​And zero times a groom. I'll be Bayo's best man again this weekend. I'm thirty-one now, and I'm starting to feel like the guy who's always holding someone else's ring.

​But we're not here to talk about me.

​We're here to talk about Bayo, who is getting married tomorrow to a woman from Kaduna. If anyone had told me he'll be getting married before me, I would have laughed. Bayo was the relationship-cursed man I have known until eleven months ago.

​Bayo's romantic history is a brief and tragic comedy. There was Tomi, who he loved so passionately. She went to London for her master's and came back engaged to a British-Nigerian man she met in a Tesco queue. That one broke something in him. He didn't date for two years. He didn't even pretend to consider it. If you mentioned a woman to him, he'd look at you like you'd suggested he take up skydiving without a parachute.

​Then there was Tamilore he'd been talking to for five months. Things were going well. He was careful this time, he said. Taking it slow. Building something solid. Then one evening over dinner, she told him she didn't believe in marriage.

​"I don't want to get married," she said, the way someone says they prefer tea to coffee.

​Bayo blinked. "So what are we doing?"

​"Building a life together."

​"Without marriage?"

​"Without marriage."

​He called me that night.

​"Guy, I don't understand. Five months. Five months of my life. She says she doesn't want marriage. What were we talking towards?"

​I laughed so hard I couldn't breathe.

​"It's not funny, Folarin."

​"It's a little funny."

​"I'm serious. What do you call five months of dating someone who doesn't believe in marriage?"

​"A long Uber ride with no drop-off point."

​He hung up on me.

​So when Bayo called me eleven months ago and said, very calmly, "I met someone, and I think she's the one," I nearly choked on my drink. Not because I didn't believe him, but because Bayo had said those exact words before and the universe had responded with a plot twist each time. I was bracing for the third act.

​But this one was different. He met Zainab at a conference in Abuja. The story he tells is that he saw her across the room and knew. The story Zainab tells is that he walked up to her, and asked to be her friend. Both stories are true.

​Eleven months later, here we are.

FRIDAY

​The traditional engagement was at Bayo's family house in Surulere.

​I arrived at noon and found the house already deep in preparations. Caterers had taken over the backyard. Chairs were being arranged in rows under a canopy that was still being rigged up. The decorator was arguing with someone on the phone about the colour of the drapes — apparently, they'd brought white instead of gold, “White is not gold," she was shouting, with controlled fury that told me this conversation had happened before.

​Bayo's mother was in the backyard, supervising the jollof rice. She was standing over the caterer's pot with her arms crossed, occasionally dipping a spoon, tasting, and shaking her head in a way that communicated volumes without a single word. The caterer, a patient woman named Mrs. Adewale, had clearly made peace with her fate.

​"Mama," I said, greeting her as I kissed her cheek.

​"Folarin! O ti de. Se O ti jeun?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Sit down. Let them bring you food. And tell Bayo his father's agbada is still at the dry cleaner's. The man said twelve o'clock. It is now past twelve."

​"I'll tell him."

​I found Bayo in his room, staring at himself in the mirror in a white agbada that hadn't been ironed. He looked like a man standing at the edge of something beautiful and terrifying.

​"How do I look?" he asked.

​"Like a man who hasn't ironed his agbada."

​"I mean generally."

​"You look good, Bayo. Calm down."

​He sat on the bed. "Her family lands in an hour. Her father is coming, Folarin. Alhaji. The man I spoke to on the phone three times and each time I forgot the correct greeting."

​"You'll be fine. Just don't try to speak Hausa to him."

​"She said that too."

​He laughed, but it was thin. I sat beside him and for a moment we were quiet.

​"You happy?" I asked.

​"Terrified and happy."

​"That's the right combination, congratulations man."

​He smiled. And for the first time that day, it reached his eyes.

Zainab's family arrived at three.

​They came in a convoy of three cars — Alhaji's black Land Cruiser leading, followed by two others packed with relatives and what appeared to be half the contents of a Kaduna market. Zainab's mother, a graceful woman in a deep blue ankara, stepped out first, followed by a stream of aunties, uncles, and cousins who materialized from the cars.

​Alhaji came last. He was tall, and calm. He wore a white kaftan and a cap, and he moved through the greetings slowly, shaking hands, nodding, saying very little.

​Bayo's family received them with joy— kola nut was presented, the elders exchanged greetings, and the engagement list was brought out for review. The whole thing was formal, warm, and slightly nerve-wracking, like two countries negotiating a treaty neither wanted to get wrong.

​I was standing near the drinks table, doing best-man duties — which at this stage mostly meant looking useful and staying out of the way — when the bridesmaids arrived.

​Zainab had six of them. They walked in together, a bright burst of laughter, and the whole yard turned to look. Five of them I registered as a group. The sixth I registered alone.

She was tall — not unusually so, dark-skinned, with lovely cheekbones.

​She was also not smiling. Not frowning, either. Just... present. Taking everything in with her quiet eyes.

​Chuka, one of Bayo’s groomsmen who was also my good friend appeared beside me, as he always does when something catches my attention, like a man with a sixth sense for these things.

​”See your mouth. Close it.”

​”My mouth is closed.”

​”It wasn’t. Which one of them?”

​”None.”

​”The tall one? I know you like them tall.”

​”I said none.”

​”Folarin, better talk, so I’ll help you.”

​”Chuka, get out.”

​I hissed as I walked away from him. He followed.

​”Do you want me to get you her name?” he asked.

​”I want you to leave me alone.”

​”Okay. I’ll find out.”

​He disappeared into the crowd. I should have stopped him, but the truth is, I wanted to know.

​The engagement ceremony began around four. I won’t walk you through the entire ceremony. You’ve been to Nigerian engagements. You know the shape of it.

​What I will tell you is this: halfway through, during a break in the proceedings, I went to the drinks table for water, and that’s where the weekend really began. She was already there, holding a bottle of water, reading something on her phone. I reached for a bottle beside her and knocked two others over. They clattered onto the table and one rolled off, heading for the ground. I caught it. Barely.

​”Nice reflexes,” she said. She hadn’t looked up from her phone.

​”Thanks.”

​Now she looked up at me.

​”Folarin,” I said, extending my hand.

​She looked at the hand. Then at me. Then she shook it briefly.

"You're the best man?"

I looked at her.

"That obvious?"

"You're the only one I've seen walking around like you have a job."

I laughed.

"That's unfortunate."

"Why?"

"Because I've been doing absolutely nothing."

She smiled.

"I can tell."

"So you've been watching me?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Don't flatter yourself."

She looked back at her phone.

"I've seen you with the groom."

"That's Bayo."

"I know."

"You know him?"

"He's my friend's husband-to-be."

"Right."

A small smile touched her mouth.

The music from the ceremony drifted across the garden. Someone called for Zainab. She turned towards the voice.

"I should go."

"Yeah."

She took a step, then looked back.

"See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"The wedding."

"Right."

She smiled, as she walked away.

​Just as she walked away, Chuka materialized beside me again.

​”Nafisa. Her name is Nafisa. She’s Zainab’s friend from uni. She works in Abuja. She’s not married. She’s not engaged. She’s not, as far as anyone knows, talking to anyone. And you’re welcome.”

​I tried to keep a straight face. “I didn’t ask you to.”

"Ouch." He put a hand over his chest. "Is that what I get for being a good friend?" He said grinning.

"Wait Chuka."

He stopped.

"What?"

"She and Zainab went to university together?"

"Yes."

"What university?"

His grin widened.

"I thought you didn't care."

I shook my head.

"Abeg now."

He laughed and walked away.

I sat there smiling.

Then the Alaga called my name again.

"Folarin!"

I sighed.

"Coming!"

And just like that, I was back to being the best man. But the weekend had only just started.

| Folarin! O ti de. Se O ti jeun?: Folarin, you're here? Have you eaten.

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This time, I decided to flip the question. I asked my male friends for their biggest turn-offs in women, and the responses I got were… interesting. ​My friends had a lot to say, but to keep this article concise, I’ll focus on the top three.

First on the list:

ENTITLEMENT:

Although, they all called it different names, everyone of them made reference to this. One of them called it “Billing during the talking stage,” and that cracked me up😂.

Now, don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with a woman liking a man who is generous. There is nothing wrong with wanting a man who can provide, who takes financial responsibility, who pays for dates, or who enjoys spoiling the woman he loves.

Those are perfectly legitimate preferences.

The problem is when preference quietly becomes entitlement.

There is a difference between “I like men who are generous” and “A man who likes me should be paying my bills.”

There is a difference between “I appreciate it when a man takes me out and spends on me” and “Why are you asking me out if you don’t have money to spend?”

And there is certainly a difference between “I want a man who can provide” and “If you really love me, you will prove it by giving me money.” By the way, the latter has never really made sense to me.

The first is a standard, the second is a sense of entitlement. And I think having that sense of entitlement in the talking stage is very weird.

You’ve known someone for a few days, you are still figuring out whether you even like each other. You don’t know whether he is emotionally stable.

But somehow, you think he's responsible for your financial obligations.

I believe that generosity is an expression of love but believing the other person owes you just because you're their partner is a wrong sense of entitlement.

And this is where I think we need to separate standards from entitlement.

A woman can say:

“I want a financially stable man.”

That's a standard.

She can say:

“I prefer a man who takes initiative and pays for dates.”

That's a preference.

She can say:

“I want a husband who is capable of providing for a family.”

That's a perfectly legitimate relationship expectation.

But saying:

“If a man doesn't spend a certain amount on me, he's not serious.”

is different.

Or:

“If he really liked me, he would have sent me money.”

Also different.

Or:

“I don't pay for anything when I'm dating a man.”

That's her choice, of course. But she shouldn't be surprised if the man hears that and decides that their expectations around relationships are incompatible.

You are entitled to your standards. You are not entitled to another person's agreement with them. So I think it's very fair they all considered it to be a turn off, as I do myself.

Dishonesty and Playing Games

Another turn-off I got from most of them was the habit of playing games instead of clear communication.

“I intentionally didn’t reply for three days to see if he’d double-text.”

“I mentioned another guy to see if he’d get jealous.”

“I acted uninterested to see if he’d chase.”

“I didn’t tell him I was angry because I wanted to see if he’d notice.”

Honestly, how is anyone supposed to guess that?

Another example is:

“I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Guys generally consider it a turn off when women don't use their words.

If you’re hurt, say you’re hurt. If something bothered you, explain it. If you need reassurance, ask for reassurance. If you need space, say you need space.

You can even say:

“I’m upset, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet.” That’s communication.

Guys do not possess some sort of telepathic abilities, and it can be very tiring being with someone who play these games just because they don't want to communicate.

Third on the list was:

Having No Life of Your Own

Three of the responses mentioned lack of ambition, passivity and having no passions or personal pursuits. And I want to believe this is a turn-off for men and women alike.

Just to be very clear though.

Not everyone wants to build a multinational company. Not everyone wants a corporate career. Not everyone wants to “grind.” And that's fine.

Some people want a quiet life. Some want to raise children. Some want to teach. If money weren't a factor, I'd probably choose to end up as a teacher in a small city.

Some want big things, and big businesses, which is also fine. Ambition doesn't have one uniform shape.

What I think they mean by that is having some sense of self.

Having something you care about, something you're learning, something you're building, something you're curious about, something that exists outside your relationship.

You don't have to be extraordinary.

Just be interested in your own life.

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The answers were surprisingly revealing.

There were disparities in the responses I got, but some qualities were quite unanimous, sha.

The first thing almost everybody mentioned was intelligence.

They like intelligent men. Men who speak well, think well, have something to say. Men you can actually have a conversation with.

And apparently, intelligence gets even better when it comes with humour.

I guess that’s good news for funny men.

Good conversation came up a lot too.

One of my friends complained about men who only ask:

“Have you eaten?”

“Where are you from?”

“What do you do?”

She said at some point, she starts wondering whether you're trying to date her or register her for NYSC.

Apparently, women like men who can talk about things. Books, music, work, random nonsense, life, ideas, and things they care about.

And they like men who are interested in what they have to say.

This seems obvious, but I found it interesting how many of them mentioned it. Apparently, they don't seem to like it when they tell a guy something and the man is just waiting for the slightest pause so he can say:

“That's crazy. You know what happened to me?”

Sir.

This is not your moment.

Then there was kindness.

Almost all of them mentioned it.

One friend specifically mentioned how she notices and finds it attractive when a man is kind to everyone, even the waiter.

They also mentioned thoughtfulness.

Paying attention to little details, remembering things, being intentional.

One said she likes men who are big on friendship.

I found that particularly sweet. She said there is something attractive about a man who loves people. Who has friends he cares about. Who remembers birthdays. Who checks on people without needing anything from them.

Then there was confidence.

They all mentioned that they liked a man who can take charge of a situation. Not controlling men, just men who are decisive. I asked what that looked like in practice and they said. They'll rather you tell them:

“There's a new place I've been wanting to try. Since Monday is free for you, let’s both check it out by 6. You'd like it.”

Instead of:

“Where do you want us to go?” Apparently they want you to make the damn decisions. I suspect this only works until you choose the wrong place.

Then suddenly your confidence has become “not listening”. Women are a fascinating demographic 😂.

There was also a surprisingly strong consensus around cooking. They seem to like men who can cook, which is devastating news for me, because I don't particularly enjoy kitchen work.They also liked men who smell good, that was also unanimous. They said they don't like men who bathe in perfume, sha.

They also mentioned something I don't fully understand, they like men who validate their feelings.

Almost all of them brought this up in one way or another. Apparently, sometimes when a woman tells you she's upset, she doesn't want you to immediately explain why she shouldn't be upset, or provide a solution. My instinct as a guy is usually to find the problem, identify the solution and move on with my life.

If you're upset because something happened, my brain immediately goes:

Okay. How do we fix this?

Apparently, sometimes the answer is:

We don't fix anything. We just sit here and feel it together.

I have taken note of that, btw.

I found it interesting though that there was barely any consensus on physical appearance

One of them said she likes biceps.

She mentioned biceps about ten times in one voice note. I wonder what's with Favour and biceps😂.

Another said she likes her men a little chubby. One likes neatly shaved men.

Another likes slightly rough hair and beards. One likes muscular men. Another likes very slim men. One likes men in kaftans and traditional wear. Another likes corporate casual. One finds glasses very attractive.

Someone else likes a man who is just... physically attractive to her. And there were a few who honestly said looks weren't that important to them. They said they have more of a natural attraction to how a man thinks, how he behaves and, most importantly, how he makes them feel.

After reading through their texts, and listening to their voice notes, i realized there is no ideal man. No universal template you’re failing as a man to meet. The things that got unanimous votes weren’t about your body or your wardrobe, they were about how you think and how you treat people. Everything else is just preference, and preference, thankfully, is scattered wide enough for all of us to fit somewhere.

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Should I be serious?

Should I make a dramatic announcement?

Should I disappear for one week and suddenly return with a photograph of a book and the caption “It’s finally here.”

I was overthinking it, and I thought. You know what, I think I’ll just tell everyone.

I wrote a book.

Not “I’m writing a book.”

I mean the manuscript is completed. Sent away from my laptop and currently in the hands of my stubborn editors, who are now reading through it. I should probably mention that we are already arguing. They think that some sentences I consider to be really lovely should be removed, and I disagree. They have their reasons though, but I have mine. Let's see who wins in the end 😂.

It's my first book, and I'm self-publishing it, which means I get the terrifying privilege of figuring out almost everything that comes after writing the actual book.

It is a contemporary romance—and I may be biased, but I think it might be one of the best you'll read in a while. 😂

I am aware that this is an outrageous thing for an author to say.

I said it anyway. You can hold me accountable when you read it. 😂

But I’m not going to tell you everything about the book today.

Not yet.

I'll be giving you more context about the book some other time—what it's about, the characters in it, and what made me want to write it in the first place. But I don't want to just announce the book one day and expect you to show up when it's finished.

I want to carry you along while it becomes a book.

So moving forward, you'll be part of the process. I'll bring you into the decisions, show you what's happening behind the scenes, and let you see this thing take shape from a finished manuscript into something you can actually hold and read.

And I think we should start with the cover. When the time comes, I'll bring you different designs, you'll tell me which ones you love (and which ones you don't like), and we'll eventually make a choice together from the opinion of the majority.

So, if you know an illustrative designer who makes beautiful, memorable book covers—or you're one yourself—please recommend them to me. I'd love to see their work.

If you have someone in mind, send me their name, portfolio, page, or contact. I will genuinely look through the recommendations.

I guess that's it for now. The writing is done, the editors have it.

And now, with you, we are going to turn the manuscript into a book. I really cannot wait for you to meet it ❤.

And if you've self-published a book before, worked in publishing, know marketing strategies that actually work, your boy is very humble abeg 😂. My DM is very much open. I am genuinely willing to learn, and I would really appreciate it.

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Tola drove back home with the windows down, letting the cool evening air blow past him. He had his playlist running, but he wasn’t really listening to the music. He couldn’t stop playing the interaction he had with her in his head.

When he finally walked into his apartment, he didn’t bother opening the windows.

He tossed his keys onto the glass center table, kicked off his loafers, and fell back onto the sofa with a long, ridiculous sigh.

​He stared at his ceiling for a minute before grabbing his phone.

​If I call her now, am I being too eager? he thought, his thumb hovering over her contact name. She literally just left. But wait, she told me to call her.

​He typed, deleted, typed again, and finally settled on something simple.

​Tola: Made it home. Just making sure my favourite detective got back safely too.

​He locked the screen and set the phone face down on his chest. Ten seconds passed. Then thirty. Then two minutes. He rolled his eyes at himself, sitting up to strip off his shirt. The moment the cotton cleared his head, his phone buzzed.

​He practically snatched it off the cushion.

​Efe: Safe and sound Joe.

Tola stared at her message for a few seconds before typing.

Tola: Since you're safely home, I was thinking... maybe I could see you again sometime.

He paused. Deleted it. Typed again.

Tola: So… since you've made it home safely, I think that calls for a celebration.

Efe: A celebration?

Tola: Dinner. With me.

The typing bubbles appeared, vanished, and appeared almost immediately.

​Efe: A date already? Mr. Architect, I don’t even know your surname. I don’t know if you put milk before cereal or cereal before milk.

​Tola: Cereal before milk, obviously. I’m not a monster😂. And my surname is Adeniyi. You can cross-examine me on the rest in person.

She didn't give a response.

​Tola smiled, a slow, warmth spreading through his chest. He hit the call button.

​She picked up on the second ring. “You don’t like text messages?” her voice came through the speaker, laced with amused mischief.

​”I prefer hearing you say no to my face,” Tola said, leaning back against the sofa cushions. “Or in this case, into my ear. What do you say about a dinner with me soon, Efe?”

​There was a brief pause on her end, the quiet rustle of sheets or clothing moving.

“What day do you have in mind, Joe? ”

“How do you feel about Sunday?” Tola asked, his voice dropping into a quiet, persuasive rhythm. “Four o’clock.”

​”Where?”

​”It’s a surprise. Just wear comfortable shoes.”

​”If you kidnap me, my friends have your phone number and picture,” she warned, though the smile in her voice was unmistakable.

“Understood, Detective. See you on Sunday.”

​Sunday afternoon arrived wrapped in a quiet, golden haze.

Tola stood by the passenger side of his car outside her estate gate in Ikeja, nervously smoothing down the front of his cream linen shirt.

When the pedestrian gate swung open and Efe stepped out, Tola’s throat went dry.

​She wore a flowing terracotta sundress, her hair neatly twisted into soft frames around her face.

​As she walked up to him, Tola opened his mouth to greet her, but the words jammed in his throat. He just stood there, ducking his head slightly, a sudden, flustered heat rising to his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck.

​Efe stopped a foot away, tilting her head. A delighted smirk spread across her lips as she caught the slight tilt of his head and his avoiding glance.

​"Wait," she said softly, leaning in. "Are you... shy?"

​Tola let out a breathy, embarrassed laugh, finally looking up to meet her eyes, his hands tucked awkwardly into his pockets. "I had a whole smooth greeting prepared in the car. Then you walked out, and I went blank."

​Efe’s smile softened. "I didn't know the big, bold Joe Goldberg was this shy without his black baseball cap."

​"Only around you," Tola admitted quietly, holding the car door open for her. "You look beautiful, Efe. Truly."

​"Thank you, Tola," she whispered, her eyes lingering on his face before she slid into the seat.

The drive led them out to a quiet, garden restaurant on the Island. They talked for hours—about her chaotic marketing campaigns, and their dreams.

​As the afternoon matured into a warm twilight, the waiter cleared their glasses, leaving them in the gentle hush of the garden.

Tola pulled out a small, worn leather sketchbook from his back pocket—the one he carried everywhere to capture quick structural ideas and sudden bits of inspiration.

He opened it flat on the table, using a wooden pencil to sketch a quick, elegant cross-section of the garden's iron archway, trying to explain an architectural detail he loved.

Efe leaned in, resting her chin on her palm, fascinated by how effortlessly his long fingers guided the lead, turning blank paper into structure. But as Tola turned his head to glance back at the archway to check a proportion, Efe’s eyes glinted with sudden, quiet mischief.

In one smooth, silent motion, her fingers slid across the table, snatched the leather book right out from under his hand, and pulled it against her lap.

Tola looked down at his empty hand, blinked, and then looked up at her, completely caught off guard. "Hey. What are you doing?"

"Disturbing you, ” Efe said, holding the book to her chest as she slid her chair back and stood up. A dimpled smile broke across her face.

"Efe, come on," Tola said, standing up and reaching across the small table, trying to sound stern while failing to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Those are client ideas in the book. Serious business."

"If it’s serious business, you shouldn't have left it so unguarded, Mr. Architect," she teased.

She took two slow, deliberate steps backward onto the soft grass, holding the book behind her back, her dark eyes dancing. "If you want it, you have to get it."

"Efe, give it back," he said, stepping around the table toward her.

"Catch me first!"

She spun around and took off across the green lawn, her terracotta dress swaying gently around her ankles. Her laughter drifted back through the quiet garden air.

Tola let out a quiet laugh, breaking into an easy stride after her.

She was fast, weaving around the thick trunks of the old mahogany trees and ducking under hanging vines. Tola stayed a few paces behind on purpose for a moment, just taking in the sight of her—the way the low evening sun caught the edges of her soft twists, the unbothered joy in her movement.

"You know I will catch you!" Tola called out, closing the distance with his longer stride.

Efe glanced over her shoulder, saw him right behind her, and let out a soft gasp, trying to make a sharp turn around a large bougainvillea bush. But her sneakers slid slightly on the damp grass, throwing her off balance.

Tola reacted instantly. He stepped forward, reaching out and wrapping his arms securely around her waist to catch her before she could fall.

The momentum brought her backing straight into his chest. Tola planted his feet firmly, pulling her flush against him to keep them both upright.

For a second, the only sound was their heavy, uneven breathing.

Efe’s back was resting against his chest, his arms locked warm and secure around her waist. She still held the small leather book tightly against her stomach.

"Got you," Tola murmured into the quiet space between them.

Efe stayed completely still for a second, her hands resting over his where they held her waist. Slowly, she turned her head to look up at him.

"You cheated," she whispered, her voice losing its playful edge, turning breathless. "You have longer legs."

"How is that my fault," Tola responded laughing, his gaze dropping to her lips before rising back to meet her eyes.

Tola slowly loosened his grip on her waist, turning her around gently within the circle of his arms so she was facing him. He reached down, his hand covering hers over the leather notebook.

"Can I have my book back now?" he asked gently.

Efe looked into his warm eyes, her chest rising in a slow, deep breath. Without breaking eye contact, her fingers unclasped, letting him slip the notebook out of her grip.

"Here," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "You win."

Tola tucked the book into his back pocket without taking his eyes off her face. He reached down and slid his fingers between hers, holding her hand firmly as the twilight deepened around them.

As they walked back to their table in comfortable silence, their hands intertwined, with Tola’s thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over the back of her hand.

"I have a confession," he murmured, his voice dipping low, personal...

​”What is it?”

​”I was terrified you wouldn’t show up today.”

​Efe looked down at their joined hands, her thumb lightly brushing his knuckles. “I almost didn’t,” she admitted quietly. “I usually don’t do things like this. Meeting people like that... it felt fast.”

​”And now?” Tola asked softly.

​She looked up, her gaze holding his.

​”Now I’m very glad I came.”

​They stayed at that table long after their drinks were finished, until the sun began to dip below the tree line, filtering amber light through the leaves.

​When they finally stood up to leave, Tola didn’t let go of her hand right away. He stood close to her in the quiet path near the gate, the space between them small and comfortable.

​”Do I stand a chance, Efe?” he asked, his tone quiet. “Or am I just a nice afternoon?”

​"Ask me again after the second date," she said, a smile tugging at her mouth. "I don't hand out verdicts on the first."

Tola let out a quiet, relieved breath, a broad grin spreading across his face. "So you want a second date?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Joe," she whispered.

Before he could respond, Efe stepped closer, placing her hand against his chest. She rose onto her tiptoes, her gaze locked onto his, and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss on his cheek.

Tola froze, his pulse spiking as her breath brushed his skin.

When her heels touched the grass again, Efe looked up at him with a mischievous grin. Tola broke into a sudden, chest-deep laugh, throwing his head back slightly before looking down at her, completely captivated.

​"Now who's getting ahead of themselves?" he teased, his voice laced with affection.

​Efe squeezed his hand tightly, her dark eyes sparkling in the dimming light as a bright, musical laugh spilled from her lips, echoing into the quiet evening.

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“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life.” — Steve Jobs

I have found myself reading obituaries in the past few weeks.

Not because I am fascinated by death.

Quite the opposite.

Reading them has only made me more fascinated by life.

There is something strange about reading the stories of people who are no longer here.

You read about their lives and realize that, in the end, their ambitions have ended. Their disappointments no longer matter. The things they spent years worrying about have become irrelevant.

And what remains is surprisingly simple.

Who they loved.

Who they helped.

What they cared about enough to give their lives to.

It makes me wonder what would happen if we all lived with a little more awareness of our own ending.

Imagine someone told you today:

You have ten months left to live.

What would you stop doing?

Who would you call?

Who would you forgive?

What would you finally say?

What would you stop being embarrassed about?

What would you start?

Would that argument still matter?

Would you still spend three hours scrolling through the lives of people you don’t know, or would you finally start living yours?

Would you still keep postponing the book, the business, the trip, the apology, the dream?

Because I have realized that many of us become so busy living that we forget to actually live.

We postpone joy until we have more money.

We postpone love until the circumstances are perfect.

We postpone the things that matter until some imaginary future when we finally have enough time.

But we don’t know how much time we have.

The person who died yesterday probably had plans for tomorrow.

They probably had a message they thought they would send later.

A place they thought they would visit someday.

A dream they assumed they had time to pursue.

A conversation they thought could wait.

And then, suddenly, tomorrow became a day they would never see.

That is the uncomfortable gift of remembering that we will die:

It makes today matter.

So perhaps you too should read an obituary sometime this month.

So you'll remember that the person whose name you are reading once had a tomorrow they assumed would come.

And so do you.

So love those around you while you can.

Write the book.

Take the trip.

Ask the question.

Make the apology.

Start the thing you keep telling yourself you will start someday.

Go outside.

Laugh more.

Pray.

Love people deeply.

And stop waiting for your life to become perfect before you allow yourself to live it.

Because one day, someone will read your obituary.

And when that day comes, the things that mattered most will probably not be how impressive you looked, how many people approved of you, or how much time you spent worrying.

It will be the life you actually lived.

So live it.

While you still can.

Memento mori. Memento vivere.

Remember you must die.

Remember to live.

I Want to Be Known

Not in the way people know random facts.

I mean known in the quieter places.

I want someone who notices that I become unusually talkative when something is bothering me, because sometimes it is easier to talk about everything than to name the one thing that hurts.

Someone who learns my rhythms.

The way I disappear into myself when I am overwhelmed.

The way I say, “It’s fine,” because finding the right words feels harder than pretending nothing happened.

The way I sometimes need time before I can admit, even to myself, that something hurt me.

I want someone who understands that sometimes when I say “leave me alone,” I am secretly hoping they'll stay close enough to notice I didn't mean it.

That sometimes I don't mean to come of as absent .

I am only trying to find somewhere quiet enough to hear myself think.

Someone who knows that there are contradictions in me that do not need to be resolved.

I can want to be alone and still hope someone checks on me.

I can walk into one room completely certain of myself and leave another wondering whether I belong there at all.

I can know exactly what I believe and still have days when I question everything.

I want someone who understands that being complicated does not make me dishonest.

I want someone who understands that not everything broken needs to become perfect before it deserves patience.

And I don’t want someone who agrees with everything I say simply to keep me comfortable.

Tell me when I am being unfair.

Tell me when I am becoming the kind of person I once promised myself I would never become.

Tell me the truth, even when the truth is uncomfortable.

But when you do, please don’t make my mistake larger than my humanity.

Don’t turn one bad decision into a permanent description of who I am.

Leave room for the possibility that people can disappoint you without being disappointments.

I want someone who remembers the small things.

The song I play when I cannot sleep.

The way I become quiet when a conversation gets too close to something I have not figured out yet.

The ridiculous things that can still make me laugh when I have had a terrible day.

The things I pretend not to care about because caring makes me feel exposed.

The little details I mention once and never expect anyone to remember.

I want the kind of companionship where I don’t have to constantly explain myself.

Where I can sit beside someone without feeling responsible for filling every empty space between us.

Where a bad day does not become evidence against the love we have for each other.

Where tenderness is not something I have to earn by explaining my sadness perfectly.

Perhaps that sounds like a lot.

Maybe it is.

But I'm not asking for someone perfect.

I just want someone patient enough to remember that there are parts of me I am still learning, too.

Someone willing to let me become more than the first impression they had of me.

Someone who doesn’t keep a permanent record of every version of me I have outgrown.

Someone who can hold the truth about me and the love they have for me in the same hands.

I want to be known without being put on trial.

To be loved without being idealised.

To be corrected without being condemned.

To be allowed to grow without having every old mistake dragged into every new beginning.

And perhaps, more than anything, I want someone who can meet me on an ordinary, complicated, unfinished day and not need me to become anything else before they come closer.

Someone who can look at me when I have nothing impressive to offer—no clever words, no certainty, no carefully arranged version of myself—and simply say:

There you are.

I know you.

And I am still here.

Maybe that is all I have ever meant when I say I want to be...

Known.

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​I met your fiancée at Nike Art Gallery on a Saturday.

​I wasn’t there because I cared about art. Half the paintings looked like rubbish to me. I was there for the women.

​She stood before a painting of a woman floating in a lake. She wore a tailored cream trouser suit that hit her curves with devastating elegance.

I didn't rush towards her like a desperate amateur. I walked up, stood beside her, matched her gaze on the canvas, and let three seconds of silence hang between us before I spoke.

“Excuse me,” I said, my voice dropping into a low, smooth pitch.

She didn't look at me right away, but I caught the slight, curious turn of her head. “Yes?”

“Are you part of the exhibit? Because I can't seem to take my eyes off you,” I replied, finally turning my eyes to her side profile.

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. She turned to face me, raised her hand to tuck a stray braid behind her ear, she's pretty.

The gallery light caught the massive solitaire diamond on her ring finger like a neon sign.

“Is this how you flirt with every woman you meet?”

“No.” I said

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I only flirt with the pretty ones.”

She smiled.

“What if I say you're not my type?” she asked

“I'll ask who ruined your taste.”

She laughed. “Well,” her voice dripping with playful composure, “your timing is off by about five months. I’m engaged,” she said, waving her ring at me.

Other men would have backed down at that point, but I didn't flinch. I didn't look down at the ring. In fact, I completely ignored its existence—never validate a wall a woman puts up to test your frame.

“I didn't ask for your marital status,” I said with a slow, amused smile. “I just made an observation. I’m Obafemi.”

“Teni,” she responded.

“So, your man, is he here with you?”

She smiled. “No, his name is Yemi, btw.”

“I don't like him already.”

“You don't even know him.”

“I know enough.”

“Oh?”

“He's somewhere else while another man is making his fiancée laugh.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are so shameless.”

“I've been called worse.”

“Please leave. You won't stop, will you?”

“I'll stop the moment you look bored.”

She smiled and we talked for ten minutes about art, food, work, and music. I had her laughing so hard she had to cover her mouth twice. In passing, she mentioned you were supposed to be there with her, but an urgent work issue came up. Oh Yemi, you were so emotionally absent.

As we walked toward the exit, I asked for her contact. She shut it down with a smile. “I don’t give my handle to strangers at galleries, Obafemi. My heart is taken.” She tapped her ring and walked away. After much pestering, she gave me her Instagram.

Later that night, I sent a DM, and she instantly blocked me. She was trying so hard to be loyal to you, Yemi. God knows she tried. But I’m a demon, I tried harder.

I logged into my secondary account and replied to a story she posted about not being able to sleep: “Insomnia is probably punishment for blocking handsome men at galleries?”

She replied instantly: “You again? 😂 How did you even find me?”

“I promise I come in peace,” I typed back. “I’m not trying to steal you from Yemi. Just want to be a mutual.”

That opened the unlatched door.

In no time, we became dangerously close. I was the constant present when you were swallowed up by your business trips in Abuja. Every night, after your scheduled, mechanical video call with her from 9:00 to 10:30 PM, I would take over. We spoke from then until 3:00 AM. While you slept, she poured her soul into my hands—her childhood, her wildest dreams, her deepest fears.

Yemi, did you know your sweet angel once wanted to join the army and become a soldier? Who would have thought, right? You never asked her. I did, and I listened.

One month later, she mentioned her friend had canceled on a beach date, and she really wanted to go. She didn't tell me it was you who cancelled, but I knew. She casually asked if I’d follow her.

Yemi, why did you cancel on her that weekend?

I responded: “Hope oga Yemi will not beat me for taking his babe to the beach?”

She typed back: “😂😂 Never mind. Forget I asked.”

I didn't rescue the conversation. I let it die. I left her on Read and let the guilt spar with her desires.

A few days later, she mentioned she had an important strategy presentation at work. She was terrified.

“I always feel like I'll forget everything,” she texted.

“You sound so cute when you're terrified”

“Obafemi, stop it. I'm serious”

“You won't forget anything.” I responded.

“You've never seen me present.”

“I don't need to.”

“Confident, aren't you?”

“Yes.” I smiled at my phone screen. “You're one of the smartest people I know. I'm confident in your abilities”

The next morning, before she even arrived at her office, a bouquet was sitting on her desk. White lilies. Her favorite. She’d mentioned it once in passing two weeks prior.

The card had seven words:

Go and remind them why they hired you.

She called before noon, her voice light, and breathless.

“You sent these.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Liar,” she responded laughing

“Did the presentation go well?”

“I was smiling before I even entered the room. My colleagues couldn't stop staring at my desk.”

“I'm glad.”

There was a long pause. Then she asked softly, “How did you remember lilies?”

“You told me.”

“I mentioned it once.” she said softly

“Once was enough.” I paused, then delivered the fatal blow:

“I'm sure the flower was nothing compared to what Yemi sent you.”

The silence stretched longer this time—

“I… I should get back to work,” she whispered, and hung up.

You didn't even remember to text her, Yemi. Did you? Not even "Good luck."

That Saturday, I pulled up in my car to pick her up for the beach. We spent the afternoon watching the waves, laughing, completely unbothered by the world. Afterward, I convinced her to come over to check out my apartment. She hesitated initially, but I insisted and she gave in.

My house was dimly lit, warm, lined with wall-to-wall bookshelves, vinyl records, and original sketches. I played a soft, sultry saxophone tune quietly in the background.

“Lovely space,” she said as she stepped in.

“You like it?”

“Yes” she responded as I poured two glasses of red wine, ordered gourmet pizza, and we sat on the plush rug, lost in high-voltage banter.

Somewhere in the middle of a joke, the laughter died down. Teni stopped mid-sentence, her breath hitching as her eyes locked onto mine. There was no hesitation left in her. She leaned forward, closed the remaining space, as she pressed her lips to mine.

​I didn't pull back. I slid my hand to the nape of her neck, my fingers tangling into her braids, and pulled her closer until there was no air left between our chests.

​The kiss was desperate and heavy with weeks of built-up hunger. Her hands gripped the shoulders of my shirt like she was drowning and I was the only thing keeping her afloat. For two solid minutes, the apartment, the jazz playing softly in the background, her engagement—the entire world melted away.

​Then, reality crashed over her like cold water.

“God, no… I shouldn't be doing this,” she sobbed. “I love Yemi… I’m marrying him in two months… What am I doing?”

I didn't panic. I reached out, gently took her wrist, and pulled her right back against my chest, wrapping my arm around her waist to anchor her. “Shh,” I whispered softly against her temple. “You're okay, Teni. Stop fighting what you feel.”

She buried her face in my shoulder, softly into my shirt. Just as she began to settle in my arms, and just as I was about lifting her to my room, her handbag on the couch buzzed loudly.

The screen lit up in bold capital letters: YEMI MY LOVE❤️.

She gasped, staring at the screen as if a ghost had entered the room. The spell shattered. She grabbed her bag, pulled away from me, and ran out into the night without looking back.

Which brings us to yesterday morning.

At 10:00 AM, my doorbell rang. I opened it to find Teni standing on my porch. Her eyes were red, but her posture was set in a dramatic, triumphant resolve. She walked past me into the living room, unclasped the diamond ring, and dropped it onto my glass table with a sharp, heavy clink.

“I did it,” she said, her voice shaking with adrenaline. “I broke up with Yemi this morning. I told him I couldn't go through with the wedding. I chose you, Obafemi.”

She stood there, waiting for a romantic Hollywood scene—waiting for me to sweep her into my arms and validate her grand sacrifice.

I looked down at the diamond ring resting on the glass table. Then I looked at her. I slowly folded my arms across my chest and stepped back. God, what a fool she is.

“Teni,” I said, my voice completely stripped of every drop of warmth, and sweetness I had fed her for weeks. “Are you out of your mind?”

The color instantly drained from her face. “What?”

“You threw away a three-year relationship, a good man, and a whole wedding over a few weeks of lilies and sweet talk from a guy you met at an art gallery?” I asked, my tone cold and unbothered. “Let’s be logical. Even if I wanted a wife, do you think any sensible man would marry a woman who cheats on her fiancé and burns her life down the moment she feels neglected?”

She stared at me, completely paralyzed, her mouth slightly open.

“And secondly,” I added, pulling out my phone and tapping the screen, “meet my family.”

On the screen was a picture of my wife and two kids standing outside our home in Toronto.

“My relocation flight is in two weeks,” I said evenly.

“My wife and children are waiting for me in Canada. I was just passing time in Lagos, Teni. Playing the game.”

She didn't scream. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she stood there looking like a ghost in my living room.

“Pick up your ring,” I said, holding the front door wide open. “Call Yemi, beg for his forgiveness, or don't. But get out of my house.”

She picked up her ring with shaking fingers and walked out without a word.

Ten seconds later, I blocked her on every social media platform.

So why am I addressing this letter to you, Yemi?

Teni is probably going to call you today. She will cry, lie, and beg you to take her back.

Whether you take her back or not is your business. But let this be a lesson to you and every other man who gets comfortable:

​If you don't take care of your woman’s mind and presence every single day, another demon like me will do it for sport.

​Tighten your game, brother. I had fun with your babe while it lasted.

With love,

Obafemi.

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I liked a girl once—really, liked her.

I spent hours rehearsing conversations in my head that dissolved the moment she smiled. Every notification on my phone from her came with a tiny rush of adrenaline. Every moment spent with her became a scene my mind replayed for days.

Looking back, it's almost embarrassing how easily she occupied my thoughts. And I was utterly convinced that she was the love of my life, because isn't that what love is supposed to feel like?

The racing pulse, the sleepless nights, the inability to think straight.

Butterflies.

Years later, I look back on that version of myself with equal parts fondness and pity.

Because if someone had asked me then whether she made me feel emotionally safe, whether our values aligned, whether we handled conflict with grace, or whether we envisioned the same future, I would have stared blankly.

None of those questions felt romantic. I only knew that my heart accelerated whenever she was around, and I assumed that meant she was the right person for me.

I'll spare you the details of how it ended, except to say this: It didn't end well.

You know, there is an old Greek myth about the Sirens that captures this better than I ever could.

The Sirens were creatures with voices so intoxicating that sailors abandoned all reason the moment they heard them sing across the water. Captains threw away their maps. Crews ignored the storm warnings. Men steered directly toward the music, convinced they were sailing toward something magnificent.

But they weren't. The song was real and beautiful, but so were the rocks beneath the waves.

The danger was never the music itself—it was believing that because something felt irresistible, it must also be safe.

And I think about that story whenever the only reason people give for wanting to be with someone is, "They make me feel things I've never felt before."

Sometimes that's wonderful, but sometimes it's also just the sound of a Siren.

Don't get me wrong—this doesn't mean chemistry is unimportant. Far from it. In fact, I like to think that a relationship without romantic, sexual desire is just friendship in disguise. Compatibility doesn't matter more than chemistry. Both are equally indispensable.

But we've built an entire culture around chemistry alone. We are taught to chase sparks. Very often, songs, movies and novels glorify the intensity of wanting someone so badly that nothing else matters.

But sparks are not enough.

In fact, anxiety and trauma can sometimes disguise themselves as intoxicating attraction.

This is why compatibility matters.

Chemistry answers the question: Do I feel something?

Compatibility answers the rest:

Can we build something together?

Does our values align?

Do I trust them?

Can I be honest around them?

Do they handle conflict with kindness?

Would I admire this person even if the romance quiets down?

Those questions are less cinematic, but they are very important. Because, desire cannot compensate for disrespect, and no amount of attraction can permanently silence incompatible values.

I'll leave you with one of my favorite quotes about love, from Captain Corelli's Mandolin:

"Love is what is left when being in love has burned away."

I think he was right. No one remains permanently intoxicated. The racing heart eventually slows, and the fireworks become candlelight.

This is not the death of love.

It is where true love begins.

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Because of the massive crowd, people place their orders, pay upfront, and then just hang around for a while, nursing cold drinks and keeping their eyes glued to the grill until the mallams wave to them through the smoke.

​Tonight, the canopy is packed. Tola, wearing a sharp black button-down and a black baseball cap pulled low, manages to slide into a tiny opening on the lone wooden bench pushed against the wall. A moment later, she sits down next to him, exhaling a soft breath.

The space is tight. So when a man carrying a crate of soft drinks squeezes past, her shoulder presses firmly against Tola’s.

“Sorry,” she says, turning her head. Her eyes are wide and dark.

“Don’t worry about it, It’s Obalende. If you don’t touch at least three strangers before you get your meat, you haven’t truly arrived.” Tola says, shifting an inch to give her more space,

She laughs—a soft, genuine sound that cuts right through the din of blaring horns and shouting vendors. Looking at him, her eyes linger on his low cap and dark shirt. She tilts her head, a playful squint entering her expression.

“Are you hiding from the authorities?" she asks, leaning in just enough to be heard over the din. "Because you look exactly like Joe Goldberg from that show “You”. Should I be looking over my shoulder?"

Tola adjusts the brim of his cap, a slow smirk spreading across his face.

“Only if you’re planning on stealing my suya. Otherwise, I’m completely harmless.”

“That is *exactly* what Joe would say,” she retorts, her eyes dancing with wit.

“I’m Tola, by the way.”

She holds his gaze, her smile lingering, before she nods softly.

“Okay, Tola.”

“You aren’t going to give me a name back?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave,

“I’m keeping my details anonymous until I’m sure you don’t have a glass cage in your basement,” she banters back.

Before he can answer, a Mallam waves a grease-stained hand through the thick haze of smoke, pointing directly at her.

“Aunty, your suya don ready!”

She stands up, smoothing down her skirt to collect her order, and gives Tola a brief, mocking salute.

“Stay safe, Joe.”

“Wait,” Tola says, standing up quickly.

“You’re really going to walk away into this crowd without even telling me your name?”

She pauses, turning back, the amber streetlights catching the edge of her smile.

“It’s EFE.”

Tola steps closer, the space between them shrinking.

“Efe. Beautiful. Can I get the numbers that go with it?”

“No,” she responded smiling as she vanished into the crowd.

For the next three days, Tola is entirely beside himself. The moment he gets home that night, he throws himself onto his bed and opens Instagram. He types in *Efe*.

Hundreds of profiles pop up. He scrolls endlessly, clicking through accounts, looking for those beautiful dark eyes. He tries Effy, Efex, Efe_, and every variation his brain can conjure until his thumb ached. Nothing.

He drives down to Obalende every single day at the exact same time, sits on the exact same wooden bench, and watches the faces pass by. The mallam even begins to look at him sideways, wondering why the guy in the black cap is suddenly lingering like a ghost.

Efe doesn’t show. He spends his drive home replaying her laugh.

On the fourth day, he sits on that bench for two hours, watching the crowd thin out and thicken again. She doesn't show.

Finally, he stands up, kicking his feet against the dirt in frustration, cursing himself for letting her slip away.

Then, he sees her. She’s standing near the drinks kiosk.

Tola doesn’t walk; he strides. Today, his head is bare, his hair neatly lined up. He steps directly into her space, holding his hands up in complete surrender.

“See? No black cap. No hidden motives. Totally safe,” he says, his eyes locked entirely onto hers.

Efe spins around, startled, but the moment she recognizes him, a brilliant, breathtaking smile breaks across her face.

“You came back.”

“I’ve spent three days coming back here in search of you,” Tola confesses, his voice stripped of every trace of pride. “I was beginning to think I’d imagined you.”

Efe stares at him, smiling softly. “You came here... every day?”

“Every single day.”

“That’s either incredibly sweet...” She narrows her eyes playfully. “...or the first chapter of a true crime documentary.”

“I was hoping we’d moved past the criminal allegations.”

“We haven’t.”

He sighs dramatically, making her laugh. The teenage boy behind the kiosk slides a cold bottle across the counter. “ Your water, ma, it's two hundred naira.”

Efe reaches into her handbag, but Tola is faster, stretching a note toward the boy. “I’ve got it.”

Without looking at him, Efe calmly brings out her own money and hands it over.

“Thank you,” she says with a smooth, firm smile, “but I can pay for my water.”

The boy looks between them awkwardly before taking hers. Tola withdraws his hand, frowning in mock confusion.

“I didn’t mean—”

She arches an eyebrow. “No?”

“I wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I was just... happy I found you.”

She stares at him for a second, then smiles. The boy disappears with a grin, enjoying the exchange far more than either of them.

Efe twists open her bottle and takes a sip. “I actually haven’t collected my suya yet.”

Tola’s eyes light up. “Perfect.”

“Why is that perfect?”

“Because neither have I.” He points toward the smoky grill. “Come on.”

They walk side by side through the crowd.

“So,” Efe says, “what exactly do you do when you’re not haunting suya spots looking for women ?”

“I’m an architect.”

She blinks, looking him up and down. “Hmm.”

“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

“You don’t look like one. I don’t know... architects usually look less suspicious.”

He laughs.

“I’ll work on that. And you?”

“Marketing.”

"So you're one of the people responsible for those company ads that make me buy things I don't need?"

She laughs. "I help brands tell stories."

"Oh." He nods thoughtfully. "That's good.”

They reach the grill, and the mallam recognizes Tola immediately. “Oga black cap!” he calls out, making the surrounding customers turn.

Efe laughs so hard she almost spills her water. Tola covers his face.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake coming here this often.”

They collect their neatly wrapped packages and step away from the crowd, stealing hot pieces of spiced beef from the warm paper.

“You weren’t lying,” Efe says, chewing thoughtfully. “This really is the best suya in Lagos.”

“Of course. I’m a man with good taste.”

Efe steals another piece, her eyes locking onto his with a quiet intensity. “I can see that.”

They stand there eating, talking about everything and nothing—favorite movies, childhood embarrassments, wicked bosses, and why Coke somehow tastes better in a glass bottle. Conversation came absurdly easy. It felt less like two strangers meeting and more like two people picking up a conversation they'd accidentally paused years ago.

Eventually, Efe glances at her wristwatch.

“I should head home now, it's late” She takes a small step backward, with a soft smile.

“It was really nice seeing you again, Tola.”

She turns to leave. Without thinking, Tola reaches out gently and catches her hand.

She looks back at him.

“I can’t let you disappear again,” he says softly, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “Not this time.”

Her smile returns, slower and sweeter now. “So, what do you want, Joe?”

“l want your number. Actually, I’m begging for it.”

She laughs, shaking her head, and holds out her hand. “Your phone.”

He hands it over immediately. She types in eleven digits, saves the contact, and presses the device back into his palm.

Tola stares at the screen as though it’s the most valuable thing he owns.

“Efe,” he reads aloud.

“That’s it? How do I know it’s your real number?”

She begins walking backward into the evening crowd, a playful spark in her eyes. “Call me.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

He presses the call button. A second later, a phone rings inside her handbag. She pulls it out, glances at the screen, and answers it, bringing the phone to her ear without stopping her backward stride.

“Hello, Joe,” her voice echoes both from the phone and across the short distance between them.

Tola laughs, his heart doing a ridiculous flip. “I don’t think I’m ever escaping that nickname, am I?”

Efe stops for a brief second.

“No,” she says softly into the line.

She hangs up, turned back to look at him from across the distance, winks at him, and slips the phone back into her bag, and melts into the bustling dusk. Tola stands frozen, pressing the glowing screen against his chest as her laughter echoes in his mind.

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I’ve lived in Lagos all my life—well, except for the few years in the University I spent schooling in another state.

And, if you live in Lagos long enough, "One Chance" stories become part of your basic orientation. You hear about them from friends, Twitter, or get warned about them by your parents.

But there was one specific script I’d heard about for years that I always found laughably absurd. Whenever people narrated it, I’d shake my head and think:

Come on now. Who actually falls for that?

Then, one day, I boarded a Sienna to Yaba at Iyana-Ipaja, and the curtains drew open on my very own private viewing of the play.

Act I

There were four of us packed into the back seat, shoulder to shoulder, sweating in silence. We were classic Lagos commuters—eyes glued to our phones or staring blankly out the window, probably praying there would be no traffic so we'd get to our destinations early.

Then, the passenger in the front seat suddenly shouted, "Driver, owa o!"

The driver slammed on the brakes, letting him out with a theatrical puff of frustration.

"Why you no quick talk? Where you want make I park now? Alaye, bọ́ lẹ́ nínú mọ́tò mi jare.”

Before the door could even click fully shut, the driver peeked into his rearview mirror, locked eyes with the empty passenger seat, and bellowed:

"Ah! Hope that man did not leave that heavy bag in my boot?!"

He stopped the car, got out, popped the trunk, and came back holding a battered duffel bag.

Then our actor, starts running back toward the car, chest heaving, face covered in sweat.

"It is mine! Please, it is mine!" he panted, gripping the doorframe.

The driver, suddenly playing the role of the good suspicious citizen, narrowed his eyes.

"What is inside this bag that you are running like this? Oya, open it. I want to see."

This was the moment.

Act II

See ba, if you've ever stolen something—and I know this because I stole meat from the pot a few times as a child—your entire survival depends on one golden rule: absolute anonymity. You never want to let people know you just stole something.

So you can imagine my shock when our star actor looked at us, his eyes wide and trembling, and spilled everything in a frantic rush:

"Oga, please don't open it. It's cash—foreign currency. I worked for a man who refused to pay me, so I stole from him and ran away."

I sat there, staring at the back of his head.

Baba, are you serious right now?

Who opens their mouth to confess this? What your thought process?

First, if you are carrying a fortune of stolen foreign currency in a Lagos vehicle, you hug that bag like a newborn baby; you don't forget it in the trunk.

Second, you keep your goddamn lips sealed.

Third, no one offers a dramatic exposition of their workplace grievances to people who are just trying to get to work or wherever they’re going.

Yet, as I watched him, a sobering realization hit me: the performance is undeniably goofy, but the mental trap they are setting is lethal.

Act III

As ridiculous as the performance was, I felt the atmosphere in the back of the taxi instantly change.

The silence among the passengers became charged. I glanced at the person sitting next to me. His eyes were no longer on his phone. His pupils were dilated. I could practically hear the mental calculator crunching the current black-market exchange rate— okay I'm exaggerating a little.

Right on cue, the driver delivered the pivot:

"Oya, we won't call the police. All of us in this car will share this money."

And that is where the trap snaps shut.

The scammers know their acting is B-grade Nollywood. They know this whole thing they are doing makes zero sense. But they also know that greed is a hell of a drug. It bypasses logical reasoning. It makes you stop asking, "Why is this thief giving a press conference in a taxi?" and starts making you ask, "What is my cut?"

Before you know it, they’ve transitioned from sharing the money to needing a "contribution" to buy chemicals to clean the ink off the dollar bills. If you wait in the taxi long enough for the conversation to reach this point, you'll be ripped off.

So, if a stranger in a public vehicle starts oversharing their sudden wealth, their criminal history, or their bizarre luggage contents, treat the sheer absurdity of the moment as your alarm bell.

• Don't analyze the plot. Don't try to argue with them by pointing out the logical fallacies to the passenger next to you.

• You sef, write your own exit script. I think it was Socrates—or maybe

  Aristotle—who said, "Wèrè la fi ń wo wèrè" It simply means madness is the cure to madness. So, you too should immediately tell the driver you need to alight because you forgot your stove on, or your cat is about to die. Just make yourself a boring, inconvenient passenger who wants to leave immediately.

In this particular scenario, the script only works if you stay in the car long enough to let your greed override your common sense.

All in all, if you ever feel suspicious or uneasy in a commercial vehicle, please get out and take another bus.

Please hit the subscribe button below, like and re-stack🥺. Gracias ✨.

Alaye, bọ́ lẹ́ nínú mọ́tò mi jare.”: Get out of my car

Owa o: It's a way of telling the driver. You want to alight.

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It was a Friday afternoon.

I was standing in the banking hall, watching the seconds tick away, trying to resolve a blocked debit card. I’d been there for forty-five minutes. My steeze was rapidly evaporating.

“Next customer, Cubicle 4,” the automated voice chimed.

I walked over, ready to unleash my anger and a heavily rehearsed speech about customer rights.

Then I saw her.

She was radiant. Her skin had this rich, dark-skinned glow, and don’t even get me started on her lip combo— Good gracious God, pure perfection. Her corporate scarf was tied with a lovely precision that deserved a runway. Her name tag read Teni.

“Good afternoon, welcome to Zenith,” she said with a smooth voice. A sharp contrast to the chaotic noise of the hall.

“How can I help you today?” she asked

“My card is blocked,” I said, dropping my voice an octave as I leaned against the glass partition. “And honestly, I am slightly angry too, seeing how long I’ve had to wait.”

Teni let out a soft, melodious laugh, her bright brown eyes locking onto mine. “Oh, the queue is a lot today. We’re sorry for the inconvenience. Let me see your ID card, please.”

I slid my driver’s license across the counter. She picked it up, studying the photo, then looked up at me with a playful smirk dancing on her lips.

“Mr. Michael,” she read, her eyes dropping back to the card. “Wow. You actually look like a law-abiding citizen here. No black cap, no shades. Very responsible.”

“Hey, I am a very responsible man,” I protested, smiling. “Don’t let the casual wear I have on fool you.”

“Hm, I can see that,” she said, leaning in just a fraction, her voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “You don’t look bad in person either, Michael. The perfume is doing a lot of heavy lifting, though. Oud?”

My heart did a quick, unexpected skip.

Omo. The chemistry is bubbling.

“You like it? I drowned myself in it this morning just in case I met someone beautiful at the bank.”

Teni raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Oh really? And have you met her yet?”

“I’m standing right before one,” I said, holding her gaze.

She bit her lip, looking down at the screen to hide a genuine blush. “Michael...”

She started typing away on her computer, her fingers flying over the keys but her tone still light and amused while we bantered.

“Well, thank you for banking with us, Mr. Michael,” She snickered, her glossy lips curving into a soft, private smile. She hit one final key, the system letting out a sharp confirmation beep. She handed back my card, her fingers brushing against mine for a second too long.

“I’ve lifted the block,” she whispered, keeping eye contact.

“I ensured you won’t have this issue again, Michael.”

This was the moment. The customer-to-lover trope was about to be born. I leaned in closer, my voice low and confident.

“Thank you, Teni. I really appreciate it. So... how do I get to say a proper thank you outside of these corporate walls? Can I get your digits?”

Teni blinked.

In a split second, her professional, customer-service mask snapped right back into place. The playful warmth vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated corporate efficiency.

“Oh! For customer feedback, you can just rate me a 10 on the token machine right there, sir,” she said, her voice instantly hitting that polite, detached pitch. She pointed to the little plastic device on the desk. “It really helps my monthly appraisal.”

I froze. My hand was just hovering in the freezing AC air. The transition was so seamless it was terrifying.

“Next customer, please!” she called out, already looking past my shoulder.

I picked up my card, pressed the ‘10’ button with a heavy heart, and walked out into the blistering 2:00 PM Lagos sun. My card was working perfectly, but my ego was completely bankrupt.

Teni, nawa for you o.

Please, like, comment, restack, and subscribe to support the craft. It costs zero Naira and goes a long way.

Catch you next Monday!

With love,

Olanrewaju 🤍

Fate, you cruel, patient woman.

After Chinasa left for Baltimore, she and Victory kept communicating.

For the first few months, they tried. Oh, they tried so hard it was almost pathetic. They ran a marathon against time zones. Victory would stay up until 3:00 AM in his hostel room, whispering into his phone, his voice hushed so his roommates wouldn't wake up, while Chinasa walked through the chilly, brick-lined streets of Maryland, holding her phone to her ear like a lifeline.

But Baltimore was fast, and pre-med at Johns Hopkins was a monster that swallowed 24 hours a day and asked for dessert.

Slowly, the texts shrunk.

“Hey, got a test, talk later” turned into a rushed, fragmented “I'm in the lab.” which eventually faded into double blue ticks that sat on the screen for three days like cold leftovers.

By the turn of the year, the silence between them became an uninvited guest they both got used to.

They stopped speaking.

Victory would double-tap a picture of Chinasa standing in front of a snow-covered library, her cheeks flushed pink, looking impossibly beautiful and worlds away. Chinasa would view Victory’s Instagram stories of him at the gym, noticing how his shoulders had broadened, how his jawline looked sharper, wondering if he still tapped his pen when he was thinking.

They had accepted it. It was a beautiful, brief intersection. A glitch in the matrix.

Some might call this the end of their love story. But fate was just gathering her props for act three— her final act.

Fast forward three years.

Chinasa’s mother was turning fifty. Now, if you know anything about Mrs. Mba, she loves and lives for parties; and she was going to throw one of the biggest golden jubilee parties Lagos had witnessed in a while.

When she called her daughter across the Atlantic and jokingly said, “Chinasa, your uncle has booked your flight ticket, if you do not fly down for my golden jubilee, just know you don’t have a mother in Nigeria again,” Chinasa knew she had no choice. She took the booked flight to Lagos, packed three massive medical textbooks into her carry-on, and prepared herself for the grueling fifteen-hour journey.

The venue was a sprawling, aggressively air-conditioned marquee in Victoria Island. It was a sea of shimmering gold and white Aso-Ebi.

Chinasa, thoroughly overwhelmed by the endless stream of people she had to greet, and the sheer volume of highlife music blasting from the speakers, escaped.

She slipped past the dancing elders and found refuge in the smaller, quieter VIP holding room at the back of the hall. She slumped into a velvet armchair, cracked open her massive neurology textbook, and let out a long sigh.

“If I can just memorize the branches of the internal carotid artery before the cake cutting…” she muttered to herself.

The heavy glass door clicked open.

Chinasa didn’t look up. “Aunty, please, I will come out soon, I’m just—”

“You know,” a voice cut through the quiet room. A voice that was deeper than she remembered, smoother, laced with a familiar, dangerous amount of mischief.

“Most people come to an Owambe to drink free champagne and dance. But I guess Chinasa has to maintain the brand.”

Chinasa’s heart skipped a beat. She snapped her head up.

Standing by the door was Victory.

And sweet heavens, Fate had clearly been working overtime. Gone was the lanky freshman from MATH 101. The guy standing before her was easily 6’2”, filling out a custom-tailored, midnight-blue shirt. His hair was perfectly faded, his skin looked different, and that signature, infuriatingly handsome smirk was firmly in place. He was holding a cup of palm wine, looking at her like he had just discovered a hidden treasure map.

Chinasa froze.

The world outside the room—the booming bass of the live band, the clinking of glasses—completely faded away.

“Victory,” she breathed, her voice suddenly losing all its steadiness.

“In the flesh,” he said, letting the door slide shut behind him. He walked toward her slowly, his steps deliberate, the fabric of his shirt rustling softly. He stopped right in front of her chair, towering over her, but his eyes were incredibly soft. “It’s been a while, Doc.”

“You... Wait... what are you doing here?” she stammered, hating herself for losing her cool. She was a third-year medical student, for God’s sake! She handled cadavers! Why was this boy making her hands shake?

“ You'll be shocked, turns out my mother is close friends with the birthday girl,” Victory said, leaning one hand on the armrest of her chair, bringing himself down to her eye level. The faint scent of his cologne wrapped around her senses.

“When I heard the celebrant’s daughter— a certain brilliant, stubborn girl was flying in from Baltimore, I volunteered to be the official family chauffeur. I’ve been scanning the crowd for two hours, Nasa. You’re hard to find.”

Chinasa swallowed, her eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw. He was sitting close to her now. She closed her textbook with a soft snap. “What a strange coincidence. Anyway, I was hiding. Too much noise.”

“You nerd,” Victory murmured, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a playful challenge.

Chinasa’s lips curved into a slow smile. The old spark, the one that had bypassed her genius brain and gone straight to her heart three years ago, flared up into a roaring fire. She leaned forward, crossing her arms over her knees.

“A nerd who managed to pull you out of the main hall within minutes of arriving,” she teased softly, her eyes dancing. “Admit it, Victory. You are here because of me. You volunteered to find me.”

Victory chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. He was about giving a response, his thumb brushing against the side of her hand resting on the armchair. When the door suddenly shot open with a loud bang.

“CHINASA! CHINASA, ARE YOU IN HERE?!”

The heavy glass door flew open with the force of a small hurricane.

Victory snapped backward, straightening his shirt with lightning speed, while Chinasa nearly knocked her neurology textbook off her lap.

In strode Aunty Ifeoma.

She was a vision in a massive, gravity-defying gold Gele that looked like a solar panel, her neck adorned with coral beads thick enough to choke a horse. She was scanning the room, holding a plate of small chop in one hand and a hand fan in the other.

“Ah-ah! Chinasa, so you are here reading book! On your mother’s birthday? God forbid!”

Aunty Ifeoma exclaimed, stopping dead in her tracks when she noticed Victory. She looked Victory up and down, her maternal matchmaking radar immediately going off at maximum volume.

“Oh? And who is this fine young man?” Aunty Ifeoma asked, her eyes glittering with aggressive interest.

Victory, without missing a beat, wiped the playful smirk off his face and replaced it with the most charming, humble smile Chinasa had ever seen in her life. He bowed deeply, greeting her.

“Good evening, Ma. I am Victory. My parents are Mr. and Mrs. Okafor, friends to the celebrant. I was just asked to bring some extra drinks to the VIP section, and I saw your beautiful niece here looking a bit lost.”

Aunty Ifeoma gasped, clapping her hands together.

“Ewo! Look at a well-behaved boy! Honourable. Okafor’s son? The one that did engineering? Oh, you are a very good boy! And look at how handsome you are! Chinasa, did you hear him? He said you are beautiful!” she called out giving Chinasa an embarrassing wink.

Chinasa pinched the bridge of her nose, her cheeks burning hot.

“Aunty, please—”

“Don’t 'Aunty please' me!” Ifeoma snapped playfully, turning back to Victory, completely oblivious to the fact that these two had a history. “Victory, my dear, please help me hold this girl. She has been in America studying medicine, she does not know how to socialize again. Take her to the main hall, force her to eat jollof rice, and make sure she dances! In fact, look at how the two of you match ehn! Gold and blue! Very beautiful!”

“It would be my absolute honor, Ma,”

Victory said, his voice dripping with mock innocence. He turned to Chinasa, extending his arm with a grand, chivalrous flourish. His eyes were dancing with pure, unadulterated amusement.

“Shall we, Dr. Chinasa? We mustn't disobey your aunt.”

Chinasa stood up, rolling her eyes, but the smile pulling at her lips was impossible to hide. She stepped close to him, slipping her small hand into the crook of his elbow. As she did, Victory pressed his arm slightly against his side, trapping her hand against his warmth.

As they walked out of the quiet room and back into the roaring, colorful chaos of the party, the live band was just transitioning into a classic, slow highlife love song.

Victory leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as they entered the crowd. “For the record, your aunt is a genius. We do look beautiful together.”

Chinasa hissed, a sound that was light and free. She looked up at him, her hand tightening on his arm.

The live band had just transitioned into a heavy, intoxicating highlife rhythm, that forced everyone within a two-mile radius to shift their hips.

Victory, looking entirely too comfortable in his sharp corporate wear, was moving with a smooth, effortless cadence that perfectly matched the bassline. Chinasa, on the other hand, was moving with stiff, calculated precision.

“Nasa,” Victory leaned down, his voice a low rumble over the blaring music, that signature smirk dancing on his lips. “What are you doing? That’s not how to dance.”

Chinasa shot him a glare. “I am trying.”

“It’s a three-quarter beat, Doc,” Victory chuckled.

He stepped closer, stepping right into her personal space. Without asking, he took her right hand in his palm and placed his other hand firmly, reassuringly, at the small of her back. The sudden warmth of his touch traveled straight up her spine. “I’ll teach you. Just mirror me.”

“I don’t like being bad at things,” she murmured, her eyes locking onto his chest because looking into his face while he was this close felt weird .

“Then let me make you look good,” he whispered.

He moved, and because his hand was secure on her waist, she had no choice but to move with him. He guided her with a quiet, magnetic confidence. He slowed his steps, breaking the rhythm down into a gentle, swaying motion that made it easy for her to pick up.

“See?” Victory murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto her eyes.

“You’re a natural. You just needed the right tutor.”

He gave her a slow, elegant spin, his hand catching hers as she returned to his chest, the proximity making her breath hitch. He looked around the crowded room, then back down at her.

“Are you good?”

“No,” she admitted, looking up at him. “My feet can no longer survive in these heels.”

Victory stopped dancing. He looked down at her feet, then back up at her face, his smirk softening into something incredibly attentive.

“Come with me.”

Before she could ask where, he took her hand—his large palm against hers—and threaded his way through the maze of tables, past the massive tiers of the birthday cake, and out through a heavy side exit that led toward the back lawn of the marquee.

The back lawn of the marquee was a different world. The heavy glass doors muffled the band into a low, thumping heartbeat. The sky was a deep velvet black, with the city lights reflecting off the low clouds like a muted golden halo.

Chinasa leaned against a white concrete pillar, letting the humid breeze cool her skin. Victory stood a foot away, hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking out over the manicured grass. The playful armor they had worn inside began to slip away.

“Why did we stop talking, Victory?”

The question left her lips quietly, almost carried away by the breeze.

Victory turned his head, his profile sharp against the amber glow of the garden lamps. He let out a slow, honest breath.

“Probably because the distance made us cowards, Nasa.”

Chinasa looked at him, surprised by the candor.

“We were trying to hold onto something across a five-thousand-mile ocean using tiny text bubbles,” he continued, taking a step closer, his eyes incredibly real.

“Every time I asked about your day, you were running to a lab. Every time you asked about mine, I was asleep. It started to feel like I was holding onto a ghost. And I think... I think I was terrified that if I kept pushing, I’d watch you grow tired of me in real-time. I chose the silence because I wanted to keep the memory of you perfect.”

Chinasa swallowed the lump in her throat, her fingers tracing the lace of her dress.

“It wasn't just you. Johns Hopkins felt like a machine designed to erase my personal life. There were nights I’d stare at my phone, wanting to call you so badly just to hear that stupid laugh of yours, but then I’d look at the clock and realize it was 4:00 AM in Nigeria. I thought you had moved on. You looked so settled in your Instagram stories. So... complete.”

“Chinasa, there was not a single day in school I walked past the library that I didn't remember and miss you,” Victory said softly. He reached out, to let his fingers lightly brush against hers.

Chinasa let out a soft laugh, looking up at him. “You’ve changed.”

“How?” he asked, his eyes locking onto hers.

“I don’t know,” she smiled, stepping a fraction closer.

“Good or bad?”

Victory asked, a faint trace of his signature smirk returning. “More confident,” she admitted softly.

Victory’s smile widened. He pulled a folded piece of paper from the inner pocket of his shirt and handed it to her. Chinasa unfolded it.

It was an official letterhead confirming an international data-science fellowship—located in Washington, D.C.

Her genius brain took exactly two seconds to compute the geography, and her heart did a violent, hopeful leap.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Victory... you didn't.”

“I told you,” he murmured, a slow, incredibly charming smile spreading across his face. “It took six months of sleepless nights, a brutal interview process, and a lot of praying that the embassy wouldn't play another prank on me. I resume in September.”

Chinasa handed the paper back, her lips curving into a slow, breathtaking smile that made Victory’s heart skip. She stepped closer, her face inches from his, her voice dropping into a low cadence.

“Washington, D.C. is forty-five minutes away from my place by train, Victory.”

“I know.”

He whispered, his eyes looking deeply into hers. “I checked the transit maps.”

“Good,” she murmured, her hand coming up to gently straighten the collar of his shirt, her fingers lingering just a beat too long against his neck. “Because I'm a bad dancer, and I think I’m going to need a lot of private dance lessons this fall.”

Victory let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his hand coming up to rest gently over hers, trapping her fingers against his skin.

“I’ll make sure to bring my best textbooks, Doc.”

Behind them, the glass doors opened, and the muffled shout of her mother’s voice signaling the cutting of the cake drifted out. They looked at each other, as they turned to walk back into the golden chaos of the hall side-by-side.

Fate, smiling somewhere in the background, whispered— FINALLY, THE INTERCEPTION IS COMPLETE.

I know you enjoyed reading, so please like, subscribe, re-stack and leave a comment. Gracias✨.

Tell me: where is God in all of this? If he truly exists, why do these evils persist?

Anyone who reads the news, has lost someone, or simply pays attention to the world as it actually is has asked some version of that question. Maybe quietly in the dark, perhaps with a sense of guilt, or perhaps with burning anger.

I still wrestle with the question as a Christian. And it's one of the many questions I intend to bring to God’s feet someday, when faith gives way to sight, and I finally stand before him.

The question has a name in philosophy: theodicy. From the Greek theos (God) and dike (justice). It is the attempt to justify God in the face of a world that sometimes looks like evidence against him.

The philosopher Epicurus laid the problem out this way:

Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then where does evil come from? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?

This is the Problem of Evil. It is quite an interesting and serious argument, and it deserves a serious response. Formalized, it reads like this:

1. If God is all-powerful, he can prevent evil.

2. If God is all-good, he wants to prevent evil.

3. Evil exists.

4. Therefore, an all-powerful, all-good God does not exist.

Of course, I don't agree with that conclusion. While the logic seems airtight at a glance, the conclusion fails because the premises rest on hidden, incorrect assumption. I will be giving three brief responses to why I don't think the problem of evil disproves the existence of a good God.

FREE WILL:

The argument by Epicurus assumes that an all-good God must create a world where evil is impossible. But would a good God actually do that?.

Think about what such a world requires. For God to guarantee that evil never happens, He must guarantee that no human being ever makes a poor decision. This means he has to make man without free will. And without free will, we would not be humans, but pre-programmed robots.

The finest human virtues like love, goodness, courage, and loyalty only carry meaning because making the opposite choice was possible. A person physically incapable of betrayal is not loyal; they are simply a robot without options. Loyalty matters precisely because betrayal was available, yet rejected. Love matters because hate was available, yet rejected.

If God desired creatures capable of real love, He had to create creatures with free will capable of refusing it. We cannot logically blame God for the misuse of a gift He gave us to make us human.

War, corruption, racism, abuse, oppression, kidnapping, and systemic greed are not acts that God directs from heaven; we do these things to one another because we choose to, of our own free will.

And someone might object.

“But couldn’t an Omnipotent God create free creatures who always choose good?”

At first, that question sounds reasonable. But it misunderstands what freedom actually is, and it also misinterprets the nature of omnipotence.

Omnipotence means God can do anything that is logically possible. It does not mean He can perform logical contradictions. God cannot create a married bachelor or a square circle because those phrases are logical contradictions. In the same way, God cannot force someone to freely choose something. Once freedom is forced, it ceases to be freedom. A creature who is unable to choose otherwise is not truly free in any meaningful sense. So the existence of free will necessarily opens the door to the possibility of evil.

I will not pretend Free will explains everything. It does not tell us why children have leukemia. It does not explain earthquakes or floods. There are categories of suffering that cannot be laid at the feet of human choice, and I will not insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise. But for the vast terrain of evil that is human violence, cruelty, and corruption, free will is not a deflection. I think it’s a really good answer. My second response to the Problem of Evil is:

WE LIVE IN A FALLEN WORLD.

Christianity does not teach that the world as it currently exists is the world exactly as God intended it to be. The Bible teaches the concept of: Creation, Fall, and Redemption.

The Bible teaches that at creation God created a perfect world, but after the fall of man in the garden, that perfect world became broken.

According to the Christian worldview, what we experience today as the natural order—disease, decay, disaster, and death—is not God’s original design. It is a broken condition brought about by a cosmic rupture.

Walk with me, Imagine someone hands you a masterpiece painting, let's say a Rembrandt, that has been slashed with a knife, left in the rain, and badly stained. If you study the ruined canvas and say, "The artist is very incompetent," you miss the point entirely. The painter made something whole and beautiful; what you are holding is a vandalized version of the original work.

We are living inside the vandalized painting. The brokenness of nature is the stain on the canvas. However, the hope at the center of the Christian faith is that one day God will heal what is broken, wipe away suffering, and restore creation to what it was always meant to be (Revelation 21:4).

My third response to the problem of evil is:

I DON'T KNOW

​Why does one child survive cancer while another dies despite desperate prayers? Why do some people suffer endlessly while others live comfortable lives? Why does God intervene in one history-altering moment and remain silent in another?

I don’t know, and I think Christians should say this more often.

However, "I don’t know" is not the same as "there is no reason." My ignorance is not proof that meaning does not exist; it is only proof that I am limited in understanding.

I do not understand how photosynthesis happens at the molecular level, but it does happen. I do not know the exact sequence of events on the night Julius Caesar was assassinated. That does not mean nothing happened that night. My ignorance is evidence of my limits, not evidence of absence.

If we accept, for argument's sake, that there is a God — infinite, outside of time, with a perspective that encompasses what we cannot see — then it is not illogical to hold that a finite creature with a finite mind will not fully comprehend an infinite mind. That gap shouldn’t surprise us; It should be expected.

When we look at suffering and say “I cannot see why a good God would permit this,” we are making an inference: because I cannot see the reason, there probably isn’t one. Philosophers call this the inference from ignorance, and it is only valid if we have good reason to believe that, if a reason existed, we would be able to see it.

A three-year-old cannot understand why his parents force bitter medicine into his mouth. From where he stands, it feels cruel. But his confusion is not necessarily proof that his parents hate him or are wicked. Instead, itcould be proof that he does not yet have the categories to understand what they know.

Perhaps we are more like that child than we are comfortable admitting.

Now, you might object that this analogy can be used to justify anything—that it immunizes God from all criticism and becomes unfalsifiable. That is a fair objection.

But notice what I am not claiming. I am not offering with this analogy a total explanation for why evil exists, nor am I claiming that God's ways are completely unknowable to us. My point is much narrower: our inability to see a cosmic justification for a specific tragedy does not, by itself, logically necessitate that no such reason exists.

And I know that does not erase grief. But it does mean that our inability to see a reason is not automatically evidence that no good reason exists.

On this side of eternity, we will not have all the answers, and I have kind of made peace with that. However, the problem of evil is not logically incompatible with the existence of an all good and powerful God.

Infact, after sitting with the problem of evil long enough, I think it quietly points toward the existence of a God. I'll save that argument for another day. Until then. Thanks for walking through my thought process.

Chinasa, had handed Victory the keys to her heart, and he had looked at them, chuckled, and asked if it was a bottle opener. There is only so much terrible driving a genius can witness before she decides to step out of the vehicle.

So, she quietly drew back from Victory.

She stopped responding to his texts. The library dates ceased.

Her: "I'm busy with departmental association stuff" excuses became a regular chant, and her presence in his life began to evaporate, leaving behind a quiet ache that Victory didn't know how to fill.

And for the first two weeks, Victory really thought she was just really busy with schoolwork.

Fate, I know you’re a dramatist, but you really picked a slow learner for your lead role.

By week three, however, the denial began to wear off. He began to miss her. He began to miss the way she traced his jawline when she thought he wasn't looking. He missed the teasing register in her voice that always made him smile. He missed the way she twirled her black pilot pen between her fingers with casual ease.

Every time the heavy glass door of the library swung open, his head snapped up automatically, his heart doing a stupid, hopeful flip, only to sink when it was just another freshman looking for a past question. He began to loathe the plastic chair next to him for how stubbornly empty it remained.

He tried to bridge the gap, but the tables had turned.

One Tuesday evening, after staring at a blank page in the library for thirty minutes, he finally typed out a text:

“Hey Chinasa. I was solving a matrix question. Thought of you. You free for the library tomorrow?”

He stared at his phone for a long while. The double blue ticks appeared, but the typing bubble never did. She had read it. She just didn't care to reply.

The next evening, unable to take the quiet anymore, he dialed her number. The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

"Hello? Chinasa?" he said quickly, the words rushing out, carrying a rare, raw edge of anxiety he couldn't hide.

"Hey, Victory," her voice came through, but it was different. It lacked that warm, slow cadence. It was polite, clipped, and distant.

"Look, I'm actually right in the middle of something, and I can't speak now. I'll... talk to you later, okay?"

Before he could even say "goodnight," the line went dead.

The next afternoon, the knife twisted.

He was walking past the university cafeteria when he saw her leaning against a concrete pillar, laughing.

And she was directing that laughter at a tall, light-skinned guy from Economics who was leaning a bit too close, his hand resting casually on the wall just above her shoulder.

A sudden, sharp heat flared up from Victory’s chest; a visceral, suffocating wave of jealousy.

He genuinely wanted to walk over, tap the guy on the shoulder, and knock him in the head.

What joke was he even cracking? I'm sure what he's saying is not even funny, he mumured angrily to himself.

But he couldn't move. He just watched, and in that agonizing moment, it finally clicked. He liked Chinasa. And she had meant every single word she said in the library that day.

Oh, so now you see the green light, Victory? Took you so long, silly boy.

Victory spent the next two days drafting a meticulous plan: "operation win her back. He drew out a plan on how he was going to slide back into her life and win her over.

But Fate, as established, is a dramatist. She doesn't like a boring, predictable love script, and she certainly wasn't going to let him off that easily.

Just as Victory gathered the courage to intercept her after a Friday lecture, practicing his mini-apology and lines in his head—Chinasa’s father was sealing a deal across the Atlantic.

He had never truly accepted her low JAMB score. To him, his prodigy daughter deserved to study the course of her dreams, not a compromised choice.

For months, he had been quietly sending out her applications to universities abroad.

The acceptance letter from Johns Hopkins University had finally arrived, and it demanded her immediate presence. It was a fully funded transfer into their pre-med track, but she had to resume immediately, mid-semester.

Fate aren’t you cruel? Just when the boy finally figures out how to read the green light, you changed the script.

The goodbye happened so fast it felt like a dream.

There were no long, romantic walks by the Bowen Senate building, no dramatic rainfall, and no grand confessions.

There was only a rushed, five-minute meeting behind the chapel while her heavy bags were already being packed into the trunk of her father’s idling Honda.

"I have to go, Victory," she told him. Her eyes carried a strange, heavy weight, searching his face one last time to see if anything—absolutely anything—had changed.

"I know," he said. His throat was incredibly tight, his grand speech dying on his tongue. He looked at the car, then back at her. The reality of it was hitting him like a physical blow to the chest. He was losing her before he even had her. "Go conquer the world, Doc.”

She gave him a look that lingered a second too long.

Victory didn't think; he just reached out. He pulled her into a hug that lasted a beat too long, then two beats, then three. He buried his face in her hair, smelling the faint scent of her coconut oil, feeling the small, steady rise and fall of her chest against his.

In that quiet corner behind the chapel, the weight of everything unsaid pressed down on them.

A single, hot tear broke free from Chinasa’s eye, dampening his shirt, matching the silent ache breaking inside his own heart. It was the feeling of a lifetime ending before it could even begin.

"Alright, that's enough hugging. We have a flight to catch," her father’s booming voice cut through the air from behind them.

The tension snapped. Chinasa let out a wet, watery chuckle against Victory's shoulder, and Victory laughed too, wiping his eyes quickly before she could see.

"Go Nasa, call me when you’re settled in Baltimore"

Victory whispered, his voice cracking just a little.

She turned, stepped into the car, and the door clicked shut. As the car pulled away toward the university gate, Victory stood alone behind the chapel, a profound sense of saudade settling deep into his bones.

But Fate was not done with them yet. She was still writing their love story. She had just decided to change the scenery.

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I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to bring you a new story. I had bouts of blank-page syndrome, but the dry spell is over now, and I am back with a story for you😁.

LET'S ASSUME FATE IS REAL,

and she has ordained two people to be lovers.

Let's call the boy Victory and the girl Chinasa.

Now, if fate had any sense at all, she would have placed them in the same city, at the same time, with uncomplicated lives. But Fate is not sensible. She is a dramatist.

Victory was never meant to be in Bowen University.

He had earned a fully funded scholarship to the University of London. The news made his parents so ecstatic. His future felt settled. But his visa applications kept getting denied. Not Once. Not Twice. Three times.

His father, even went as far as bribing some officials at the embassy to force the wheels to turn, but that didn't work. Even corruption, it seemed, was subject to a higher authority.

Fate refused to allow it; she needed him in Nigeria so he would meet Chinasa. Left with no choice, he settled for Bowen.

Then there was Chinasa.

A certified child genius, she was a two-time National Olympiad champion and a three-time Cowbellpedia winner. Brilliance was not something Chinasa worked for; it was her default state, like breathing, like blinking.

And yet, to the utter bewilderment of everyone who knew her, the genius child choked on the one exam that mattered. Her JAMB score was inexplicably, embarrassingly low. The score made her parents and teachers check the name thrice, certain there must be a mix-up. Her score prevented her from studying Medicine at her dream school, the great Obafemi Awolowo University. Stripped of Great Ife, she somehow ended up in the exact same private university as Victory.

Fate, aren't you a drama queen.

Their first meeting happened in MATH 101 class.

‎The lecturer scribbled a complex question on the board, promising to give any one who could solve it ten thousand naira.

A murmur moved through the hall.

Victory stood up confidently and almost immediately to solve it.

In the third row, Chinasa looked up from her notebook to see who the insufferable show-off was.

That was when she saw him.

And that was when he saw her.

And for the first time, their eyes met.

I wish there were an English word to describe what they felt in that moment, but there isn't.

There is a Yaghan word for it though — mamihlapinatapai — that rare, wordless look shared between two strangers who both desperately want something with each other, yet both hesitate to make the first move.

‎And fate, somewhere in the background, smiled to herself.

‎The interception had begun.

Victory caught up with her just outside the lecture theater, just as students were pouring into the corridor.

"Hey," he said, with a small, deliberate clearing of his throat. "I'm Victory."

Chinasa paused. A smile was already forming on her face, like she had been expecting him. "Yeah, I know. The ten-thousand-naira boy."

The truth was, she had liked him the exact second he stood up to answer that question. It was a sudden, magnetic pull she couldn’t logically explain, it bypassed her genius brain and went straight to her heart.

"I'm Chinasa," she said softly, watching his reaction.

"Nice to meet you, Chinaza."

She stepped a fraction closer, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"It’s Chinasa, Victory. With an S."

“CHI-NA-SA,” he repeated, the syllables rolling off his tongue slowly, like he was tasting something. “My bad.”

“I'll forgive you," she murmured, letting the words drop low and easy. "On one condition, though."

Victory leaned in slightly, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"And what condition is that?"

"I didn't quite understand the lecturer today" she said innocently. “ Could you please give me a private tutorial at the library in your free time?”

Victory smiled, completely feeling fly, utterly oblivious to the hilarious reality that this three-time Cowbellpedia champion did not need a freshman’s help with basic calculus. “Sure. I can definitely do that. Let me get your digits.”

Over the next four weeks, the quietest corner of the library basement became their sanctuary.

They became incredibly close. Their routine was established: Victory would open his textbook with the air of a savior, and Chinasa would sit across from him, her chin resting in her palms, nodding with Oscar-winning sincerity as he explained concepts she could have solved in her sleep.

She spent eighty percent of the time barely looking at the textbook, choosing instead to trace the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow when he was thinking, and the way his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his pen.

​"You're not paying attention," Victory murmured one afternoon, tapping the tip of his pencil against her notebook to snap her out of it.

​The basement was quiet, save for the hum of an old standing fan in the corner.

​Chinasa didn’t shift her gaze. She slowly leaned forward, crossing her arms on the wooden table, bringing her face just a few inches closer to his. "I am paying attention," she whispered, her eyes locked onto his.

​"Oh yeah?" Victory raised an eyebrow. He tried to maintain his cool 'senior tutor' persona. "Then what did I just say about the limit of this function?"

​"You said it approaches infinity," she said softly, her voice dropping to a teasing register that always made him smile. "See, Victory... I’m paying attention."

​Victory let out a low, nervous laugh, leaning back in his chair to create some space before he completely lost his mind. "You better pay attention. I'm trying to save your GPA, Chinasa."

​"My hero," she murmured, a slow, devastating smile spreading across her lips.

​By week four, the performance began to crack.

Victory was struggling with a complex calculus derivation. His brow was furrowed into a tight knot, his lips parted slightly in frustration, and his pen was hovering uselessly over the paper. He had been staring at the same line for five minutes, his pride stubbornly refusing to let him admit he was stuck.

Chinasa watched him sweat, a quiet amusement dancing in her eyes. She was lazily twirling a black pilot pen between her fingers with a practiced, casual ease. Finally, she let out a soft, sympathetic sigh.

"Give me that," she murmured.

Before he could protest, she reached across the small gap between them.

Chinasa took the pen and pulled the paper toward herself. In five lines, she executed the entire complex derivative.

Victory blinked at the paper. Then he looked up at her,

"Wait. How on earth did you do that?"

"Oh," Chinasa said. Her eyes widened slightly as she realized she had completely broken character. She recovered quickly, pulling her hand back and offering a casual shrug. "I just... noticed the pattern."

"The pattern?" Victory laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound that echoed slightly in the quiet basement. He leaned back in his plastic chair, folding his arms. "Chinasa, you just used an advanced shorthand method that I have never come across Yesterday, you 'accidentally' corrected my matrix inversion. And last week, you pointed out an error in the formula from the textbook.”

He leaned forward again, his eyes narrowing as a sudden realization began to dawn on him, though he was still entirely on the wrong track. "Remind me again, why exactly do you need my tutoring if you understand it this well? Are you mocking me?" he asked laughing.

Chinasa didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she rested her chin back onto her palm, locking her gaze onto his with an intense, steady knowing.

"Because I love being around you, Victory," she said softly.

He let out a sharp, amused laugh, shaking his head and pulling the textbook back toward himself. "Omo, you're not serious," he chuckled, flipping a page blindly. "You almost had me there. Nice joke."

Chinasa kept her gaze steady, a small, slightly frustrated smile resting on her lips. She had literally just handed him the absolute truth of her heart on a silver platter, and he had treated it like a joke.

Victory, you are a hopeless, absolute idiot.

Fate, are you sure about this guy? Because right now, your grand romantic masterpiece is being run by a boy who can't see a green light even when it's glaring directly into his eyes.

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‎

NMESOMA'S POV

Chidera picked the venue. A restaurant outside of campus named Cravings. It was a lovely place with pendant lights hanging at different heights and small leather menus.

"If we're going to meet this girl," Chidera had said, tying her scarf in the mirror that morning with the precision of someone preparing for battle, "we're going to look like we don't need to be there."

I had not argued.

We got there early. Chidera insisted on that too. "You don't walk into a room she's already sitting in," she said, like this was common knowledge. "She picked the fight. We pick the seat."

“Chidera Williams, there is no fight. She wants to have a conversation.”

“You're so innocent.” She responded bursting out in laughter.

We got a corner table, the one with its back to the wall and a full view of the entrance. Chidera ordered a latte and a slice of something that looked expensive. I ordered water, then changed my mind and ordered a smoothie, then sat with it untouched.

Ten minutes later, Adeola walked in, I hate to admit it, but she looked exactly like her curated Instagram grid— beautiful and classy. She wore an oversized white linen shirt, dark shades perched on her head.

She scanned the room, spotted us, and a tiny, knowing smile touched her lips.

“Chidera, please. No scenes," I murmured, my left leg already beginning its involuntary bounce. I started counting in my head. One, two, three... "Let’s just hear what she has to say."

"I can't promise you that Soma.”

​”Nmesoma, right?”

Adeola said, pulling out a chair before we could even ask her to sit. She didn’t look at Chidera at all, choosing to focus entirely on me. “Thanks for coming. I’m Adeola.”

"I didn't know you were bringing an uninvited third-party," She said, finally looking towards Chidera.

"She didn't," Chidera said, pleasantly. "I brought myself. And quit this pseudo pleasantry, what do you want?."

A pause.

"Nmesoma, I will be direct." Adeola said to me. Already deciding Chidera was not worth the redirect.

The waiter came. Adeola ordered a green tea. Folded her hands on the table with the patience of someone who had rehearsed this. She took a sip from her tea.

“I came here as a sisterly courtesy.” She continued, ”You’re new to this school, and you don’t really know how things work around here. Oba and I... we have a thing. We're just currently going through a little phase.”

Chidera made a sound. Not quite a laugh. The sound of someone encountering someone so audacious they had to pause to appreciate it first.

"A phase," she said.

"Relationships are complicated, but I’m guessing you won't know anything about it, as you're probably not in one." Adeola responded, looking intently at Chidera.

"Yours certainly was," Chidera said. "Especially the part where Tunde was also in it."

Adeola's eyes cut to her. "I didn't come here to be—"

"You sat down uninvited." Chidera tilted her head. "What exactly did you come here to be?"

Adeola turned back to me. Deciding Chidera was a distraction she could manage by ignoring.

"Nmesoma." Adeola continued, looking at me — the performance thinning at the edges. Almost like she'd come here with a script and was only now realizing none of the responses were landing the way they were supposed to.

"I'm telling you this as a woman who knows him. Whatever he's doing with you — it's temporary. He's entertained right now. You're new, you're different, it's interesting. But interesting wears off." She folded her hands on the table. Composed and certain. "He'll come back to me. He always does."

The pendant lights swayed very slightly above us.

Chidera turned to look at Adeola, as she shook her head.

"He always does," she repeated. "Adeola, you're more foolish than I imagined. You cheated on him with his friend. He blocked you, got suspended because of you, and has not so much as looked at you since." She paused letting the silence stretch.

"At what point in that timeline does 'he always comes back' make sense to you? Walk me through it."

Chidera's voice dropped to something almost gentle, which was the most lethal version of her — "Adeola, you're shameless."

Adeola's composure slipped. Just at the surface. "Excuse me—"

"You heard her clearly." I responded

You indeed are,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

“You didn’t come here out of sisterly courtesy, Adeola. You came here because you’re desperate, and you thought I’d be insecure enough to help you feed your delusion. If Oba wanted to be with you, you wouldn’t be sitting across from me embarrassing yourself.”

Chidera looked at me with an expression I would remember for a long time.

Adeola picked up her bag. She left without the composed exit she'd probably rehearsed.

"Soma," Chidera said.

"Don't."

"I was going to say I'm proud of you."

"I know." I stared at the table. At the smoothie I was finally drinking, hands not entirely steady.

"I know you were."

OBA’S POV.

I had been asleep for exactly forty minutes when she called.

I know because I'd checked the time before I closed my eyes — five thirty-something, and I woke up to the phone vibrating against my cheek and Nmesoma on the screen. I cleared my throat. Yawned halfway through saying her name.

She didn't wait for me to finish.

Can we meet at the Sports field?.

"Yeah. What's—"

Later. I'll see you there.

She was gone.

I sat up. Jide was at his desk doing something on his laptop with headphones on, oblivious. I sat with the phone in my hand for a moment.

Can we meet.

Not: are you free?

Not: what are you doing later?

Can we meet.

I put my shirt on.

She was there before me.

She was sitting on the low concrete barrier at the edge of the field, bag beside her, in a grey hoodie I'd seen her in twice before. The field was empty at this hour — long grass at the far end catching the late light, the sky was orange-pink.

I walked toward her. She saw me coming and didn't smile.

I crossed the field toward her. The evening light was doing something beautiful across the grass,

"Sommie," I said when I was close enough.

She looked at me, said nothing.

I sat beside her on the barrier. Not too close. I had read the room.

"Sommie," I tried again, softer, trying to poke her.

"Don't."

She turned to look at me, and her eyes were steady but there was something running beneath them like current under still water.

"Who is Adeola?" she asked.

I exhaled. “How did —”

"She followed me on Instagram," Nmesoma interrupted. "Then she DMd me. Then I met her today." Each sentence, level and precise.

"She told me you were just passing time with me. That you'd come back to her eventually. That you always do."

She paused. "Who is she, Oba?"

I looked at the field. At the grass catching the light. I owed her the truth in the right order so I told her everything, all of it.

She listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.

"Nme—"

"I told you about Kelechi." And her voice shifted then, the levelness thinning. "I told you about Uniben. I told you about Debbie, who was my best friend, and what she did. I gave you all of that."

She turned to face me. "And you never for once thought to mention Adeola to me."

"I’m sorry —."

"Why?"

I looked at her. I had no defence to offer. Not a good one. So I told her the truth.

“I didn’t tell you because I was afraid it would give you a reason to leave,” I said. “You came here already carrying something. I didn’t want to hand you more weight and watch you decide I wasn’t worth it.” I looked at her. “I know this sounds stupid, but I was always going to tell you.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

​“If you ever keep anything from me again,” she said, her voice dropping to a soft, serious register that made my heart do a strange, dangerous flip, “I will text Adeola back and tell her she can have you.”

​I gasped, feigning mortal injury. “Ouch. That is cruel, Nmesoma. And here I am thinking you like me.”

​“I like my peace of mind more,” she countered, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

“So I mean it. If you want this to work between us, you have to promise never to hide anything from me again. I want to know everything. The big stuff, the small stuff, the things that make you look bad. Even when you stub your feet against a stone, Oba. I want the full report.”

​I let out a low chuckle, looking down at her lips before meeting her eyes again. “Well, if it means keeping you around, I might just start stubbing my toes on purpose, just to have an excuse to call you.”

​“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered, but her cheeks flushed a beautiful, deep warmth in the fading twilight.

“I’m serious,” I murmured, my voice losing its playful edge. The humor between us evaporated, replaced by something sweet. I reached out, my fingers hesitant for a brief second before I slid them into hers. I held her hand open in mine, waiting.

Nmesoma didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her fingers curl back around mine, linking us securely. She looked up, her eyes wide and dark under the shadow of her hoodie, entirely unguarded for the first time since I had met her.

The distant campus noise— the faint music from the road, the occasional shout from around seemed to drop away, leaving just the sound of our breaths.

"I'm not looking for a perfect history, Oba," she said softly, her thumb tracing a small line over my knuckles. "I just want you to be real with me."

"You have it," I replied, looking right back at her. "All the messy pages of me. I’m done hiding."

She shifted her weight, leaning her head sideways until it rested against my shoulder. I rested my chin against the top of her head, inhaling the faint, familiar scent of her hair oil, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest against my side.

The sky had gone completely indigo now, the first few stars cutting through the haze. We sat there in the dark, and for the first time in months, the noise in my head went completely silent. There was no past, no Adeola, and no fears about tomorrow. There was only the warmth of her hand, the softness of her breath against my skin, and the undeniable truth of us, right here, IN THE MIDDLE OF EVERYTHING.

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OBA'S POV

Adeola and I met at a production Theatre Arts put up in April of our second year — an adaptation of something I don't remember the name of now, only that it ran long, the air conditioning in the auditorium died halfway through, and the girl sitting beside me smelled faintly of vanilla and citrus, she kept making the smallest sounds under her breath every time something on stage went wrong.

A missed cue, a microphone pop, the actors forgetting their lines.

"First time?" I said.

She didn't look at me. "Second. You?"

"My friend dragged me. He has a thing for the costume designer."

"Smart guy." Eyes still on the stage. "The costumes are the only things working well in this play; even I can act better than these actors."

I leaned over. "You look like you've seen better productions."

She didn't look at me. Eyes still on the stage. "I've been in better productions." I looked at her properly then — the line of her jaw, the small gold stud in her ear catching the stage light — and decided I wanted her to look at me.

"Oba," I said.

She turned. First time she'd looked at me at all. She took me in for one full, unhurried second —

"Some people call me Kabiyesi," I added, which was unnecessary and I knew it the moment it left my mouth.

"Kabiyesi, my name is Adeola." A small, precise pause.

"And if you're Kabiyesi — an Oba — then you already know: an Ade (crown) is what makes a king. Without it, you're just a man with a title."

"So you're saying I need you?" I asked, She smiled then. Full and sudden. I started laughing. She followed, and for a moment the terrible play didn't exist and neither did the dead AC or the heat or anything else.

We started dating in June. It was easy in the way certain things are — like she'd been there already and we were both just catching up to it. She was funny and she was sharp. She once brought food the morning after a bad exam, set it on the desk without a word, and immediately started talking about something else. We argued about music constantly.

What we had was good.

And then, one Tuesday in November, Jide came to the hostel with his hands buried in his pockets looking very bothered. He stood in the doorway of the room looking like a man who had already rehearsed this several times and still wasn't ready.

"Sit down," I said.

"I'd rather—"

"Jide. Sit."

He sat. Then immediately stood back up. "I can't do this sitting." He looked at the wall. Looked at me. Exhaled. "It's about Adeola. And Tunde."

I put my phone face-down on the bed.

"Oba." His voice dropped. "She's been cheating on you. With Tunde."

The name landed like something cold.

"Which Tunde?" My voice came out strange. Quiet. Then— "Tunde??" It left my mouth like a shout before I could stop it, because I already knew. There was only one Tunde it could be. He wasn't a very close friend — but a gee. Someone I had eaten with, gisted with, vouched for in conversations where his name came up.

I almost didn't believe it. Almost.

Jide laid it all out. Receipts. Screenshots. Chats with timestamps that made his claim impossible to argue with. I read everything once. Put the phone down. Didn't say anything for a long time.

I found Tunde the next day. I wasn't planning to fight him. That's what I told myself on the walk over — I just wanted to look him in the face. I just wanted to hear what he had to say for himself. He got defensive immediately. Started talking about how it wasn't that deep, how I was making it something it wasn't, how I needed to calm down — calm down — and something in me snapped clean through. I don't remember exactly who threw the first shove. I remember the noise of it. I remember other people pulling us apart. I remember his lip was bleeding and my knuckles hurt and neither of us was saying anything anymore.

We both got suspended for one month. My parents found out. That was its own kind of hell.

I blocked Adeola that day, never to talk to her again. Jide still brings it up sometimes at the worst possible moments but I never EVER want to talk about it.

NMESOMA'S POV

I have been talking to Oba for six weeks, forty-three days if we're being precise. I haven't told anyone about it.

Not because it's a secret. It isn't — not technically.

I just haven't said it out loud because saying it out loud makes it a thing, and right now it is a comfortable almost-thing that I get to hold without naming. I know what I feel. I also know that I am excellent at having feelings that lead nowhere, so I am being cautious.

What I know about Oba: he is kinder than he looks, and he looks kind. He listens to me very attentively. He finds solutions before he finds complaints. There is a way he calls my name when he's amused by something I've said.

Chidera had been watching me for weeks with the patience of a nature documentarian.

"You're smiling at your phone again," she said.

"I'm reading something."

"You've been reading that for forty minutes."

"It's a long novel."

"Nmesoma." She set down her highlighter. "I say this with love and without judgment: you are a bad liar. Who is it?"

"There's nobody."

"Your left leg is bouncing."

I looked down. It was bouncing. I stilled it.

"That's involuntary," I said.

"You've also been tucking your hair back every five minutes."

I dropped my hand from my head.

"There is someone," I said, carefully, "who I have chosen not to act on. Out of wisdom. And self-preservation."

I put the phone face-down on the mattress. Lay back. Stared at the ceiling.

Chidera picked up her highlighter and went back to her notes. "Sure."

The phone buzzed.

I did not look at it.

It buzzed again.

"Nmesoma."

"I'm not looking."

She just laughed. Said nothing further.

I picked it up. A voice note, two minutes fourteen seconds. I put in one earphone. Listened. At one point he said something and I had to press my whole hand over my mouth to keep the sound inside.

Chidera looked up. Looked at my face. Looked back at her notes.

"Sure," she said again.

OBA'S POV

Chidera found me near the notice board outside the department on my way to the cafeteria.

I knew who she was — Nmesoma's roommate.

"Hello, Oba."

"Hi, Chidera."

She looked briefly surprised that I knew her name, then recalibrated.

"Walk with me."

A tilt of the head toward the side exit.

"I don't want to have this conversation in the corridor."

We went out through the narrow path behind the faculty building where the noise thinned. She set the pace.

"I will be direct with my question: what are you doing with Nmesoma?"

"I'm not sure what—"

"I didn't stutter, Oba." Her voice was even, unhurried. "What are you doing. What is your intention?."

"What do you want from Nmesoma?"

I didn't answer immediately. Not because I didn't have one, but because I've learned that the space between a question and your answer tells people a lot, and I wanted to think about what I was actually saying.

"I'm not sure yet," I said. "But I'm not playing around."

Chidera looked at me.

"I want you to know that she transferred here because—" She stopped. Started again, quieter. "She was in a relationship for three years. And the entire three years, she was the only one who didn't know. That her boyfriend and her best friend had been dating since secondary school."

I looked at her.

"Her best friend," she said again, with the particular emphasis people use when they need you to understand the full weight of something without spelling it out completely.

Something closer to recognition moved in my chest.

"The anxiety, the counting thing she does, the way she bolts before conversations end—" Chidera said. "That's not who she is. That's what happened to her."

"I know," I said again. Softer this time.

Chidera studied me for a long moment.

"How about that girl I always saw you with last year?" She asked

"We ended things" I responded.

“Don't let Soma like you and then break her."

I held her gaze. "I hear you."

She nodded once, the way people nod when the meeting is over. Then she turned and walked back down the corridor.

And then, from over her shoulder, without turning her head, in a tone of complete and pleasant calm:

"Obaloluwa,"she called out."* If you hurt my friend, I will make the rest of your time in this institution a horrific one. Have a good afternoon."

She turned the corner and was gone.

I stood in the empty path and laughed.

What had just happened?

NMESOMA'S POV

The thing about Oba is that everyone knows him.

We had walked together from the library to the faculty building one Friday — not a planned thing, we happened to leave at the same time — and I counted. Fourteen people greeted him by name in ten minutes. Three of them stopped to hold full conversations. One of them was even a lecturer.

I stood slightly to the side and watched him navigate all of it with the same unhurried ease he does everything else.

Some ladies I don't even know look at me with side-eyes when I'm around him, as though I took something that belongs to them.

I was in my room trying to figure out what to wear the next day when the notification came in.

@_IamAdeola started following you.

I frowned at it. I didn't know the name. I clicked the profile — private, neat grid, the kind of account that looks curated without looking like it's trying. I checked the mutuals. One. I pressed it.

Oba. I was still sitting with that — turning it, examining it — when the DM arrived. Hi Nmesoma. I know this is unexpected. My name is Adeola — we have a mutual, I think you know who. I just want to talk. Can we meet somewhere?

I read it. Chidera came out of the bathroom with her bonnet on and her toner in hand, took one look at me sitting upright in bed.

"What are you reading?," she asked.

I turned the phone around.

She came forward. Read it. Straightened slowly. A silence.

"This girl," she said quietly, with the flat certainty of someone delivering a verdict, "is mad."

She set the toner down on the dresser. Not gently.

"We're going together," she said, picking up her phone.

"Chidera, it could be nothing—"

"Together, Soma." She looked up, eyes completely level. "You are not meeting her alone. We go, we sit, she says what she wants to say"

"You're making it sound like—"

"Send her a time, and a venue." Chidera said. And because she knew me: "Don't think. Just send it."

I looked at the message one more time.

A mutual. I think you know who.

The mutual was Oba.

I sent the time and venue.

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Read the first chapter here:

CHAPTER 1

OBA’s POV

The thing about being social director is that you never actually get to enjoy the party. You are the party. You are the one organizing logistics, the last-minute crisis, the guy everyone flags down with “Oba, the DJ is saying—” and “Oba, they didn’t bring enough plastic cups” and “Oba, two people are fighting by the back exit.”

I had been on my feet since three, and by nine I had eaten nothing, fixed everything, and smiled so much my jaw ached faintly.

Jide found me by the drinks table nursing a cold Fanta like it was whiskey.

“Guy, you look like you want to sleep,” he said, materialising beside me the way Jide always did; suddenly, without warning, already grinning.

“I’m tired man, I have been managing caterers and a broken speaker for four hours.”

“Everything seem to be in order now. Weldone bro.”

He wasn’t wrong. The hall had hit that sweet spot — loud enough to mean people were having fun, not so chaotic that someone was going to get hurt. The coloured lights were doing their work, the DJ had finally stopped being difficult, and the ID card system was moving smoothly. I had insisted on it. Every student gets their ID card scanned, only after that do they get to serve themselves from the buffet. Simple.

I was alone, sitting on the chair when I heard it. Fola had left me to dance somewhere else.

NMESOMA'S POV

I walked into the hall feeling very out of place and jittery. It wasn’t how I looked—it was something else, something I didn’t like to think or talk about.

My hair looked good, I was sure. And I’d managed to whip up a nice fit last minute, mostly due to Chidera’s incessant threats.

“Soma, you cannot keep yourself hidden forever. You need to go out, make friends, stop burying your nose in those TedX videos you watch all day,” she’d said, gesticulating as if I couldn’t hear her.

So, that’s how I found myself in this Inter- departmental dinner.

There was loud music, light, coloured lights everywhere, bodies, a lot of people, dancing and yelling to the songs. The faint smell of alcohol hung in the air. I sighed. How on earth did I let Chidera rope me into this? Speaking of Chidera, she was no longer by my side. I spotted her talking to their departmental president, her high ponytail bobbing as she nodded vigorously. Trust Chidera to go into “what can I do to help” mode.

I walked towards a table that looked deserted. I could fend for myself. I looked around furtively, hoping nobody was approaching for a chit-chat—those weird things that people do that get them entangled in unnecessary conversation. I started doom scrolling on Instagram, filling the silence in my life with celebrities’ lifestyles. I kept at this for close to an hour until my stomach rumbled. Is this what I’d become? Waiting for hunger to announce itself before getting something to eat at a party?

I walked to the catering area, practicing what I was going to say under my breath.

“Please, what is available?” I asked, unsure.

“Are you talking to me?” The lady in charge of the food asked, looking at me suspiciously.

“Of course, you.”

OBA'S POV

What I heard was noise from the catering table. “Where is your ID card? No ID card, no food. That’s the rule.”

I looked back to see what was going on.

“I’m a transfer student. My card hasn’t been issued yet—”

“Transfer, carry-over, I don’t know what you are. No ID card, no food. You people always look for ways to get free food. Next person.”

I turned fully now.

The girl standing at the catering table was trying very hard to look unbothered, and failing woefully at it. She looked like she wanted to disappear into the ground.

The woman behind the table, Aunty Blessing, had already moved her attention to the next person in line, effectively erasing her.

I was already moving.

“Aunty Blessing.”

My voice came out quieter than I intended, which was somehow worse. She heard it and straightened immediately. Everyone nearby heard it and created a small, curious stillness.

“Social director,” she said, recovering quickly. “This girl is saying she doesn’t have—”

“I heard.” I turned to the girl.

Up close she was prettier than I’d registered from across the room. “You’re a transfer student?”

She blinked. “Yes. I just — my ID card hasn’t been processed yet, they said it takes—”

“Three to four weeks, I know.” I turned back to Aunty Blessing. “She’s a registered student. Transfer students are on the department’s provisional list, which you were given before this event started.” I kept my voice even. Even was worse than loud, I had learned.

“Please serve her. And going forward, if there’s a query about any guest’s status, you bring it to me. You don’t —” I glanced briefly at the small audience that had collected — “resolve it publicly.”

Aunty Blessing nodded, tight-mouthed, and turned back to her station.

I turned to the girl.

“I’m sorry about that,” I said. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

“It’s fine,” she said, and I could tell she meant it’s not fine but I’m not going to perform distress for you.

“It’s not, actually.” I fell into step beside her as she moved along the table.

“You came to a dinner that your faculty organised, and someone made you feel like an inconvenience. That’s a failure on our part.”

She glanced at me sideways. “You say our like it’s your fault.”

“In a sense, it is.”

She almost smiled. Almost.

I extended a hand. “Oba. The social director, as Aunty Blessing so graciously announced.”

She shook it. Her grip was firm. “Nmesoma.”

“You new to the faculty or new to the school?”

“Both. Transfer student from Uniben.”

We’d drifted naturally away from the catering table, plates in hand, landing near the edge of the hall where it was slightly quieter.

NMESOMA'S POV

We talked, more like he talked. I mostly listened and punctuated the silence with a few sentences here and there. Truth is, I was distracted—by him and by me too. He was fine and he knew it, and I was busy trying to get my anxiety under control. Talking to people since that incident had made me anxious. I was counting to twenty in cycles, focusing on the space between his eyes. I was so good at this already that people just saw me as aloof and keeping a stern face rather than the anxious wreck of nerves that I actually was.

“You should have my number,” he said, cutting me off at my nineteenth count.

Damn, he was too smooth. Too, too smooth. I took a mental note to stay away from him after this.

I put my contact in, against good sense, my smile guarded.

Chidera finally materialized out of nowhere, an indecipherable expression on her face. Finally! My saviour.

I got up, too quickly, and I swooned a little.

Said hasty goodbyes to him and bolted out of the hall before I did something stupid again.

“What were you guys doing together?” Chidera asked as we walked.

“Ohh, he helped me get food,” I said, looking into her face.

“Hmmm.” She bit her cheek in that characteristic way of hers.

OBA'S POV

Later, around midnight, I walked lazily into the hostel and found Jide on his bunk, sprawled across his bed with a laptop balanced on his stomach and a bag of chin-chin that he made no offer to share.

“Una don finish?” he said, not looking up.

“The event is finished.” I dropped onto my own bed, stared at the ceiling. Outside someone was still playing music, muffled through concrete.

A moment passed.

“Jide.”

“Mm.”

“I met someone today.”

Jide lowered the laptop. Slowly. He looked at me over the screen with one eyebrow raised in a particular way that required no translation whatsoever.

Met, or met met?

I said nothing. Which was, of course, its own answer.

How about Adeola? He asked

I hissed as I turned to face the wall, pulling the blanket over my head.

You don't have to wait till next Monday. Chapter 2 could drop tomorrow if we hit 250 likes and 85 restacks before the end of tomorrow.

So like, re-stack and leave a comment 🤍.

Here is the link to the second chapter:

I missed our scheduled story yesterday— it'll be here next week, and it'll be worth the wait. For now, I have something else🤍.

I was so bored yesterday evening,so I wrote, arranged, and mixed this song just for this piece — Suno handled the vocals, I am a writer, not a producer, so please — plug in your earphones and manage it with love🤍.

​He said: This is 911, what’s your emergency?

​I said: I’m in love.

​He said: But that’s not a crime, Mr.

I said: But it should be. How is it not criminal for a person to occupy every square inch of your mind without your consent? How is it legal for my pulse to be hijacked by the mere chime of a notification because it might be her? I have been robbed of my composure. I stutter around her. My body moves without my permission when she's near — my heart pounds, my face grins, and I am standing there, a witness to my own undoing, unable to stop any of it.

​He said: I don't know, sir. But it's not something I can help you out with.

​I said: Then who can? Because my heart is being held hostage. I look in the mirror and I don’t recognize the man staring back. He belongs to her now. This is Larceny, I see her even in my dreams, like my subconscious has been taken over. Like even rest isn't mine anymore.

He said: you’re going to be fine, sir. I can't help you, so I’m going to have to ask you to clear the line for real emergencies.

I said: You don’t understand. I’m not asking to be saved. I just needed someone to know that the man I was is gone. I love her so much it feels like an emergency.

​It is an emergency.

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