the crash, Temi,” Tee said, but he was smiling.

We fixed the system by 3 AM. The issue was a timing conflict in the middleware, something that would’ve been obvious if we hadn’t all been exhausted and emotionally wrung out.

As everyone packed up to leave, Tee pulled me aside.

“Tomorrow—well, today technically—we should probably talk about how we want to handle this.”

“Agreed. Lunch?”

“It’s a date.” He paused. “An actual date. Not a work meeting disguised as a meal.”

“I know,” I said, smiling. “I’ll try to remember.”

Dating while working together was exactly as complicated as expected and somehow more wonderful than I’d imagined.

We set boundaries: no PDA in professional settings, no letting personal disagreements affect project decisions, honest communication about everything. It worked, mostly.

Tee was thoughtful in ways that surprised me. He remembered that I hated making phone calls before coffee, so he’d text instead of calling in the mornings. He noticed when I was stressed and would show up with my favourite local food and a willingness to just sit quietly while I worked.

He was also infuriatingly stubborn.

“We should implement user training before full deployment,” he said during a project review.

“We don’t have budget for training,” I countered.

“Then we need to allocate budget. Untrained users will create more problems than—”

“I understand the theory, Tee, but the reality is we have constraints.”

“And I’m telling you those constraints are short-sighted.”

We were in his office, and Temi had very tactfully left us alone twenty minutes ago when our “discussion” started getting heated.

“Are you being difficult because you actually think I’m wrong, or because you’re in a mood?” I asked.

“I’m being difficult because I’m right and you’re being stubborn.”

“I’m being stubborn? Have you met yourself?”

He stared at me. I stared back. And then, infuriatingly, he smiled.

“We’re having our first work fight as a couple,” he said.

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Tejumade Coker, I swear—”

He kissed me. Right there in his office with the door only half-closed and his team probably listening from their desks.

When he pulled back, I was too flustered to remember what we’d been arguing about.

“That’s cheating,” I managed.

“Is it working?”

“...Maybe.”

“We’ll find budget for training,” he said. “I’ll talk to finance about reallocating from the contingency fund.”

“Fine. But if this sets us back—”

“It won’t. Trust me?”

I did. That was the terrifying part, I trusted him completely.

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We told our families at different times, with different results.

My siblings and cousins were ecstatic. My mother was thrilled.

“Finally! I’d started thinking you’d sworn off men entirely after that foolish boy.”

“Mum—”

“And a Coker! Anu, do you know who the Cokers are?”

“I know, Mum.”

“Old Lagos money. Good family. Your grandmother will be beside herself.”

She wasn’t wrong. My grandmother had actually cried when she heard, then immediately started planning outfits for when she’d meet him.

Tee’s mother was... more complicated.

“She wants to meet you,” he said one evening. We were at his apartment, cooking dinner together (well, he was cooking; I was providing moral support and stealing tastes).

“That’s good, right?”

“Wellllll… It’s terrifying. My mother is... particular.”

“Tee, I’ve met particular. I went to university with some of the most particular people in Nigeria.”

“This is different. She has opinions. Very strong opinions. About everything.”

“About who you date?”

“Especially about who I date.”

The meeting was scheduled for Sunday brunch at the Coker family home in Ikoyi. I spent the entire week anxious, trying on different outfits, making Jay quiz me on current events and appropriate topics of conversation.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Jay said, watching me change for the sixth time. “You’re smart, accomplished, and her son is crazy about you. You’ll be fine.”

“What if she hates me?”

“Then she has terrible judgment and Tee will choose you anyway.”

The Coker home was exactly as intimidating as I’d feared, sprawling, immaculate, filled with art that probably cost more than my annual salary. Tee’s mother, Mrs. Folasade Coker, was elegant in that effortless way that only comes from generational wealth and excellent posture.

“So you’re…. Anu,” she said, looking me over with sharp eyes. “Tejumade has told me about you.”

“All good things, I hope.”

“He said you’re brilliant, stubborn, and make him work for everything.” She smiled slightly. “I like that. Too many girls make it too easy.”

Brunch was an interrogation disguised as polite conversation. She asked about my family (middle-class, respectable), my education (scholarship to a good university), my career trajectory (ambitious but grounded), my intentions with her son (serious but we’re taking it slow).

By the end, I was exhausted but I think I’d passed whatever test she’d been administering.

“You’ll do,” she said as we were leaving. Coming from Mrs. Folasade Coker, that was practically a ringing endorsement.

In the car, Tee was grinning.

“What?” I demanded.

“She liked you. I can tell.”

“How can you possibly tell? She barely smiled the entire time.”

“She asked about your grandmother’s health. She only does that if she’s planning to see you again.”

“That’s the bar? Health questions?”

“With my mother, yes.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. “Your family is terrifying.”

“I know. You handled it perfectly though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He kissed the top of my head. “My mother called you ‘sharp.’ That’s the highest compliment she gives.”

We’d been so careful, but it was bound to happen eventually.

The Bennington project was in its final phase. We were exhausted, stressed, and I’d been working sixteen-hour days to hit the deadline. Tee had been pushing for an extension, but I’d refused, the client needed this done, and I wasn’t going to be the reason we failed.

“You’re going to burn out,” he said for the tenth time that week.

“I’m fine.”

“Anu, you fell asleep at your desk yesterday. Gloria found you there this morning.”

“I just closed my eyes for a minute.”

“It was four hours!”

We were in my apartment. He’d shown up with dinner (that I was too tired to eat) and concern (that I was too stubborn to accept).

“Why are you really pushing so hard?” he asked. “The client would understand a two-week extension.”

“Because I need to prove I can do this.”

“Prove to who?”

“To everyone! To the client, to my team, to your team, to—” I stopped.

“To me?” he asked quietly.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I just need this to work.”

“It is working. You’ve done an incredible job. But you’re running yourself into the ground trying to be perfect.”

“That’s rich coming from you. Mr. ‘I Don’t Accept Anything Less Than Excellence.’”

“That’s different.”

“How? How is it different?”

“Because I’m not doing it to prove something! I’m not trying to show that I deserve to be here or that I earned my place. You already know you’re brilliant, Anu. Everyone knows it. The only person who seems to doubt it is you.”

His words hit harder than I expected. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s completely fair. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, and you’re working yourself to death because you think if you slow down for even a second, someone’s going to realise you don’t belong.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Then help me understand! Talk to me instead of shutting me out every time things get hard.”

“I’m not shutting you out!”

“You’ve canceled our last three dates. You don’t answer my calls unless it’s about work. You’re so focused on this project that you’ve forgotten there’s supposed to be an ‘us’ in there somewhere.”

The silence that followed was crushing.

“Maybe there shouldn’t be,” I said quietly.

Tee looked like I’d slapped him. “What?”

“Maybe this was a mistake. Mixing work and personal, trying to do both. Maybe we should’ve just stayed professional. This is all happening too fast, us, this relationship, everything. It feels... unreal. Like it’s too good to be true and any moment it’s going to fall apart.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? This is exactly what I was afraid of. The project is suffering because I’m distracted. I’m suffering because I’m trying to balance too much. And maybe... maybe I’m not worthy of this kind of love. This kind of attention. Maybe—”

Maybe it would be easier if we just—”

“Easier?” He laughed, but there was no humour in it. “You want easier? Fine. I’ll make it easy.”

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

“Tee, wait—”

“No. You want space to focus on the project? You’ve got it. I’ll keep things strictly professional from now on. Wouldn’t want to be a distraction.”

The door closed behind him, and I stood in my apartment surrounded by takeout containers and project files, wondering how everything had fallen apart so fast.

The silence in my apartment was deafening.

I’d done it again. Pushed away the best thing in my life because I was scared. Because I didn’t believe I deserved it. Because it was easier to run than to stay and fight.

My phone sat on the coffee table, Tee’s name at the top of my recent calls. One call. That’s all it would take to fix this.

But I couldn’t make myself reach for it.

What if he was right? What if I really did want easy over us?

What if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life?

Love (and apologies for the cliffhanger),
Anu 💔

See you next week for Part 4😉

I’d been using it randomly for the past three weeks. Just a spray on my wrists, sometimes on my neck when I was feeling bold. It became a silent part of my morning routine: coffee, emails, shower, the perfume. My friend, Jay, had noticed immediately.

“You smell different,” she’d said one morning, appearing in my doorway like a nosy ghost. “Good different. Expensive different. Did you finally take my advice and treat yourself?”

“Something like that,” I’d replied, not quite ready to explain the whole ‘stranger gave me his cologne’ story. Jay would’ve had me married with three kids and a dog named after the restaurant by the end of that conversation.

The Bennington project was moving fast, faster than any project I’d handled before. My PA, Gloria, had been working overtime to coordinate with Dr. Tejumade’s office. He was the specialist in integrated systems management, the kind of person who had a six-month waiting list and didn’t take calls from just anyone.

Somehow, Gloria had worked her magic.

“Meeting’s set for Friday, 1 PM, at the Meridian Building,” she’d announced that morning, sliding a folder across my desk with the kind of satisfaction only a PA who’d achieved the impossible could have. “His PA finally confirmed. Apparently, Dr. Tejumade is very particular about his projects, but something about Bennington caught his interest.”

“Gloria, you’re a miracle worker.”

“I know. I’ve already added it to my performance review notes.”

“Young lady, pleaseeee” I rolled my eyes laughing and shushed her out of my office.

Friday arrived covered in that perfect crisp but not cold, sunny but not aggressive weather. I’d changed my outfit three times that morning (professional but not trying too hard, confident but approachable, competent but not intimidating) before Jay physically removed the curling iron from my hand.

“Anu. It’s a work meeting. You look great. Stop spiralling.”

“I’m not spiralling. I’m preparing.”

“You’ve changed your earrings twice. That’s spiralling.”

She wasn’t wrong. But this meeting mattered. Dr. Tejumade could make or break the Bennington project, and I needed to be perfect.

Read part 1

I arrived at the Meridian Building fifteen minutes early, a habit I’d developed after reading too many articles about power dynamics and punctuality. The lobby was all glass and chrome, the kind of place where even the plants looked expensive. I checked in with the receptionist, a woman with perfect winged eyeliner who looked like she’d never had a stressful day in her life.

“Dr. Tejumade’s office is on the ninth floor. The elevator is to your right.”

The elevator was playing soft jazz, which felt both sophisticated and vaguely ominous. I checked my reflection in the mirrored walls, hair still good, lipstick not on my teeth, clothes sitting right. Professional. Competent. Totally not thinking about how my entire career might depend on the next two hours.

The ninth floor was quieter than I expected. Cream-coloured walls, abstract art that probably cost more than my car, and a reception desk where a young man with wire-rimmed glasses looked up as I approached.

“You must be Ms. Anu,” he said warmly. “I’m David, Dr. Tejumade’s PA. We’ve been emailing.”

“Yes! Nice to finally put a face to the emails.”

“Likewise. Dr. Tejumade is just wrapping up a call. He should be ready in just a moment. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee, tea?”

“Water would be great, thank you.”

He disappeared through a side door, and I took a seat in the waiting area, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I should have let Gloria come with me and moved that other meeting. I pulled out my phone to review my notes one more time, but my brain was already three steps ahead, running through potential questions, optimal answers, contingency plans if—

“Ms. Anu?”

I looked up, and my brain short-circuited.

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Standing in the doorway, looking unfairly good in a charcoal grey suit with the jacket unbuttoned, was the man from the restaurant. The perfume man. The spring rolls and curtsy and generous stranger man.

You.

For a solid five seconds, neither of us moved. I watched recognition flicker across his face, except it wasn’t surprise. It was something else. Something that looked almost like... satisfaction?

“I” I started, then stopped, because what exactly do you say when your random restaurant stranger turns out to be the consultant your entire project depends on?

His smile was slow, warm, and absolutely devastating. “Ms. Anu. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr. Tejumade Coker, but please, call me Teju.”

Tejumade Coker.

Tee Coker.

The consultant with the six-month waiting list and the legendary reputation was perfume curtsy man.

The universe was either conspiring or laughing loudly. Possibly both.

“I... yes. Hi. Hello.” Words. Where the hell are my words. I needed to form actual words. “It’s nice to meet you. Officially.”

“Officially,” he repeated, and there was something in his tone that made my stomach flip. “Please, come in.”

He stepped aside, gesturing to his office, and I walked past him on legs that felt suddenly unreliable. As I passed, I caught a whiff of that scent, the one I’d been wearing often for the past three weeks. Except on him, it was warmer somehow, mixed with whatever his actual skin smelled like.

Focus, Anu. Focus.

His office was... not what I expected. I’d imagined something sterile and minimalist, all sharp edges and intimidating bookshelves. But this was warm, wooden desk, comfortable chairs, plants that actually looked alive, and one wall completely covered in what looked like a hand-drawn mind map of interconnected systems.

“I have to say,” Tee said, closing the door behind us, “when David mentioned we had a meeting with the Bennington project lead, I didn’t expect it to be you.”

I turned to face him, trying to gather whatever professional composure I had left. “You knew?”

“That you were the project lead? Not until this morning.” He moved to his desk but didn’t sit, instead leaning against it in a way that should’ve looked casual but somehow felt deliberate. “That we’d be working together eventually? I had a suspicion.”

“A suspicion.” Hmmmm

“Your company closed the Bennington deal. I specialise in exactly what Bennington needs. The dots weren’t hard to connect.” His smile turned slightly mischievous. “Though I’ll admit, I didn’t expect the connection to happen quite this soon.”

My brain was trying to process multiple things at once: the fact that this was the Tejumade Coker, the fact that he’d somehow known we might work together, the fact that he was looking at me like... like...

“Wait.” Something clicked. “At the restaurant. You... you knew who I was?”

He had the decency to look slightly sheepish. “I recognised your name when David showed me the initial inquiry. Your company’s work on the Morrison project was impressive. I’d been following it.”

“So you just... what? Decided to give me an expensive cologne and not mention that we’d probably be working together?” “So much for stranger kindness”

“Would you have preferred I introduced myself as ‘Tejumade Coker, the consultant you’ll be meeting with soon’? That seemed like it would’ve ruined the moment.”

He had a point. A frustrating, charming point.

“So the perfume...” I started.

“Was genuinely just sitting in my car, and you really seemed to love it.” He pushed off from the desk, taking a step closer. “I thought about saying something, but you looked like you’d been having a rough few months. Sometimes people just need a random act of kindness, not a networking opportunity.”

My heart was doing something complicated in my chest. “That’s... actually really thoughtful.”

“I have my moments.” He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Should we sit? I promise to keep things strictly professional from here on out.”

“Professional. Right.” I sat down, trying to ignore how hyperaware I suddenly was of every movement, every breath. “That’s... yes. Good.”

Except the moment we both sat down, his eyes caught mine, and I saw it, that flicker of something that was definitely not professional. It was there and gone in a second, but I’d seen it.

This was going to be impossible.

“So,” he said, pulling out a tablet and stylus, his voice shifting into something more businesslike. “Tell me about Bennington. What’s the biggest challenge you’re facing with integration?”

And just like that, we were in work mode. I walked him through the project scope, the timeline constraints, the resource limitations. He asked sharp, insightful questions that proved exactly why he had a six-month waiting list. His mind worked fast, I could see him connecting dots, mapping systems in real-time on his tablet.

It should’ve been intimidating. Instead, it was kind of... hot?

Focus, Anu.

“The issue isn’t the technology,” I was explaining, gesturing at the project outline I’d pulled up on my laptop. “It’s getting three different legacy systems to communicate without completely rebuilding from scratch.”

“Which you don’t have the budget for,” he finished.

“Exactly.”

He was quiet for a moment, stylus tapping against his tablet in a rhythm that I was definitely not finding distracting. “What if we approached it as a phased integration instead of trying to force compatibility?”

“Phased how?”

He turned his tablet toward me, and I leaned in to see the diagram he’d sketched. As he explained his thinking, his hand moved across the screen, drawing connections, showing workflows. At one point, he leaned closer to point something out, and I caught that scent again, warm, familiar, mine-but-not-mine.

I forced myself to focus on what he was saying, not on how close he was or how his voice dropped slightly and his brows furrowed when he was concentrating.

“That could actually work,” I said slowly, my brain catching up to his solution. “If we phase it, we could test integration at each stage instead of waiting for full deployment.”

“Exactly. And if something breaks—”

“We haven’t committed the entire system yet.” I looked up, excited, and found him already looking at me. Our faces were inches apart, a breath away.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then David’s voice crackled through the intercom: “Dr. Tejumade, your 3:30 is here.”

Tee pulled back smoothly, pressing the intercom button. “Thank you, David. Please have them wait. I’ll need another fifteen minutes.”

He turned back to me, professional mask firmly in place. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

“Phased integration,” I managed, trying to ignore the fact that my heart was racing.

We worked through the details for another twenty minutes. Despite the underlying tension, or maybe because of it, we fell into an easy rhythm. He’d suggest something, I’d build on it, we’d refine together. It felt collaborative, natural, like we’d been working together for years instead of minutes.

“I think we have a solid foundation,” he said finally, saving the notes on his tablet. “I’ll need to run some preliminary analysis, but I’m confident we can make this work.”

“So you’ll take the project?”

“On one condition.”

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My stomach dropped. Here it came, the catch, the complication, the thing that would make this impossible.

“What condition?”

He smiled, and there was that mischievous glint again. “You have to stop looking so nervous every time I look at you. We’re going to be working closely together for the next few months. If you keep treating me like a stranger, this is going to be very awkward.”

“You are a stranger. Technically.”

“Technically, I’m the man who gave you his cologne because you complimented it out loud in a restaurant.” He stood, extending his hand. “I’d say that makes us at least acquaintances.”

I stood too, taking his hand. His grip was firm, warm, and lasted just a fraction longer than strictly necessary.

“Acquaintances,” I repeated. “Right.”

“Lunch?” he asked, still holding my hand.

I pulled away gently, smiling. “I’m sorry, I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

“Alright, dinner to discuss the contract details then.”

“I don’t talk about work outside work,” I said, my smile widening.

He took a step back, an amused look crossing his face. “You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” I said, still holding his gaze.

“You’re going to be trouble, Ms. Anu.”

“We are going to have to see about that now, Mr. Tejumade.”

“I’ll have David send over the preliminary contract and timeline by Monday,” he said, walking me to the door. “And Ms. Anu?”

I turned back. “Yes?”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad it’s you. The project will be much more interesting this way.”

I left his office in a daze, managed a polite goodbye to David, and somehow made it back to the elevator before the full weight of what just happened hit me.

I was going to be working with him. For months. In close quarters. While wearing his perfume and trying to pretend I didn’t find him absolutely, devastatingly attractive.

My phone buzzed. A text from Jay: How’d the meeting go???

I typed back: I need wine and at least two hours to explain.

Her response was immediate: OH MY GOD WHAT HAPPENED

I smiled despite myself, stepping into the elevator.

Later. I promise.

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As the doors closed, I caught my reflection in the mirrored walls. I was smiling, actually smiling, the kind that reached my eyes and made my cheeks hurt.

The elevator dinged, and as the doors opened, I blinked, suddenly I wasn’t in the Meridian Building anymore. I was standing at the entrance of church, sunlight streaming through the glass windows. Tee was waiting at the end of the aisle, looking nervous in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, our friends and family seated around the church watching with eager anticipation.

“It’s time,” my mum said excitedly, snapping me from my wandering thought on how we got here. She slipped her arm into mine, my uncle at my other arm looking ever serious, but the happiness was visibly written all over his face.

Who would have thought I was getting married to the courteous stranger I had met two years ago in the most random manner?

The orchestra had started my favourite “Can’t Help Falling in Love” rendition. Tee turned and our eyes met. He mouthed “I love you” and contentment washed over me again.

I had found my forever person.

Now go find your own perfume man😉, Yours in delulu and destiny…

Anu❤️

They say love comes when you’re not looking, and I sure wasn’t looking when I found Tee…

Three months. That’s how long it had been since I discovered the “love of my life”—the person I’d been with for over six months, was with me because of a bet. A bet with friends who thought I was the tough nut that needed cracking.

Cute, right?

Yeah. I didn’t think so either.

I was the challenge, the conquest, the friend who had simply refused to date. I wouldn’t blame them for the curiosity, but the execution? That was cruel.

When I found out, I didn’t scream or throw things or demand explanations. I disappeared. No calls, no messages, no explanation. Just... off radar.

My friends tried everything to coax me out of my cocoon, surprise visits, care packages, group chat bombardment, brunch invitations, movie nights, “just a quick coffee?” texts. All futile. I wasn’t interested in being saved. I wanted to be left alone with my thoughts, my work, and my books. They were safer company.

Then came that cold day in early October. It had rained from daybreak till mid-afternoon, the kind of rain that should have kept me indoors nursing my melancholy. But at 3 PM, a miracle arrived, an email lit up my screen: my company had just closed a major deal.

For the first time in months, since the breakup, something good had happened. I felt something other than numbness. I felt proud. Accomplished. Like maybe I was more than just someone’s punchline. I decided I needed a drink to celebrate. At least I deserved that much.

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I headed to my usual restaurant, only to find it teeming with people. I’d forgotten it was their Thursday social night, clusters of friends scattered around tables, their laughter bouncing off the walls. I almost turned back, but then I spotted it: a hidden corner table, partially hidden by a decorative screen, away from the chatter and noise. Perfect.

I settled in with a glass of wine and complementary spring rolls. I hated spring rolls on a normal day, too greasy, too bland; but the waitress recommended them with such enthusiasm that I couldn’t refuse. When they arrived, golden and crispy with some kind of sweet chilli glaze, I understood. Something about today’s batch was different. Good different.

I settled into that comfortable space between contentment and solitude and I was soon lost in thought, sipping and munching, letting the warmth of the wine ease the tightness in my chest and occasionally people-watching without actually engaging. It felt safe. Manageable.

I’d barely been there an hour, halfway through my second glass of Merlot when I noticed someone approaching the empty table beside me. Close enough that we were sharing the same tucked-away corner, far enough that conversation wasn’t required. As soon as he sat down, his perfume filled the space. Not the choking, overpowering type that makes you want to hold your breath because it announces “I’m here and you’ll know it”, this was something subtle, warm and masculine, woody with something almost sweet underneath. Cedar maybe? Vanilla? a scent that dominates the air and reminds you to close your eyes and breathe deeply.

So I did. Eyes closed, deep breath, and then, without thinking: “God, Wow, that smells amazing.” I muttered.

I heard soft laughter and my eyes flew open.

“Does it really smell that good?” he asked, the voice came from the table next to me. He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, amusement dancing in his eyes.

My face went hot. “I… did I say that out loud?” The realisation hit me like a cold splash of water

His smile widened. “Very much out loud.”

I wanted to sink into the floor, maybe tunnel my way home. Instead, with heat creeping up my neck, I laughed, a short, embarrassed bark of a sound. “Well. This is mortifying. But yes, for the record, it smells amazing.”

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He was tall, I could tell even with him sitting down. Late twenties, maybe early thirties, with one of those faces that looked like it smiled often. Dark eyes that crinkled at the corners. He had this naughty smile on his face, the kind that suggested he was enjoying my embarrassment just a little too much. “Tell you what,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I have a brand new bottle of this in my car. Just picked it up today, actually. I could give it to you if you love it that much. You can have it.”

I blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The perfume. You clearly appreciate it more than I do. It’s yours.”

I looked at him, genuinely amused. Why offer the entire bottle when the name would suffice?

“Oh no no, it’s fine,” I said, shaking my head quickly. “Just tell me the name, I can buy my own. I’m sure it’s expensive, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to take it from you, partly because you’re also a stranger.”

He laughed and nodded. “Touché, you could. But I insist. It might be a hassle to find it here, import only. Besides,” he shrugged, “I travel a lot. I’ll grab another one on my next trip within the month.”

“That’s…” I searched for words. “That’s actually insane. I’m a complete stranger. I could be a perfume thief with very elaborate methods.”

That made him laugh, a real, unguarded sound. “Are you? A perfume thief?”

“Not historically, no.”

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There was something sincere about the gesture that made me pause. Against my better judgment, I considered it.

“Then I think we’re good.” He stood up, and I realised I’d been right, he was tall, easily over six feet. “Back in five minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”

Before I could protest further, he was gone, weaving through the crowded restaurant toward the door. I sat there, baffled, holding my wine glass like it might have answers.

True to his word, he returned five minutes later with a sleek black box. He set it on my table with an exaggerated bow; a full, Victorian gentleman courtly curtsy that looked absolutely ridiculous on a man his size. I couldn’t help it; I giggled. Actual, genuine laughter that surprised me with how natural it felt. There was something endearing about it, something that felt light for the first time in months.

“There,” he said, straightening up with theatrical flair. “One previously unwanted perfume, gifted to its true admirer.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I said, still grinning.

“I prefer ‘charmingly theatrical,’ but I’ll take ridiculous.”

“Well, thank you, Sir. This is the weirdest thing that’s happened to me in months,” I said, picking up the box.

“Good weird or bad weird?”

I thought about it. “Good weird. Definitely good weird.”

He settled back into his chair. “So, what brings you out on social night? You don’t strike me as someone who came here for the social aspect.”

“That obvious?”

“You’ve been protecting this corner like it’s a fortress. Either you’re antisocial or you’re hiding.”

“Can’t it be both?” I turned the perfume box over in my hands, still not quite believing this was happening. “I’m celebrating, actually. My company closed a major deal today.”

“That’s fantastic! What kind of work do you do?”

We talked for a bit, nothing deep, just easy conversation about the restaurant, our jobs, the rain, how neither of us could believe how packed it was. When his friend arrived, he gave me a small wave and turned his attention away. No request for my number, no “we should do this again sometime.” Just a kind gesture with no strings attached.

I stayed another twenty minutes before heading home, the perfume box tucked safely in my bag. My phone buzzed as I was walking to my car, a text from my PA. She’d finally gotten through to the specialist we needed for the new project. Could I take a call?

Within minutes, I was on the phone discussing schedules, timelines and logistics, the restaurant and the generous stranger with the dangerous smile already fading into the background of my very busy, very full life.

I didn’t think much about him after that. Why would I? It was just a random encounter, a bright spot in an otherwise ordinary evening.

Or so I thought…

From your resident perfume thief with surprisingly good taste

Anu❤️

Stay Tuned for the concluding part (maybe)😉

“You cannot question God. No one can question God.”

This was a phrase I grew up hearing over and over again. It echoed in movies, in condolences whispered after a loss, in the hearts of sympathisers trying to offer comfort. It was everywhere. But to be honest, it never quite sat well with me. I didn’t fully understand it, but something about it felt incomplete.

When I lost someone dear, those were the only words I heard again, I kept hearing it over and over again: “You cannot question God.” But at that moment, they didn’t feel like comfort. They felt like silence. Like being hushed when all I needed were answers, even if they were hard to hear. After that, it fully dawned on me, the weight of those words. I wanted to know why — why now, why this person, why in this way? And yet, the mantra said I wasn’t even allowed to ask.

I didn’t dwell much on it then. After all, it was a common saying. A well known mantra. Words meant to comfort you into accepting what you had no control over, what you probably didn’t expect, not to even talk of processing.

So I buried it. I pushed down my questions, hidden in the place where I kept things I thought didn’t need answers. After all, this was the way things were, wasn’t it? Words meant to force acceptance, to remind you of your helplessness.

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But a few years later, when a friend lost a loved one, I heard it again. She asked “Why, God?” and someone quickly hushed her: “Don’t say that, oh! You cannot question God. That’s a sin, don’t commit sin o!”

Those words floated in the air and this time, it struck me differently. Why not? They were just questions. Why couldn’t she ask them, much less to her own Creator? These were not words of rebellion, they were cries of grief, longing for understanding. The words stirred something in me, I didn’t know exactly what it was at the time, but it didn’t feel right. That thought stayed with me and I realised how dismissive the statement could be.

Sometime later, during a conversation with friends, someone pointed out that the phrase was offhanded. Soon enough, arguments were flying. I said I didn’t think the phrase was right, especially in the context it was often used. But someone completely opposed me. She asked if I would ever question my dad if he took something from me or withheld something I wasn’t ready to use.

And honestly, my answer was yes. I am a “why” person. Some people call it the firstborn authority complex, but I’ve always wanted to know why. When I said yes, she scoffed. Maybe partly because my dad had died and I didn’t know what I was talking about or maybe, for her, it could never be her dad, her father was unquestionable, you wouldn’t even dare. You wouldn’t get a response and would most likely be punished for asking.

At that moment, I understood perfectly, it made sense.

Many people view God through the lens of their earthly fathers or authority figures. If their father was authoritarian, they see God as unquestionable, unapproachable. While this isn’t always “wrong,” I believe this view can be limiting.

God as a Loving Father

The Bible paints a very different picture of God:

• “See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!” (1 John 3:1)

• “If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!” (Matthew 7:11)

God doesn’t hush us. He invites us closer. He wants us to seek Him, to ask questions, to wrestle with Him. Curiosity doesn’t offend God, it draws us nearer to Him.

God wants us to understand Him. And to do that, you need a level of curiosity — curiosity that naturally breeds questions. You may not always get answers in words, dreams, or revelations, but He often takes you through experiences that give clarity and understanding as to why certain things happen.

Questioning vs Seeking Clarity

This is where many get it wrong. There is a difference between questioning God’s authority and seeking clarity from God.

• Questioning His authority is rooted in pride: “You have no right to do this. You’re wrong. I know better.”

• Seeking clarity is rooted in trust: “Father, I don’t understand this. Help me see.”

Think of a child who asks, “Daddy, why is the sky blue?” The father doesn’t see it as disrespect. It’s curiosity, a sign of trust, an invitation to relationship. But if the child says, “You’re wrong, Daddy, the sky should be green,” that’s defiance.

God invites and welcomes the first, but not the second.

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Not a Dictator, But a Father

I remember an aunty in church telling us about how we could negotiate with God, so when anyone says “you cannot question God” , I often wonder if they’ve read the stories of those who walked closely with Him. The Bible is full of men and women who not only asked “why” but even negotiated with God, and He listened with patience, A Dictator would never give room for that.

See;

• Abraham pleaded with God over Sodom and Gomorrah, asking if God would destroy the city even if righteous people lived there. He bargained with God, reducing the number from fifty to ten, and God honoured the conversation (Genesis 18:22–33).

• Moses questioned God many times, especially when he felt unqualified. He even reminded God of His promises when God wanted to destroy the Israelites after they sinned, interceding on their behalf and God relented (Exodus 32:9–14).

• Hezekiah, when told he would die, turned his face to the wall, wept bitterly, and pleaded with God. In response, God extended his life by fifteen years (Isaiah 38:1–5).

• Even Job, in all his suffering, poured out endless “whys” to God and though God didn’t answer in the way Job expected, He still responded, showing that He was listening (Job 38–42).

These examples remind us that questions don’t scare God. Negotiations don’t threaten Him. Tears don’t drive Him away. If anything, they draw us closer to His heart.

God is not a dictator demanding silent submission. He is a Father who longs for intimacy with His children. He wants us to bring our confusion, our grief, our endless “why’s” to Him. Silence is not holiness. Curiosity is not rebellion. Asking questions doesn’t weaken faith, in-fact, it can strengthen it.

So the next time someone says, “You cannot question God,” remember: you can seek Him, you can cry to Him, and you can ask Him. Because He is not just God Almighty. He is your Father.

God’s shoulders are broad enough for your questions, and His heart is big enough for your doubts. Bring them to Him. His love is endless enough to embrace both.

XO (From a girl with a loving Father ☺️)

Anu❤️

A close friend got married on Saturday. The afterparty was today, Sunday. I was already exhausted from the main wedding activities and almost skipped it, but I thought; “it’s just for a few hours, If the bride and groom can still show up smiling, then I can too”. Besides, it was supposed to be a relaxing evening. So, reluctantly, I got out of bed and got dressed.

And just like that, it delivered, joy, laughter, and warm faces I hadn’t seen in years. Life had flung us all to different parts of the world, adulthood was the ghetto, but here we were again. For a few hours, I forgot everything else.

Still, in between the laughter and all of the fun, I was subtly reminded that mine was next. I wouldn’t blame them tbh, I’ve been single all my life. A situationship heartbreak at 23 or 24 scarred me deeply. Since then, I simply… didn’t care to try again, nothing or maybe no one could convince me enough to change my mind towards relationships, I’m almost 30 now, and though my friends don’t say it too loudly, I can tell they’re worried I may never change my mind.

Eventually, my social battery ran dry, and it was time to head home. Work awaited, I had a tall pile waiting on my table — a new client with a long list of properties to inspect. I had prayed for moments like this in business, and they had come… but oh dear lord, I needed rest, I needed a break to just relax and sleep longer.

I was walking toward the exit, defeated by the Uber and Bolt apps that kept saying “No drivers available.” the drivers were all busy and I would have to wait for God knows how long before I would get one. So I decided to try my luck with any passing cab. Just a few meters from the hall, I spotted him walking toward me from the car park.

My heart jumped. I had no idea why. But it leapt, and my feet suddenly turned to jelly. I should have just driven, but I knew I was going to have some drinks and didn’t want to risk driving tired and tipsy.

He smiled warmly as he approached and said my name. I couldn’t form proper words to respond. Did I have a crush on this man?

“Heading home already?” he asked, still smiling.

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Ugggghhhh…

How could a man look and sound this good at the same time? I broke out of my trance just in time to respond, before it became awkward.

“Yeah… I’ve got a lot of work to finish before tomorrow. This weekend’s been packed, as you know, but I’m not complaining.”

He laughed briefly,

Soft

Effortless

Revealing the most perfectly imperfect dentition I’d ever seen. Why had I been actively avoiding this man all year?

Was it the way he effortlessly disarmed me? Throwing all my inhibitions out of the window. Or the strange sense of calm and security I always felt when he was near

Whatever it was, I was not sure I liked it and I intended to not find out.

“Didn’t drive today?” he asked, glancing around.

I shook my head. “Didn’t want to risk driving tired and tipsy. I figured I’d just call an Uber,” I answered avoiding his gaze.

He nodded thoughtfully. “I saw you come in earlier and figured you might need a ride back home. I’ve been hanging around the car park — I know you always escape early.”

It was my turn to laugh and I started to giggle. He’d been watching me? Do I always sneak out early?

“So Anu… do you mind if I drop you off?” he asked gently.

My brain screamed No! This man was danger, not the kind you run from, but the kind that slowly melts away all the walls you’ve built. And I had worked hard on mine.

But my heels were killing me, my legs ached, and well… I nodded.

He smiled and took my bag, leading me to his car.

When we got there, he rushed ahead and opened the door for me. “A princess like you shouldn’t be opening doors when I’m around,” he said with a playful curtsey.

I laughed and shook my head. My chest felt warmer. Was the ice melting? It was such a small gesture… and yet, it made me happy. When was I this happy over small gestures?

I paused by the door, trying to figure out how to climb in without tripping over my dress. Damn this long dress I was wearing, I knew I should have gone for something shorter, on second thought, why was his car this high, or was it me, was I just this tiny?

He seemed to have noticed my brief struggle. “May I?” he asked.

Before I could register and answer, he swept me off the ground, in one swoop — bridal style.

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I gasped, cupping my mouth in shock. My heart fluttered, butterflies bursting inside me like a thousand paper wings. Did this man just lift me so easily? Why was I even feeling this way? What was this familiar warmth? Who was this man?

He set me down gently and apologised. I waved it off. “I’m fine, Just unexpected,” I whispered, trying to catch my breath, and stabilise my rouge heart beat.

“If you’re not too tired,” he said, still beside me, “would you mind grabbing a drink or maybe seeing a movie?”

Another opportunity to turn him down. I should’ve taken it. Today’s happening was enough for one day, I should be running far away from this man, I knew better than to consider it, or did I?

I looked into his eyes and something in me softened.

“Just a drink,” I replied. “I’m not exactly dressed for a movie.”

“That’s fine. We’ll save the movie for another time,” he smiled.

Another time? What gave him the confidence that I wanted to see him again? I said nothing and just nodded. I’d call my PA later to wrap up work before tomorrow's meeting.

He walked to the driver’s side, and that’s when I noticed his friends watching. One of them patted him on the back and he started to jog and dance, giddy like a child on Christmas morning.

Did he forget I could see him?

Why was he so excited? It was adorable and funny and I decided not to overthink it, at least not yet.

I smiled and made a mental note to ask one of the guys I knew about it later.

We were on our way soon, chatting about the wedding, work, and random things. And just as I was about to respond to something he said…

My wrist buzzed.

I glanced down at the screen.

It was my 6:00 AM alarm.

I woke up.

It was a dream.

🌸Some dreams feel so real, they leave you smiling long after you wake up.
And some men, even in your imagination remind you that maybe, just maybe…
you’re ready to be held again and they are absolutely worth the wait.

With love, from a girl who probably fell in love way before she accepted it.

Anu❤️

Earlier in the month, I had taken a bold step and quit freelancing, something I never thought I’d do, I had been a freelancer since my Uni days. I told myself that I needed structure. Stability. Something corporate, maybe. Something to give my weeks a name and my calendar a new found purpose (truthfully, I think it was the economy driving my desire). So here I was, in the in-between; job hunting, upskilling, and trying to give my startup my whole heart again while I waited for the next open door.

The moment felt normal, all too normal, until it didn’t.

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A car approached the café slowly and pulled up directly in front of the window where I was seated. Instinctively, I turned. And that’s when I saw him.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

I squinted, not sure if I was seeing clearly or if my imagination had taken a new job as a tormentor. (Note to self: Book that optometrist appointment before you go blind.) But there he was. Real. Solid. Heartbreaking.

We locked eyes.

And just like that, the world slowed to a whisper. Everything stopped moving except my pulse. He smiled. That smile—God, that smile. The one that once made my stomach flutter like it had wings, the one that had my heart racing. But this time, it felt… hesitant. Off. Awkward even. Still, I wasn’t prepared. I looked away. Quickly. Pretending I didn’t see him. I went back to my laptop, hands trembling, my lungs finally remembering how to function, and I whispered a short prayer: Not today, Satan. Not today.

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I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t healed enough. Or maybe I was, but just not for this kind of haunting. Thankfully, he didn’t approach me, maybe he heard my prayers.

As I tried to shake it off and dive back into work, an email notification popped up on my screen. The sender’s name was familiar—too familiar. It was the last funding opportunity I’d held onto, the last shot I had at getting proper funding for my startup to move forward. I had been refreshing my inbox for weeks. I inhaled sharply and clicked it open.

And just like that, my heart sank again.

They weren’t moving forward.

What were the odds?

Something about industry uncertainty. Too unstable. Too high-risk. A kind no one wants to bet on.

I already knew that, it was something I was well aware of but had hoped I could change with sheer passion, maybe a miracle or at least a sprinkle of luck.

I tried to stay composed, I swear I did. But disappointment has a way of breaking through the cracks we didn’t know were still open. The tears came slowly at first, I tried to wipe them away discreetly, but it was no use.

Then they spilled freely. Hot. Unapologetic. A mix of heartbreak, fatigue, and frustration. Maybe even grief. For every closed door. For everything I didn’t get to say. For everything that had to be let go.

I broke down. Sobbing. Uncontrollably. Right there, in the middle of the café.

I could feel people looking, but I didn’t care. The frustration, the heartbreak, the fatigue, it all spilled out. I kept whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” like that would hold the dam back.

And then, somewhere through the blur, I noticed a man approaching my table.

Not him from earlier. A stranger. A man who had probably just been reading a book or attending a Zoom call in peace. I hadn’t noticed him before. But now, he was beside me, softly asking if I was okay.

I wanted to disappear.

He looked concerned. Not nosy. Just… human.

He handed me a handkerchief, yes, a real cloth handkerchief, the kind thoughtful men carry like rare relics. And then, without asking too many questions, without probing, he opened his arms for a hug and I, a complete mess, fell into them. It was kind, it was gentle and firm, the type that whispered “You don’t have to explain.” The kind of hug I didn’t know I needed until I was wrapped in it.

I kept apologising. Kept explaining between sobs that this wasn’t normal for me. That I’m not always like this. That I’m usually composed. Strong. Unshaken.

He just kept patting my back and saying, “It’s okay. It’s fine. Let it out. You’re allowed.”

After what felt like forever, I started to feel my breath return to me. Slowly. He offered to buy me another coffee, I tried to insist I was fine, but he calmly said I clearly wasn’t, and he was right.

He settled my bill when I wasn’t paying attention. He told me I didn’t have to rush out, not in this state, he said I didn’t look like I could drive yet. And maybe for the first time that week, I didn’t argue. I listened. I stayed.

I sat there for a while longer. We talked briefly. Just… life. Dreams. Random things. Nothing too deep, but somehow, it felt like he had lived parts of my sadness before. I don’t even remember what I said. He smiled and nodded several times like he was listening. He was kind. Not forceful. Gentle in that way only strangers who expect nothing from you can be.

Then his phone rang. He had to go. I watched him walk away, and just like that, he was gone.

I gathered my things too. But as I got into my car, I realised I still had his handkerchief.

And I didn’t know his name.

No number. No Instagram. No anything.

I had no way to find him.

Just a cotton square with traces of unexpected kindness.

Just his scent on the handkerchief, and a feeling I hadn’t known I needed.

I held it close to my chest for a moment, like it carried the comfort I didn’t know I needed today.

I took it home, washed it carefully, and folded it neatly in the glove box of my car. A part of me hopes I run into him again. Maybe in the same café. Maybe on a day where I’m not falling apart.

Maybe.

I hope he remembers me too.

The girl who cried over failed dreams and old love in a Wuse 2 café on a Wednesday.

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll want his handkerchief back. Maybe that day will mean something more.

Sometimes, the world takes and takes and takes.

And then, one soft afternoon… it gives.

Yours,
A Stranger Who Was Once Held.

Anu❤️

I hope you’ve eaten today.
And not just two spoons of rice and vibes. I know you always forget to eat when you're deep into work or chasing ten ideas at once. So I took the liberty of ordering your favourite meal, yes, that one. It should get to you before you blink. Don’t argue. Just eat. You deserve soft things, full plates, and peace.

Speaking of soft things, I’ve been learning how to loosen braids.
Laugh all you want, but it’s serious. So we can sit through a movie together, me struggling to concentrate because I’m in charge of undoing those stubborn knots, while you passionately argue with me about the characters and whether he deserved to die in Episode 4. (Spoiler alert: he did.)

Now… how do you write to someone you haven’t met but already love like you’ve known her all your life? I don’t know. But I’m trying. Because the truth is, I’m already yours. Fully. Recklessly. Beautifully. And my heart? It’s pacing up and down like a nervous usher at a wedding. Waiting. Hoping. Preparing.

I still don’t know how you expect me to help you pick your next hairstyle or colour when they all look the same to me, but trust that I’ll be there, nodding with fake confidence and saying, “This one looks like you,” because they all do.

I don’t know what you’re doing right now, maybe you're stretching lazily on your bed, or pretending not to stalk my future Instagram, but I need you to pause and read this carefully:

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I miss you.
I miss you in a way that’s ridiculous for someone I haven’t met yet. I miss the way your voice will probably sound at 11:47 p.m. when you’re gossiping about your coworker who refuses to mind her business. I miss how your face will light up when you eat good food, especially the one I made just the way you like it (after watching 6 YouTube videos and crying over the seasoning measurements).

I miss the part where you welcome me back from a trip with the softest hug and a full gist session because we clearly cannot survive 24 hours without giving each other updates on everything and nothing.

Let me be honest: I have big plans for us.
Not just the fancy ones, though yes, you will be that woman in the sundress holding a wine glass on a baecation while your man stares at you like you're the last sunrise on earth. But also the quiet plans.

You see, I’m not just showing up to love you. I’m showing up to know you.
Your values matter to me, the way you see the world, the things that make you cry, what you believe in when no one is watching. I want to build a life where your voice is always heard, not just in rooms, but in my decisions.

I’ll be the man who knows when you're overthinking and needs a forehead kiss and a quiet "I've got you."
I’ll learn your love languages, and speak them like they’re my mother tongue. I’ll be fluent in Words of Affirmation, Acts of Service, Quality Time, Back Rubbing, and Pillow Stealing.

And when we fight, and we will fight, I promise I’ll listen to understand, not just to win. I won’t walk away unless it’s to get something you want and come back to finish the conversation.

I can’t wait to watch you excel in your career, to watch you own rooms with your voice. To whisper to the person next to me, “That’s my wife,” and grin with my full chest because I’m so damn proud.

I want to hold your hands across busy streets, protect you like you’re made of light and art, and care for you especially at that time of the month heating pad ready, snacks on standby, and forehead kisses every hour on the hour.

I’ll squeeze my face dramatically when you giggle over those silly Kdrama scenes, then find myself watching with you, getting attached to the characters, and secretly learning what makes you swoon so I can try it later. (No promises on the perfect jawline or tragic backstory though.)

I want to go book shopping with you, yes, the long version. The one where we read back covers, get side-tracked by journals we don’t need, and argue over hardcover vs paperback. Then we’ll come home, build that dreamy Pinterest-inspired mini library, and organise your reads by colour, genre, and “emotional damage rating.” I’ll label the shelves with silly inside jokes, and maybe add one book titled How To Love a Woman Like Mine.

And beyond all that, baby, I want the quiet gestures too.
Like tucking your scarf around your neck when it’s chilly.
Massaging your feet while you tell me about your day.
Leaving notes on the bathroom mirror.
Warming your side of the bed.
Buying random little things that made me think of you.
Waking up first just to watch you sleep for a moment longer, like I still can’t believe you’re real.

Late night convos that lead to laughter and unplanned confessions.
Building a home that smells like candles, soup, and joy.
Praying together.
Growing old in love, not just in age.

Your voice is already the soundtrack in my head, soft, smart, a little dramatic, completely mine.
I want to grow with you, through every season:
The rainy mornings where we slow dance in the kitchen.
The hard days where we remind each other we’re on the same team.
The silly moments when we laugh till our cheeks hurt.
The nights we stay up dreaming, planning, and praying.

My love for you will be patient, playful, profound, and persistent.
The kind that listens.
The kind that apologises.
The kind that evolves and stays, even when it’s hard, especially then.

Your care will never be one-sided.
I’ll show up for the little things:
The foot rubs. The surprise cakes. The saved reels because “it reminded me of you.”
I’ll celebrate your wins like I personally trained you for the Olympics.
And on your worst days, I’ll remind you that even then, you’re mine. And I’m not going anywhere.

I’m working on becoming the best version of me because you deserve a love that’s thoughtful, soft, grounded, and also annoyingly romantic. Like “write you letters and serenade you with off-key R&B” romantic.

We’ll grow, babe.
Together.
Through mistakes. Through seasons. Through countless bowls of ice-cream.
And we’ll make loving each other feel like home, always.

So don’t settle.
Don’t let these other men confuse you with "hey" texts and two-week consistency.
I’m coming.
(And I’m bringing your favourite snack.)
Stay soft for me, and take care of your beautiful heart till I get there.

Forever yours,
Mr. Delulu but Devoted

(Professional Love Letter Writer | Full-Time Soft Man | Your Future Safe Space)

Recently, I realised how little the patience I actually had. Not with others, I'm often quite patient with people, but with myself. With my journey. With my becoming.

I found myself wanting the end result so badly that I forgot the middle mattered. I wanted to arrive, to achieve, to accomplish, to transform—now. I wanted to see the outcome wrapped neatly with a bow, delivered with applause. And when it didn’t happen as quickly or as perfectly as I had imagined, I was crushed. Miserable even.

But the truth is, life isn’t just about outcomes. It’s about the process. The quiet, uncertain, unglamorous middle. The days that don’t look like progress. The moments where you're unsure if you’re even moving forward at all. That is the becoming. That is the sacred, powerful space where transformation actually happens.

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We often chase milestones thinking they’ll fulfil us. The degree. The job. The relationship. The business. And when we get them, they feel incredible, at first. But if we didn’t take time to savour the journey to that point, the joy of the achievement is often short-lived. It fades as quickly as it came, and we're left asking, "What next?"

But the process, the daily showing up, the failing, the learning, the small wins, the resilience, the new habits, the mental shifts, the stretching, it’s all building something inside of you. Something you can't measure by timelines or trophies.

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I once read the story of a sculptor who took years to create a single statue. When someone asked why he spent so long chiseling what looked like minor details, he said,
"People may never notice the tiny lines or smooth finishes, but I will know. And the process of carving those details changed me."

That stuck with me. Because often, the things we're working on aren't just about what's being built outside of us. It's who we're becoming within.

The discipline you're learning, the emotional intelligence you're cultivating, the strength you're building when things aren’t going your way, that's the real reward. Not just the title. Not just the applause.

So these days, I’m learning to savour the process:

• To celebrate progress even if it’s small.

• To be kinder to myself on days when it feels like I’m moving slowly.

• To smile during the boring parts, the parts that feel like nothing is happening.

• To rest when I need to and not see that as failure.

• To trust that it’s all adding up.

Because the process is the becoming.
And the becoming is what makes the outcome mean something.

To anyone reading this who’s feeling frustrated because you haven’t "arrived" yet. You're not behind. You're not doing it wrong. You’re in the middle of something beautiful. Don’t rush past it. Don’t wish it away. Savour it.

One day, you’ll look back at this very moment and realise this was the part that shaped you most.

Hope you enjoy the journey to your becoming. See you soon,

Anu❤️

A life that feels like reading romance and fairy tale books on a soft couch, sipping wine in my cozy apartment, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt with the AC on full blast. A life where brunch dates with friends turn into hours of laughter over everything and nothing at all.

But wanting a life like that while living in Nigeria, on an average income, often feels like a far-fetched dream. If it’s not the neighbour’s over-repaired generator rattling through the night, it's the grinding machine from every street corner.

If it’s neither of those, it’s the never-ending revival services from a charismatic church, who, for reasons unknown, hold loud, booming services every single day.

Then, of course, there’s the ever-present soundtrack of Nigeria: blaring bike horns, screeching keke napeps, and impatient taxi drivers and conductors yelling at passengers like they're owed lifetimes of debt.

Noise fills every available space, and so does struggle. The chaos is almost inescapable, a constant reminder that nothing about life here is designed to be gentle. Everywhere is loud. Everywhere is chaotic. And somehow, we're expected to just adapt and live through it.

But I didn't want to just adapt, I wanted better and I decided I would try anyway. So, I started making small changes, adjustments that would bring some softness into my daily life.

It started with small things, things within my control. My alarm, for instance. I stopped waking up to sirens and high-pitched jingles that jolted me into a state of panic. I changed it to a soft, melodic tune because I refused to wake up to blaring sirens that made me feel like I was reporting for duty in a war zone.

I lowered my voice when I spoke, not because I didn’t love my natural tone (my full-fledged Yoruba woman’s voice), but because I realised I didn’t need to meet the world’s loudness with even more noise. It wasn’t about suppressing myself, but about embracing a different kind of strength, the kind that doesn’t need to shout to be heard.

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These little things may seem small, but they created a world of difference. They gave me a sense of control, a reminder that peace isn’t just about where you are, but how you exist within it.

I became intentional about the way I reacted to things that upset me. In moments of anger, I let myself process it before responding. I found that even in the most frustrating situations, I could choose stillness, choose to carry my emotions with grace rather than aggression.

Some situations deserve silence, some deserve a deep breath before responding, and some don’t deserve my energy at all. And over time, it became my default.

I curated my surroundings to reflect the peace I wanted. Soft lighting, soothing scents, cozy sheets, and playlists that sound like Sunday mornings.

And you know what? It was worth it.

There was something deeply fulfilling about realising I had control over at least a small part of my life. The more I practiced this, the more I longed for a truly gentle life, It made me want more. More peace, more stillness, more gentleness in the way I move through the world.

It extended beyond just me, I wanted gentle people around me too. People who understood the beauty of softness. People who didn’t feel the need to turn everything into a battle.

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I want gentle friendships, soft love, and a work-life balance that doesn’t make me feel like I’m drowning. I want to exist in spaces where kindness is second nature, where patience isn’t mistaken for weakness, and where I don’t have to constantly fight for my peace.

I don’t know if life will grant me all of this. But I do know that I’ll keep creating it in the small ways that I can. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe life won’t always be soft.

Maybe some days will be loud and demanding. But I have learned that I don’t have to match that energy. I can still choose softness. I can still build the kind of life I want, even in the little ways that are within my reach.

I hope life grants me that. And if you're longing for the same, I hope it grants you that too.

With all the love and calmness in my heart. May we all find our own versions of a gentle life🫂.

Anu❤️

PS: I have a new newsletter where I document my journey and struggle as a founder, so if you’re a techie, founder, co-founder, aspiring to be one soon or later or just enjoy reading anything interesting, please subscribe and share🥰, I look forward to sharing another side of me with you.

Subscribe here: The Diary Of A First Time Founder

The Diary Of A First Time Founder

Recently, Taylor Swift’s Labyrinth was playing in my head and I thought of someone and softly realised that I might have feelings for him back.

“Uh oh, I’m falling in love…”

Oh no!

When did this happen? Why was this happening? How was this possible?

"Breatheeee," I whispered to myself.

I was panicking again, I remembered this reel on IG explaining the Taylor Swift’s song, It made me giggle, but I was soon panicking again.

Truthfully, I think I had liked him for a while, but I kept suppressing everything that had to do with it. I wanted us to remain friends. I knew he liked me, he had for over a year (found out it was longer than that), but I always pretended not to notice, I always found ways to swerve conversations heading in that direction. Sometimes, I even acted totally grossed out and joked about it.

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Imagine liking a man again. Not after everything. Not after still being this hurt.

I didn’t want a rebound situation. I couldn’t let this happen. I couldn’t do that to him.

The thing is, I don’t like people easily. Romantically, that is. I could count how many men I’ve liked all my life on one hand, if I were a T-rex. And the worst part? It never worked out. Don't get me wrong, we never had any sort of official relationship, they just never went anywhere or ended well.

Every time, they liked me just long enough for me to let my guard down, and as soon as I started liking them back, things got weird. Something always came up: excuses, hurt, or just plain old disregard for how I felt.

So you can understand why I panicked when I realised I was liking someone again. I couldn't let him know. I had to control it. The cycle was not going to repeat itself.

When he told me he was coming to my city, I played it cool, I tried to act nonchalantly, like it didn't matter and more like I didn't care enough to see him, and I made sure I stood by that. I jokingly said on different occasions:

"When you see me, I’m certain the attraction will fade away. Don’t waste your time."

Why did I say that? I dunno. Or maybe I do. It was weird that someone was going to be attracted to me, more so for that long. Maybe it was because I had been told too many times that men were never wholly attracted to fat women. Maybe it stuck.

Why would he want me? It didn’t make any sense.

Maybe this was just another joke like the others. He was going to see me and realise he made a mistake, and I would have to start healing all over again. I was never going to let that happen.

I repeated it enough times to make him mad. He couldn’t understand why I was disguising my fear as a joke, why I was so adamant about rejecting him to the point of disgust. We fought. I was confused, why was he mad? They were my feelings, weren’t they?

We talked things through and settled eventually, but something shifted, I immediately knew there was a shift in our friendship dynamics. We weren’t just friends anymore. We were more.

And that was terrifying.

I started to feel suffocated, I told him he needed to take a step back. He understood, He did. I needed space, a lot of it, I didn't understand what was happening.

That’s when it all started.

Suddenly, I was the one seeking him out. I looked for every excuse to talk to him. That’s when I should have known. That’s when I should have realised my brain was about to betray me.

I started smiling more at his texts, seeing his name on my screen sent giant butterflies fluttering inside my stomach, I was giggling over normal conversations, counting down to the day he’d arrive in my city.

The week he was to arrive came, you couldn't do anything to make me angry or sad.

I giggled and laughed the whole time, my steps were filled with dance steps, I was too excited, it felt like I was wine drunk, like I was permanently tipsy on wine. I was floating and had a permanent smile stamped onto my face.

Everyone around me pointed it out, some asked, I simply said my new year resolution was to be happy and that was what I was, happy, nothing else mattered at that point.

The day I saw him? I can not explain it in words. There are simply no words to quantify how I felt. I had never felt so calm in my life. It was as if my brain shut down, like my entire nervous system sighed in relief. I kept talking about how insanely calm I felt. It was the most amazing thing if I could say so. I continued saying over and over, “Why do I feel so calm? This is weird.”

Everything felt good. Exactly right, Perfect, it felt like exactly what I needed.

And for a moment, I allowed myself to bask in it, I basked in the thrill of it all, I loved it here, I haven't felt this good in forever.

But it didn’t last.

I never heard from him again.

Read Part 1 Here...

... Lol, just kidding.

But am I?

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I didn’t hear from him after Day 2.

Day 3 passed. Then Day 4. Then Day 5. And I could not keep calm anymore.

This was happening again.

How could this happen again?

What was going on?

Did I do something wrong?

Say something wrong?

Was something wrong with me?

Did he finally realise he made a mistake?

Was I cursed?

I was having a full-blown panic attack.

My friends tried to calm me down, but nothing worked. I was restless, spiralling.

By Day 5, I convinced myself something had to be wrong with him. That was the only logical explanation. Didn’t he see my calls and texts?

He wouldn’t ghost me.

Would he?

I was torn between anger, worry, and sheer panic. I didn't sign up for this.

"Why can’t I be happy for long?"

I prayed. Begged, even. I told myself if something was wrong with him, I wouldn’t forgive myself for being selfish.

And then, on that same Day 5, he finally reached out.

His excuse?

He didn’t think it was an excuse. But it was an excuse. And I was not having it.

I was too angry to listen. Too furious to care.

"I will never forgive you," I told him. And I meant it.

How dare he be fine?

He didn’t understand why I was so mad, why I completely furious. Before, we didn’t even communicate every day. So why was this so different?

And that’s when it hit me.

It wasn’t him. He was just a small part of it.

I was angry at myself.

Angry that I wasn’t healed. Angry that he triggered what I thought was fixed.
Angry that I was still hurt.
Angry that I let this happen again.
Angry that I thought this time would be different.
Angry that my attempt at therapy was wasted and now I had to start all over again.

For days, I fumed. He apologised over and over again, but I didn’t care. I didn’t listen.

But then, He asked why I was really angry, Why I couldn't forgive him, what I wasn't saying, what I wasn’t admitting. So, I admitted my feelings in the midst of the rage and finally it dawned on me: Was this really about him?

But was it my fault? What control did I even have over any of this?

And just like that, I calmed down.

And I remember the constant saying, healing isn’t linear.

Some days, it will hurt.
Some days, old wounds will reopen.
Some days, you’ll be triggered again.
And some days, you’ll be hurt afresh.

And that’s okay.

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For the longest time, I thought healing meant never feeling that kind of pain again. That it was going to be over and done with.

I thought therapy would fix me. I thought that if I ever got hurt or triggered again, it meant my therapy failed.

But that’s not true.

Healing isn’t about never feeling pain again. It’s about how you handle it.

Therapy is a foundation. It teaches you to recognise things that would have otherwise broken you. It gives you the tools to cope when life throws you into a spiral.

It doesn’t mean you won’t be hurt again. It doesn’t mean you won’t panic. It doesn’t mean you won’t have bad days or meet bad people.

But it does mean you’ll recover faster.

That’s the point of healing. Not to make you invincible, but to make you resilient.

And that? That makes all the difference.

I’m attaching something a friend told me years ago:

See you on the next one.

With all of the love in my heart

Anu❤️

I’m not a stranger to therapy. In fact, my first introduction to it was way back in 2020. COVID had just hit, the lockdown started, and what we thought would be a short two-week break stretched into months. I was in my final year of university, already counting down to graduation, but suddenly, time stood still.

Being indoors all day meant I had no distractions, no excuses to keep burying my emotions under the weight of being busy. With nothing much to do, all the feelings I had pushed aside over the years came rushing to the surface. I had no choice but to face them.

It was around this time that a friend (who later became a love interest) suggested therapy. He swore it would help. Funny enough, my most recent need for therapy would be partly because of him, but at the time, I took his advice. True to his words, he found a therapist for me through an agency called MANI. And honestly? It worked.

Little by little, I started seeing changes. He noticed it too. Life felt lighter, better. I even got an online job, which made the lockdown bearable. A few weeks later, he encouraged me to take another session, to follow up and seek clarity on something that had plagued me since my teenage years: my tendency to zone out. It was affecting my grades, my relationships, my ability to communicate.

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And again, therapy helped. But, like all good things, it didn’t last. Less than a year later, everything came crashing back, stronger than ever. So, like every living thing does, I adapted. I pushed everything under the rug and continued living my life.

It didn’t matter. Until last year.

That’s when things really started to spiral. My weight shot up, my blood pressure followed, and I developed a terrible case of stomach ulcers amidst other things. My diet? Mostly medication. My mental health? Hanging on by a thread. I had moments of burnout, but nothing too serious at least, that’s what I told myself.

I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse. And then I found out that my love interest was getting married…

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At first, it was just speculations. But deep down, I knew it was true. After all, we hadn't spoken in a year (he ghosted me). Then, when I was in the middle of recovering, we started talking again, probably one of the worst decisions I’ve made in recent times, but I struggled with letting go, after all I didn’t like people easily.

I told myself it didn’t matter. But my actions said otherwise. I became moody, sad, short-tempered, uninterested in things I once enjoyed. I was just surviving. And then, the wedding became official. The pictures flooded my social media, and with every image, I felt my heart break all over again.

Worse than the day I first found out he was dating someone else. Worse than the day he told me he “couldn’t commit”.

I tried to convince myself that I was sad for a different reason. But deep down, I knew.

Deep deep down, it mattered like mad.

I underestimated how deeply it would affect me. Before I knew it, I was drowning. Depression hit me like a tidal wave, made worse by the everyday struggles of adulting in Nigeria. Everything felt wrong. Frustrating. Suffocating. Impossible.

I was stuck in bed for weeks. I stopped responding to my friends. Even my mother noticed. She never said anything directly, but I’d catch her standing at my door, looking at me, and then quietly walking away. Some nights, I felt her place a hand on me, probably just to make sure I was still breathing.

Even one of my sisters saw me on one of the mornings I had cried all night and continued into the morning, I’ll never forget the shock and confusion on her face, I was never one to be vulnerable or show my tears, but on that day, my whole world felt overwhelming and there was nothing I could do, I just stayed in her arms sobbing.

During this time, I couldn’t write. Every time I tried, my mind went blank. I couldn’t get past a subheading before giving up. And then, one random day, something shifted.

Suddenly, I could write. And oh, I wrote. I poured my anger, frustration, and heartbreak onto every blank page I could find. It became my release. But when it came time to share it? I couldn’t, they didn’t allow me to.

Instead, I was advised to speak to someone close. To seek professional help.

It was funny, honestly. I hadn’t realised how bad things had gotten until that moment. I looked in the mirror and didn’t even recognise the person staring back at me. My hair had loc’d itself from neglect, and I knew taking those twists down would mean losing a lot of hair. But did that even matter anymore?

I posted something vague about the comment asking me to seek help, and my sister saw it. (Shoutout to her. For real.) She immediately insisted on finding me a therapist, one she trusted and even offered to pay for it because I couldn’t, I hadn’t worked in months.

I didn’t want to do it. What was the point? What difference would it make? I had spent years sweeping things under the rug. Where would I even start? But my sister refused to let it go. She told me to just give it a try.

So I did.

And to this day, I believe it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

My therapist was patient. Kind. And patient again as I unravelled years’ worth of buried emotions. She helped me make sense of things I hadn’t even realised were affecting me. She showed me how to recognise and communicate my emotions in a very calm, regulated and healthy way. For someone who had spent years bottling things up, that was huge.

The changes weren’t just internal, my friends noticed too. They told me I seemed lighter. More at peace, happier, more in control. This time, I was determined to do the work. To be better. And I did. I poured conscious effort into healing.

I wasn’t going back to my old life.

And for a while, everything was perfect.

Well… until very recently.

(To be continued.)

2024 was one heck of a ride. Between the stress, the victories, the breakdowns, the "am I doing this right?" moments, and those sweet little pockets of happiness I tried to hold on to, it felt like I was juggling it all. The weight of being an adult was, let’s be honest, exhausting. But there was also joy, because let’s face it, there’s always joy, even when you’re just surviving.

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But I’ll say this... I missed the gisting. Writing. Speaking my mind. Sharing whatever I wanted, whether it was life’s struggles or the random memes and quotes that kept me going. I miss turning my thoughts into something others could read and relate to. So, yes, the "Happy New Year!" vibes are a bit delayed, but hey, better late than never, right? 🤷‍♀️

What’s exciting about this year, you ask? Well, first off, I’m going to be a full-on digital yapper (Yes, you heard me). I’ve got so many updates, stories, and more content coming your way. So many new adventures and extra tea that probably nobody asked for but you’re going to get anyway (because who’s going to stop me? 😂). I’ll be talking about all things life, my experiences, random thoughts, things I’ve learned, and... just a little extra gossip (you know you love it😉). Whether it’s relationships, career struggles, or just how awkward I am in real life, I’ll be sharing it all.

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Now, here's one of the big news: one of the most major things I've decided to work on is a complete physical transformation. Yup, I’m going on a weight loss journey (cue dramatic music 🎬). I know, I know, everyone’s always like, “It’s not about how you look, it’s about how you feel”, but trust me, it’s a whole vibe when you start feeling good and seeing results. So I’ll be sharing the messy struggles, the wins, and the many many lessons that come with this journey.

So yeah, this year, I’m giving you a front-row seat to my life. If you’re here for the unfiltered truth about anything, then, you’re in for a ride.

This year? It’s going to be fun. There will be ups, there will be downs, but you know what? I’m ready to face it head-on. And I’m bringing you along for the ride, my little corner of the internet is about to get a whole lot more interesting (or at least I hope it is 🤞). Think of it like an ongoing series of inside gists... where I spill my tea and you just sit back, sip your own, and laugh along.

So buckle up, fam. We’ve got a lot coming this year. You in? 🙌

P.S. This is me officially declaring that my "New Year" starts today. So, cheers to 2025 and everything we’re about to make of it! 🎉

P.P.S. Oh, and stay tuned for the good, the bad, and the ugly of my weight loss journey. We're in this together, right? 💪

With all of the love in my heart and butterflies in my stomach

Anu❤️

"You smile like your father." It wasn’t the first time someone had said it to me, but for some reason, when I caught my reflection in the mirror after hearing it this time, it hit me differently. I stood there staring at myself, desperately trying to picture his face, his smile… but I couldn’t. I couldn’t remember it.

It’s been ten years. A whole decade. And yet, all I could feel was the warmth of his smile, but I couldn’t quite grasp its shape or detail. I couldn’t even recall what he looked like before the illness worsened. It feels cruel sometimes, how time chips away at memories we thought we’d never lose. I broke down, yet again, for what feels like the millionth time. When does this hurt less?

Being around my father was like sitting by a calm river. He was peace personified. The ice to my mother’s fire. I don’t think I’ve ever heard his voice rise above an inside tone. Maybe it wasn’t such a good thing because it meant his voice disappeared from my memory so quickly, like a whisper fading into silence.

Even his death, though, was gentle—perhaps a compensation for the years of suffering, almost as if God decided to give him some peace after the pain he endured for years. I always tell people that when my time comes, I hope I leave the same way he did. Softly. Calmly. Quietly. With my family around me.

But nobody tells you how long grief lingers. How it stays with you in little things, at odd hours, in unexpected moments. Nobody tells you how it’ll feel years later when you think you’ve moved on, only for it to creep up and leave you breathless again.

I didn’t allow myself to process my father’s death for years. All I wanted was to appear strong for everyone. They told me I didn’t have time to break down, so I felt I didn’t have the right to. I acted like it didn’t matter as much to me. But it did. God, it did. Some days, I found myself blaming myself, thinking I could’ve done something to prevent it. Maybe if I prayed harder or researched more or been better somehow. The guilt I carried for years—it was suffocating.

Even though we knew what was coming, I never stopped hoping for a miracle. I prayed, I believed, I bargained with God. So, when it happened anyway, I was furious. Furious at God, furious at myself, furious at the universe for letting it happen. I realize now that no amount of hoping or believing or guilt could have changed it.

This year, I finally started therapy, and honestly, I wasn’t expecting much. What could someone possibly say to me that I didn’t already know? But it surprised me. Therapy didn’t fix me—it doesn’t work like that—but it did help me untangle the weight I’ve been dragging around for years. For the first time, I started to grasp what moving on really means, the totality and finality of it all. And maybe it can help me let go of some other fears and pains I buried deep too.

So dear Dad, I hope you’re resting. Truly resting. I’m trying to smile more when I think of you, even on days when smiling feels impossible.

If I’ve learned anything from losing you, it’s that love doesn’t end, even when life does. I’ll carry that love everywhere I go. I hope, someday, I’ll tell you in person about the life I built and how your calm strength stayed with me through it all.

Thank you for choosing my mother and for loving her as deeply as you did. She still misses you every single day even if she conceals it so well, but I hope, just like you, she finds someone to love her again. Someone who will cherish her just as much, maybe even more.

And for the siblings you gave me, thank you. I’ll love and protect them for the rest of my days. I promise they’ll know how incredible you were. I’ll remind them every chance I get.

And me… I hope I let someone finally love me too. Really love me. Without fear, without hesitation, without walls. I hope I don’t search for that love in the wrong places and people anymore.

You taught me strength, not by shouting it, but by living it. You taught me to value calmness in storms and to meet life’s chaos with as much grace as I can muster. You taught me what it means to truly love.

A decade later, the pain is still here, but so is the love. Thank you for that, Dad. Thank you for everything.

Forever your little one,

Anuoluwapo❤️❤️

At the time, I brushed it off, thinking they just didn’t get me. But the more I heard it, the more it stuck. Life, they said—it’s unpredictable, hard, and often unfair, sometimes it feels like Monday traffic—just when you think it’s moving, you’re stuck again.

I used to agree with them. But now? I’m not so sure. As I’ve grown older and experienced life in all its gbas gbos, I’ve changed my mind. Life is indeed a fairy tale.

Hear me out. Fairy tales aren’t all glitter and sunshine. Most of them are filled with so much wahala, struggles, heartbreaks, and plenty of “what is this life sef” moments. Isn’t that life for you?

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Think about it. Life will test your patience. You’ll work so hard and still be wondering why the results are not balancing. You’ll face situations that make you question your entire existence—like when you’re calculating your money and suddenly remember the price of transport has doubled again or your meter is red for the 4th time this month.

But here’s the thing: in every fairy tale, no matter how rough it gets, the characters always grow. They learn something, they fight back, and somehow, they find their way. That’s how life is too. Even when it feels like you’re carrying Nigeria’s problem on your back, you’re still pushing forward.

Life might not come with a script or a guaranteed ending, but it does give us opportunities to learn, love, and keep trying. And in that way, I think it’s more magical than we realize.

Maybe your version of “happily ever after” isn’t what you imagined back then. Maybe it’s not the fine house by the beach or the perfect “soft life” you see on Instagram. Maybe it’s finally getting the small wins: paying rent on time, eating a plate of hot jollof without interruption, or just being at peace with yourself.

And that’s the thing about life—it might not give you everything you want, but it’ll surprise you with things you didn’t even know you needed.

So yes, life is a fairy tale. Not the edited-for-TV, glossy type. The real one. The one with drama, plot twists, tears, and occasional joy. It’s your story. And even when it feels like everything is upside down, just know you’re still writing it.

For those days when you’re like, “Abeg, I’m tired,” remember this: no one has it all figured out. We’re all trying, winging it, making mistakes, and moving forward. Just keep showing up for yourself—one day at a time.

And if nothing else, just laugh at the randomness of it all. Because at the end of the day, na who dey alive fit talk say life no balance.

Here’s to embracing every part of the journey—the good, the bad, and everything in between.

With all of the love in my heart,
Anuoluwapo❤️❤️

I watched a movie recently (been doing a lot of this lately), and there was this line that got to me, one of those questions that sneak up on you and dig under your skin: “ 당신은 정말로 무엇을 두려워합니까? (dangsin-eun jeongmallo mueos-eul dulyeowohabnikka?)” Which loosely translates to: What are you really afraid of?

At first, I wanted to scoff. Me? Afraid? I’m generally not a fearful person or so I thought, I consider myself quite fearless. I wanted to say, "I’m not afraid of anything." But as I sat with it, really sat with it, I realized I had a list—a whole list of things that haunted me quietly in the back of my mind. Things that I never let see the light of day because I didn’t even know they were there. But they were. Lurking, shaping the way I lived and the decisions I made.

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One of the most interesting, and somewhat ironic, fears I discovered was...losing weight.

It sounds strange, doesn’t it? I’ve never been a slim person, and I was always okay with that. I was always the biggest sibling and friend and I just got used to that. I didn’t look in the mirror and wish to be anyone else. I liked myself, loved myself even, though I knew I could be healthier. I was content in my skin. I didn’t feel the need to chase some unreachable ideal or fit into a mould that wasn’t made for me.

But then, I noticed this pattern in myself. Every time I started losing weight and people would comment on how I looked—"You’re looking slimmer," they’d say with those wide, approving smiles, “You look prettier as you’ve lost some weight”—I’d feel this invisible hand press down on my chest. And without even realizing it, I’d start slipping back into old habits, doing things to add the weight back. It was as if I was afraid of what losing weight might mean for me. Afraid of the unknown person I might become if I let myself change too much.

I’ve watched a couple of my friends go through their weight loss journeys over the years, and to be honest, it scared me. Some of them turned into people I didn’t recognize—so focused on their physical appearance, so consumed by this obsession with looking “perfect.” They became harsh, judgmental, mean even. And it wasn’t always intentional, I know. They felt the pressure from society, from themselves, from people who treated them differently now that they were “slim,” especially from their close friends and family. It changed them, moulded them, and I didn’t want that to happen to me. I didn’t want to lose myself in the process. I didn’t want to become someone who measured my self-worth in numbers on a scale, someone who now judged others for not fitting a narrow standard of beauty.

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And yet, here I am. I’ve been ill more times than I can count this year, each time with the kind of scare that shakes you to your core, that makes you face your own mortality. Every visit to my doctor ends with the same warning: “You have to let go of this fear if you want to be alive and healthy.” I’ve been given a choice, but really, it doesn’t feel like a choice at all. It’s either I confront this fear and let go of it, or I let it destroy me, bit by bit.

So now, I’m standing at this crossroads, terrified of what lies ahead. I wonder if I’ll lose myself in the process, if I’ll become the person I swore I’d never be. Will I let this journey take over my life? Will I obsess over every meal, every pound lost or gained? Will I be able to stay true to myself, to keep the parts of me that I love, even as I try to change the parts that are hurting me?

But my fears go deeper than that, you know? It’s not just about losing weight. It’s about losing control, about changing in ways I can’t predict, about becoming a stranger to myself. There’s this tiny, irrational part of me that’s afraid of happiness, too. Afraid that if I finally get everything I want, it’ll somehow be taken away. Afraid that I’ll get so used to the struggle that I won’t know who I am without it. It’s the kind of fear that whispers, “What if you get what you want and it doesn’t feel the way you thought it would? What if it changes you?”

I think, sometimes, we all hold ourselves back out of fear. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of losing ourselves, fear of being unrecognizable to the people we love. We cling to what’s familiar, even when it’s not good for us, because at least we know it. At least it feels safe.

But this is me, here, trying to the gather courage to let go. To step into the unknown, not because I’m fearless, but because I’m tired of letting my fears run my life. I’m tired of lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, haunted by all the “what ifs.” I want to live, to really live, not held back by invisible chains of my own making.

Maybe you feel this way too. Maybe you have your own fears, your own silent struggles that no one else sees. Maybe, like me, you’re afraid of becoming someone you don’t recognize, or of losing the person you are. But maybe we can take this journey together. Maybe we can face our fears, one step at a time, and find a way to live without letting them define us.

Because at the end of the day, I think the scariest thing of all is not change, or failure, or even loss. The scariest thing is the idea that we might let our fears stop us from becoming the people we were meant to be.

Thank you for reading this far, for always walking with me through these tangled thoughts and hidden fears. Sometimes, just knowing that someone else is out there, listening or in this case reading🙃, makes the weight a little easier to bear.

See you in my next letter🤗

With all the love in my heart,

Anuoluwapo❤️❤️

Past 2 am in the morning and I’m staring at the ceiling, I’ve been staring at this ceiling every night for the past months since I heard this news, I definitely must have memorized every line, every design, every curve and contour that made up this ceiling and would surely be able to replicate them off my head if I had to.

The tears started again, this time in a greater intensity, they just kept flowing down my cheeks easily and I wondered why, why have I been crying endlessly for the past months? It couldn’t be the hormones anymore could it? Why do I feel so hurt? Why does my chest hurt this much? What are all of these new emotions all at once? Who is this person I have become? I do not even recognize who is staring back at me in the mirror, was I even looking in the mirror? Why do I feel so terrible.

I wasn't supposed to feel this way, but well, maybe I do deserve it, some years back I did things I shouldn't have, I knew I had no business doing them, against my better judgment I went ahead, and it felt good, I felt in control, and I let the feeling of it completely envelope me, for the first time I was the one at the wheels or so I thought. Contrary to what you think, I was fully in my right senses, oh I was thinking properly and boy it felt so so good.

What was the point of over thinking it, what was the point of even thinking at all, it was here and it was good. I wanted to be spontaneous for the first time, you only live once right? the consequences didn't matter now, I was finally feeling something, my heart was finally beating, at last I wasn’t a weird one. I decided to deal with the aftermath later, and now, it seems it was the other way round. Maybe regretting it would make it feel better but I don’t regret it at all, I don’t intend to repeat it but I fully accept it.

When will I be able to sleep again? When will I be able to laugh without feeling like I had nothing to laugh about? When will I look in the mirror and smile back at myself?

Maybe Karma does exist after all, and this is mine, this is my responsibility to bear. Maybe I do deserve this pain.