Friendship breakups can be just as painful as romantic ones. Sometimes worse, because nobody teaches us how to mourn a friend who is still alive.

OFORITSE.

Oforitse had met her best friends in her first year at the university. She had seen her name on the admission list. Her name had been the third name on the first list. She took pride in that.

The moment she had heard that the offices had opened and were running for the admission process, she had wanted to be among the first set of people to start the school process. It had been in the first office she had been directed to that she met her two best friends, Bimbo and Rita.

Bimbo and Rita had been more familiar with the process than she was and had been more than willing to help her. They had been nice to her and had taken her through the whole admission process.

They had all clicked together and had become a group when school fully started.

Oforitse got to know that Bimbo and Rita had been best friends since secondary school. They were funny together and made Oforitse feel special enough. The trio created a group chat and began texting there daily. They shared gossip about people in the department, the different boys that approached them, all their mutuals, celebrities and everything in between.

At first, it had been weird to Oforitse.

Coming together to talk about people’s business that had nothing to do with her had felt wrong, but it had been normalized. Oforitse began to engage. She listened. She added her thoughts. She gossiped, just like the rest of them.

It became a habit, and people in the department had begun to know them for that.

Unlike Oforitse, Bimbo and Rita had many friends. They had been popular and nice. They knew how to mingle. They always had events to attend. It was either a birthday, a baby shower, a housewarming or just clubbing.

Oforitse only had them.

She had schooled in a different state all her life and had only relocated because of her admission. She had stayed with Bimbo and Rita in the hostel until they had all decided to get different apartments after a year. They took turns staying in each other’s houses.

Oforitse had tried to be like them.

She had tried to go out with them as much as she could so as not to miss out on moments. She did not like it when they both shared experiences she had not been part of.

Oforitse had decided to mingle more, and the best idea that had come to her was to mingle with the friends of Bimbo and Rita. That way, she would also be invited out more and become more familiar with them.

And she did.

It had happened naturally. Everybody vibing in the club and following each other online to send snaps of themselves. A bigger group chat had been created, or maybe she had just been added.

They were all there, planning outings together.

Some she attended, some she didn’t, but she had begun to become familiar with the group and had made friends with the other girls.

This was all Oforitse wanted.

To feel among.

All her life she had felt out of place. She had not been considered beautiful as a teenager and had not made many friends either. Her parents had been strict with her. They had often restricted her from making friends too, and now she had finally gotten that.

She got invited out.

She was often told she was beautiful when they went out.

She loved going out with them.

It had become a lifestyle now.

She had particularly grown close to one of the girls in the group. Her name had been Judith. Judith had been in the same level as Oforitse but in a different department.

They had begun to grow so close that they went out together outside the group. They visited each other and talked about the others in the group.

It had been more of Judith talking about the others since she had known them for longer, but she often asked Oforitse about Bimbo and Rita.

She had hinted to Oforitse that Bimbo and Rita had been closer to each other than they were to her.

It was that day Judith had told Oforitse all they supposedly said about her.

She said Bimbo and Rita mostly spoke to her for school reasons and had complained that she was too quiet.

Oforitse had felt betrayed.

She had told Judith that Bimbo and Rita talked about the others too. She had told Judith they talked about another mutual, Funmi.

She knew she had gone too far, and so she had not said what they talked about concerning Funmi.

That day, Oforitse had gone back home sad.

She had slept through the day and had only been awakened by numerous calls.

They had been from Judith.

She had panicked.

She called her back immediately, and Judith picked almost immediately.

“What’s happening? I missed your calls.”

“Good evening, Oforitse. How are you?”

“I’m fine. What’s happening?”

“Okay, Oforitse, I want you to come over to my place. I told Funmi all you told me Bimbo and Rita said about her.”

“All what?”

Oforitse had immediately been alerted.

“All what was said, so she can be careful of those girls.”

“But I didn’t say anything. Just hold on, I am coming.”

Oforitse had not thought it through.

She had quickly gotten out of bed and ran straight out of the house.

When she got to Judith’s place, Funmi had been there.

“Tell Funmi all what you told me.”

“What did you say I told you?”

“That Funmi does hookup.”

“What?”

“You said it, Oforitse.”

“No, I did not.” She shouted.

“Yes, you did. Why can’t you say it now?”

“What is your aim, Judith?”

“Can you guys stop fighting?”

It was Funmi. Her voice had come out quiet.

“What did they say about me?”

“Nobody ever said anything that insinuated you were a prostitute, Funmi. I have no idea why Judith is lying.”

“I am not lying. It is you who is.” Judith maintained.

“If anyone is a liar here, it is you.” Oforitse shot back. “It is you who talked about Funmi, and here you are trying to put everyone against each other.”

“You lie. I have never talked with you about anybody.”

It was then it hit her.

Judith knew exactly what she was doing.

Funmi and Judith were closer, and naturally, Funmi would believe Judith over her.

“You know what? It’s fine. There’s no point arguing this.” Oforitse said. “I have to go home. I never said anything against anybody.”

“I think you’re trying to play the safe friend.” Funmi replied.

“I do not care what you think.”

She said to Funmi.

She looked at her, sounding quiet and slow. If all Bimbo and Rita had really said about her was true, then maybe she wasn’t as innocent as she acted. Sleeping with the husband of another woman was not an act for innocent girls.

Oforitse had left almost immediately.

She had slept the moment she got home and woke up early the next morning to messages.

Judith had texted her with insults and curses.

Funmi had texted her too.

Then Bimbo.

Bimbo had sent her a lengthy paragraph calling her a bad friend and telling her she had cost her her relationship with Funmi.

Then she had blocked her.

Rita had not texted or called.

Oforitse stared at her phone long and hard that morning.

This was what she had been scared about.

Being alone.

Losing her friends.

And now she had.

She cried briefly.

She did not make any move to apologize. She wouldn’t.

Bimbo had gossiped about Funmi. She had no reason to beg her. Bimbo gossiped about everybody, including her.

Maybe she didn’t need the friendship after all.

She knew wherever Bimbo went, Rita would follow, and she gave up hope concerning them too.

The rest of the school year had been long.

The news of their fallout had spread through the department, and most people had come to ask her questions which she had refused to answer.

Oforitse would see Bimbo and Rita together in the same places they used to hang out without her.

She had no one to invite her to birthdays or clubs anymore.

She had gone back to being that lonely girl with no friends.

She carried the pain until they graduated from school and she no longer had to see them again.

SHOLA.

Shola panicked when she realized the month was already coming to an end.

It was almost October, and her rent was due on the second day of October.

What could she do?

Her landlord would not accept part payment.

She needed time.

She needed to leave her place and lay low for a while as she hustled for the money.

Shola had struggled all her life.

She didn’t have a rich family. It had been All Man For Himself where she came from, and so she had to struggle for her own needs.

She didn’t have a boyfriend either.

Only a best friend.

Her best friend’s name had been Nelo.

Nelo had been her companion over the years. Shola cared for her deeply. They cared for each other.

They had met four years ago at the birthday party of a mutual friend who was now dead and had been friends ever since.

In a way, it had been the death of their mutual friend that had brought them closer to each other.

They had mourned her together.

They had tried to preserve her memory and had both shared the pain of losing a friend.

Nelo had been Shola’s only friend now.

She had been beautiful and bold.

She had stood up for Shola countless times.

Shola felt the best place she could go to escape her landlord for a while was her friend’s place.

She had told Nelo about her situation. About how her rent was due in two days, how she was short of the money she needed to pay, and how she needed somewhere to stay for a while.

Nelo, of course, did not chase her away.

She had been understanding.

It was the first time Shola had stayed with someone who wasn’t family.

It had been weird at first because she only knew Nelo from a different perspective. She saw her once in a while, and they had always communicated through social media or calls.

Now they lived together.

Days turned into a week.

A week turned into two.

Shola’s money had not been complete.

It had even reduced.

The more she tried to save, the more it reduced.

Living with her friend had become more expensive than living alone.

She tried her best to buy whatever was needed. She had tried not to freeload, but somehow, she still had.

Some days, Shola knew she had nothing.

No money to feed herself.

Those days, she would feel bad.

Ashamed.

She had exhausted everything she had saved and needed more time.

She thought she could make up for it.

So she tried to.

She took it upon herself to do all the chores, even on days she didn’t feel like it.

You see, the lack of money is really the root of all evil.

Shola cleaned.

She kept the house neat.

She cooked.

She washed as often as she could.

On most days, the tension in the room would be too obvious.

On the days Nelo was in a sour mood, Shola would try not to relate with her too much.

She would only ignore enough.

It became a rotation of happy and sad days.

Her happy days were the days Nelo was happy.

Her sad days were the days Nelo was in a bad mood.

Shola hated it.

She hated how she had become a people pleaser.

She hated how she felt.

She could not hate Nelo for being the way she was, but she hated the situation.

One day, they had been together having a conversation.

At first, it had been about a girl Nelo complained about who had stayed with her friend and barely contributed anything.

Nelo had talked about how the girl did chores but barely contributed financially.

Shola knew it had been a shade.

And it had been for her.

Nelo had particularly been close to one of her neighbours.

Shola barely knew the girl, only enough from what Nelo had told her.

Months had gone by quickly, and Shola knew she had to leave.

She thought about her different options, and her best option was relocating back to her parents’ house.

She would stay with them for a while until she had saved enough to leave again.

The day she had chosen to leave, Nelo’s neighbour had been around.

Shola had wanted to leave them alone. They seemed close to each other, so she went downstairs to sit for a while until she was ready to leave.

Someone approached her in the neighbourhood.

Another neighbour from downstairs.

He had made small talk with her and admitted to wanting to know her.

While they had still been talking, Nelo came downstairs with her friend.

They all made small talk and even asked Shola when she was leaving.

They laughed.

It made Shola feel mocked.

They left after that, and Shola could hear them talking as they walked away.

“This your friend na Ashawo.”

She wasn’t sure if that had been what she heard from the other girl, but it sounded like it.

She heard them talking in words she couldn’t make out.

Then she heard Nelo’s voice.

“She can’t even do that. She knows what I’ve done for her.”

Shola had tried to believe she was overthinking.

That she hadn’t heard those words.

She did not stay downstairs for long.

She rushed upstairs to pack her things and leave.

Choosing Nelo to stay with had been a bad idea.

She wished she could take it back, but she couldn’t.

She wouldn’t even call Nelo wicked or bad, but she had felt bad despite everything.

It began to rain heavily while she was still packing.

She could not leave that night.

She had stayed over, but she had felt the urge to talk to someone about what had happened.

She had texted her childhood friend, who had not responded, and then texted someone else who replied.

This time around, she had taken a screenshot of the chat she had sent to her friend and forwarded it to someone else.

Unknowingly to Shola, she had also forwarded the same message to Nelo.

She had not deleted it because she had not been aware.

Her friend had encouraged her not to feel bad and told her that was life.

The next morning, Shola left early.

She had still been on her way when Nelo called her.

She did not pick.

Instead, she texted her.

Nelo dropped messages telling her she had seen the messages on her phone and that Shola had painted her as a bad person.

Shola had tried to respond calmly so things would not escalate.

She told her everything she had heard.

Nelo had been mad.

“How would you think I’ll talk about you to my neighbour?”

She had been angry.

She claimed she had never made a statement like that.

Shola had apologized.

They had not spoken again after that.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks turned into longer weeks.

They had texted every day before Shola had made the decision to go to her place, and now Shola wondered if she had ruined the friendship.

She wondered if it had been her fault.

After a few more weeks of neither of them reaching out, Nelo had removed Shola from all her socials.

Shola had noticed the very first day it happened.

It had hurt her.

The friendship was collapsing.

Shola had texted her when she saw what had happened, but Nelo had been definite with her reply.

It had been obvious Shola had been the one at fault in Nelo’s eyes.

Shola had tried to make her understand how she felt—what she felt—but Nelo told her she did not care about it.

She only told her to be good.

Like she was giving her a perfect ending.

Shola had not begged or apologized again.

She had felt bad about everything that had happened, and she knew Nelo probably felt the same.

She didn’t think she was wrong.

And she didn’t think Nelo was either.

She only accepted that it had been a mistake she could not correct.

And she would have to accept that.

It hurt her.

She had no idea how Nelo felt, but it hurt her.

Once again, she had no friend around.

I’d like to start by saying this: this is not a sexual piece. It does not talk about a man needing a woman or, as the case may be, anything of that sort.

It is simply about the art of longing.

I can’t remember who, but someone once told me maladaptive daydreaming was considered a sin.

Is it just daydreaming?

I see myself in a particular place my feet have no access to yet, and I wish for a life like that. For years, I have placed myself in positions beyond my reach and wished for a life that sometimes seems so far from my grasp.

So far.

Yet still possible.

I long to be a woman of many, many things, all included in greatness. I long to see my dreams come true and to achieve all I desire, so I chase them.

I have no idea if I’m running fast enough, if I’m jogging, or maybe still walking.

I only know I’m not in that particular spot anymore.

In order to satisfy the hunger burning in my soul every hour of the day, I have to make a way.

I go on my knees at night and I talk to my Creator. Only He can see who I really am and understand how painful the ache inside my heart can be.

Only Him.

I move by a principle that what you believe is what works for you.

I think of all the ideas in my head. However less romantic they may appear, I still consider them beautiful.

And I write.

I create stories I feel can become a building bridge between me and the life I desire.

The art of longing destroys the space fear had once dominated in my heart. It has healed me, regardless of my procrastination, and has helped me take one step at a time.

I want to fly.

But in order to do that, I have to grow wings.

I will not sit in one place and grow these wings.

I have to search for them.

Logically, it is impossible for a person to grow wings, which is exactly why I have to search deeply to find mine. I have to take radical steps to make this come through.

This paragraph isn’t about physical wings, as we all know.

It is about my life.

The dreams I long to actualize are not within my reach… yet.

They seem delusional.

Unrealistic.

They sometimes sound crazy.

But they are not impossible.

That is the major reality here.

It is not impossible to reach.

I long to be that woman I always pictured myself becoming since I was nine, and it would be so disappointing to her if I gave up on her now.

Instead, I have chosen to fuel her drive.

And the more moves I made, the bigger the goal became.

Longing has also been my biggest trap.

My biggest loop.

And the reason for some of the deepest aches I have experienced.

It feels exactly the way I felt when I first got my heart broken.

With longing, I have mounted a very necessary pressure on myself, but sometimes that pressure has made this drive and this passion feel like a curse.

I wonder what it’s like to wake up with no zeal.

No passion.

No drive.

I imagine it must be scary.

But I also imagine it must be sad.

As much as my longing has caused me this much ache, I would pick it over and over again.

It probably looks like a toxic relationship.

Picking what brings me pain and joy over and over again.

But if it’s a relationship I have with myself, it means it’s something I can work on.

People work on their relationships with each other and find their way forward.

And it’s the same thing.

Only this time, it’s me versus me.

My approach to clearing this ache is to be where my feet are.

I have to put my mind where my feet are and understand that because something is not within my reach now does not mean it will never be mine.

I have to understand that I may walk now, but eventually, I will fly.

I see my longing as a burning bush.

I possess a fire I wish to burn brighter and brighter—not a fire that will burn me out.

The type that will illuminate me.

That is why I have decided to take it one step at a time.

No need to move ahead of myself.

I pray on my knees at night and work with my ideas during the day, and I know gradually, everything will fall into place.

My mind will no longer be in this constant turmoil.

It will be relaxed because my eyes will finally see all that dream become a reality.

I long for the version of me my nine-year-old self always wanted to be.

She’s truly the one I am in love with.

I think of her all the time.

She’s my own Heaven Baby.

It’s no one else but her.

I hope to be her.

Only then can I meet her and clear the ache in my heart.

I know in my soul that I will fly.

But sometimes…

I just wonder—

Will I ever fly?

My dad is dead.

He died on Monday.

She could not do the first thing that came to mind — fire back with questions. When? How? What happened? That would be stupid and insensitive. If it had been her she would have been furious receiving questions after delivering news like that. So she stayed still and said nothing and just stared.

But how? Que’s dad had been ill for a while and then he had gotten better. He had been responding to treatment. He had been stronger. What could have gone wrong between stronger and gone?

She hadn’t realized she had shouted until Jay spoke.

‘What happened?’

Tammy looked up. ‘My best friend’s father is dead.’

‘Oh no.’ Jay’s voice dropped immediately. ‘Oh no. I’m so sorry for her. I’m so sorry.’

‘It doesn’t feel real.’

‘It won’t for a while.’ Jay said quietly. ‘When I lost my uncle — he was as close to me as my father — I felt the same way. Just complete disbelief. He was such a good man.’

Tammy nodded and excused herself. She went to the bathroom and stood at the sink and let herself cry. Not for long. Just enough. She cried for Que who had to carry this heaviness and had only now said something. She cried for the version of Que she remembered from years ago — younger, genuinely scared, missing classes and resitting exams because her father was sick and she couldn’t focus on anything else. She cried for the fact that Que was weeks away from graduating and he would not be there to see it. She had been through so much.

She dried her face. This was not about her.

She went back to her phone and opened Que’s chat and sat there blank. Sorry felt insufficient. Typing It is well felt like something to say when you didn’t know what else to say. She thought about what she would want to receive if it had been her father. She thought about her dad and pushed the thought away quickly.

She typed what came naturally.

I can’t say how deeply sorry I am. And I know you might not want to talk right now but you can call me whenever, or let me know when I call you so we can talk.

She read it back. It didn’t feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough. But there was nothing she could say that would stand between Que and the grief that was waiting for her and she knew that. She sent it and put her phone face down.

When she was out of the bathroom she told Jay she would be leaving the next day to go to her friend. Jay nodded and didn’t ask many questions. Tammy almost laughed at herself for saying it. She was no comforter. She didn’t know how to make people feel better in their worst moments. She was the type to go quiet when she was hurting and she assumed most people were built that way too until Jay had proven otherwise. Jay needed people around her when she was in pain. Que was different from both of them. Que would hold it quietly and present strength and cry where nobody could see her. Tammy knew this about her the same way she knew her laugh and her dramatic flair and the way she looked around the room when she wanted to make a point.

Que replied after some time.

I don’t really know when I’d be free to talk honestly. I’m in school right now and I’ll be going home to see my mum tomorrow. I don’t know how long I’ll be with her.

That’s fine. Call me when you’re back.

Tammy sent it and then sat with her phone in her hands feeling helpless. She dreaded the call that would eventually come. She was scared of saying the wrong thing and making it worse. It was a problem she had always had — being present for people in grief. She would do it anyway. She had to.

The rest of the day was quiet. She stayed quiet because she had no thoughts she wanted to say out loud. Everything felt slightly unrealistic. Osaze was gone from her phone. Que’s father was dead. Jay was on a call with Leonard that had been going on for hours, her voice occasionally floating through the room soft and different from how she had sounded all week. At least one of them would sleep without a heavy heart tonight.

Que called just after eight at night.

Tammy picked immediately.

‘Heyyy.’

‘Hey.’ Que’s voice was calm. Not sad in a way you could point to. Just calm. The kind of calm that sits on top of something enormous.

‘How was school?’

‘Nothing much. Just here.’

‘Que I’m so sorry about your dad.’

‘It is well.’

It was different when she said it. It didn’t sound hollow. It sounded like something she actually believed or was working hard toward believing.

‘Tell your mum I send my condolences. And when you’re back I want to come and see you.’

‘I will. It’s fine.’

She paused for a while. Tammy wanted to know everything and knew she should ask nothing. Then she heard herself speak before she made the decision to.

‘What actually happened?’

‘I have no idea either. He had traveled to the village. He slept and didn’t wake up.’ She was quick with the explanation.

‘I’m so sorry Que.’

‘It is well.’

‘Does your brother know?’

‘Not yet. I think they’ll tell him today or tomorrow. They didn’t even want to tell me. I don’t see the point of hiding it honestly. It doesn’t change how we’ll feel about it. If my mum doesn’t tell him soon I might just do it myself.’

‘I understand.’

There was a pause long enough to breathe in.

‘You know what’s funny?’ Que said. ‘What’s funny is me. My dad died on Monday and I had no idea. He was dead and I was posting a video of the both of us kissing on my story and laughing at the lesbian accusations we were getting.’ She stopped for a moment then continued. ‘I knew something was wrong. I knew it. I remembered asking to speak to my dad a few days earlier and my mum kept making excuses. Oh Tam.’ Her voice dipped lower now. ‘My mother had to carry that alone. You know how my mum is. You know she’s such a baby. Imagine how she felt. Tam my mum is a widow now. I am fatherless.’ The hurt was there in every word but her voice stayed strong and she kept going. ‘This does not feel real. It does not feel real to me. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t know the last time I saw him would be the last time. Tammy he was okay. He got better. He got stronger. Why did he have to travel to the village? Why couldn’t he just stay and enjoy his children a little longer before dying?’

Tammy was silent the whole time. She let her talk because talking was the only thing she could offer her right now that cost nothing and meant everything.

When Que stopped she spoke carefully.

‘I can’t say I know how you feel because my dad is still alive. But I know what it means to lose someone to death. I lost my sister and it has never been the same since. This is not the moment to tell you it gets better because honestly the pain stays. But what I can tell you is that you are not alone in it. You have me. You have Chi. You have your mum and her family and your brother and everyone who loves you. You will be fine Ife. And if you need to cry and ghost everyone for a while to feel better then please do exactly that. Your actions don’t have to make sense to anyone as long as you come out of it okay.’

‘Thank you.’ The reply came after a moment. ‘I have to sleep now. I’m so tired and my head hurts.’

‘Go rest. I’ll text you in the morning.’

‘Okay. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

They hung up at the same time.

Jay was still on her call. The room was quiet except for her voice. Tammy sat with her phone in her lap and then before she fully decided to she was dialing her father. It rang. He didn’t pick. He always picked. Always quickly. She felt something cold move through her chest. She called again. Her heart was loud now. What if the kind of news Que had received was the kind of news sitting somewhere waiting for her too. She would not survive it. She knew this about herself with complete certainty — she would not survive losing her father.

He picked on the second ring.

‘Pa?’

‘My darling daughter.’ His voice came through warm and lively, completely himself and she felt her whole body exhale at once.

‘How are you Pa?’

‘I’m fine my daughter. I’m fine. How are you?’

‘I’m good Pa.’ She swallowed. ‘I just wanted to hear your voice.’

‘Ohhh.’ He laughed the way he always laughed. ‘Your call has just made my day my darling daughter.’

She smiled and kissed her phone before putting it back to her ear. A tear came down from her left eye and she let it.

‘I love you so much Pa.’

‘I love you too my darling.’

‘Take your drugs. Sleep well. Don’t let anybody stress you.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Say hi to Ma for me.’

‘I will. Bye my darling daughter.’

‘Bye Pa.’

She ended the call and sat quietly. The heaviness of the day had not gone but something in her chest had loosened. She was grateful in a way that felt almost guilty given what Que was carrying tonight. She said a quiet prayer for her friend and then another one for her father and then she put her phone down and let the room be still.

Now all she had to do was show up for Que.

She had never been good at that. But she was going to try

.

I’ve really grown fond of this trend where people write a number of things about themselves, their partners, and even their families. I figured, why not write a list of things I’d want to experience before I die and see if other people have thoughts and dreams like this too?

Before I start, I’d like to make this known: I’m delusional when it comes to matters that concern me. I consider myself unhealthily ambitious, and I really hate failure.

So these 15 things I’m about to mention are not just wishes. They are dreams. Things I hope to achieve before I die, and then see what happens in that other world.

So, here are 15 things I want to experience at least once before I die.

And that’s my 15.

If you like this trend enough to participate, please mention me when you do because I want to read yours too.

And if mine made you laugh, please laugh. Don’t keep it inside.

What are some things you want to experience before you die?

I saw this trend online, and I think it’s the first trend I’ve seen that I would actually like to participate in.

I honestly don’t know if they’ll be up to thirty. Thirty things to say about me is a bit too much, if you ask me. With five words, I could literally tell you who I am.

PASSIONATE. DELUSIONAL. SENSITIVE. EXTROVERTED. STUBBORN.

I’ll just dig into thirty things because I’m obviously giving away too much already.

Press play…

I would begin this story by telling you how my brain captured it. I had been less than four. I was still in nursery school. The implication of what had been happening then had not been clear to me. In fact, I didn’t know the armed men who had just robbed a big politician had been around my school.

The gunshots had sounded repeatedly. I heard the sound of bullets. It was loud. It was everywhere. The whole classroom had gone into total panic.

“Mummy o!” I heard my teacher scream as she ran towards the classroom door and locked it shut. Tears had been running down her eyes.

Now that I was older, I realized she had been twenty-two. She had just graduated from university and had been waiting to serve for her NYSC. She had been a trusted adult to me then, but now I understood her and why she had reacted that way.

Everything happened so fast.

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The lights had been turned off, and all the children had been moved to our social gathering hall. We had all been seated. Some were standing, some were seated on the pavement. The older ones seemed to be panicking.

They had made us pray.

They said bad men had been at our gate and the police were on their way. They had asked us to pray.

I wasn’t scared.

I didn’t know fear enough. I only feared my mother’s cane, not the men outside who were armed and seemed to be shooting randomly. At least that was what three-plus-year-old me thought.

After a while, the chaos had died down and they had left. The police had come almost immediately after they left, and the teachers had begun to call the parents of their students.

My mother had come for me early enough.

The street had been empty when we rode back home. She had kept praying for our protection. There had been no visible car in sight.

My neighbour and her mother had joined us too. Mummy Nene and her daughter, Nene. We had all attended the same church, even though I wasn’t very close to her daughter. She had been older than me, already in primary school, and had been growing very tall at the time.

We had gotten home safe and sound, and I had come back to meet my siblings. They had all hugged me the moment they saw me.

My siblings had been in secondary school and attended a different school.

That day, it had been reported on the live news that some men had raided the little island we lived on and had moved through banks, stealing and killing people. They had raided their third bank, the house of a politician, and a school where people had been killed and raped.

The police had only conveniently arrived minutes after they left.

The island had been placed on a forty-eight-hour lockdown. They had urged everyone to stay at home and inside their houses until it was considered safe enough to come out.

It wasn’t safe at the moment.

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My mother had made us pray.

We had turned off the TV and the lights, and we had all laid on the ground when we heard gunshots close to our window.

Again, I had not been scared.

This time around, I only knew the situation had been serious and we had to stay indoors.

We had stayed that way until I slept off.

It was my mother who had woken me up.

She said we had to go to church.

It had been Bible study.

We had to go to church?

It had been Bible study?

Now that I write this, I am vexed. I am angry, but not at my mother. I knew all she had done was because she loved me and my siblings.

She had made me bathe after eating and changed me into my church clothes. It had been a bit dark now, and she said we would not use our car so as not to draw attention.

It was fine.

Church was barely ten minutes away.

We went alongside Nene and her mother. We had used a new path I didn’t know of at the time and had gotten to church safely. We met only a few people along the way and also in church that evening.

The same shooting spree I had heard in the morning happened again.

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The children began to cry.

The teachers panicked.

I didn’t.

I’m not trying to sound brave, but I didn’t fear bullets flying around and armed men at the age of three.

I do now.

Just like in school, we had all gathered together. I had been under the chair with my mother and siblings, with the lights turned off.

The pastor had stopped preaching.

He had climbed down from the altar and laid on the floor, just like every other person.

Was that the person my mother believed in?

Or was it God she believed in to have brought us out of the house on that day?

The shooting had gone on for a while.

It was closer now.

I heard their cars move and some stop. I heard men jump down from what I imagined to be trucks. I heard them move through the gate, and I heard their footsteps walking by the window.

I had seen one.

All covered in black, including his face with a mask.

Surprisingly, no one continued praying.

Mercifully, no child cried.

They talked.

They moved around the church.

This went on for a while until I heard them retreat. They had gone back to their vehicles and zoomed off.

We had all shared the grace almost immediately, and everybody had been dispersed home.

Just like we came, we had gone back home.

My mother praying enough that I could hear her while she held my right hand, and I held my sister’s from the left.

Money had been on the streets, but nobody was outside to pick it.

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We got home safe.

She kneeled.

She cried.

She thanked God.

Now I wonder if it was regret that made her cry, or thanksgiving.

Or both.

That night, we all slept together with my mother.

It was long, but it had been one of the most comforting nights I had.

I wasn’t scared that day.

Only fully aware.

I don’t even feel as angry as I did when I started this piece, now that I’m done writing.

This is why I love this art so much.

I can freely write about what three-year-old me saw and experienced better than I would have ever been able to say it.

Osaze had a pattern now.

He texted only when he wanted to. Called only when it suited him. Made promises he mostly didn't keep. The only time he was consistently present was when they had an argument and she refused to reach out first. That was when the messages came. That was when the calls came through.

It had been the complete opposite at her end.

She was always the one calling. Always the one double texting. She had other people in her phone, people who texted her and she texted back, but Osaze was the one she actually wanted to talk to. She had stories building up inside her — ridiculous scenarios she had found herself in without trying — and she knew he would laugh at all of them. She had been saving them for him. But he was barely there and the stories were starting to feel stale from waiting.

Life outside of him hadn't changed much. She was seriously considering catering school now. Sitting at home all day had started to feel heavier than it used to. She visited her family on weekends and her dad called every time she was away, always wanting to know she was fine, always checking in the way only he did. She thought about him sometimes. About the promises she had made to herself regarding him. Everything she wanted to give him was still up there somewhere, hanging in the clouds, waiting to fall like rain. She just needed time and the right door to open.

Que was deep in school stress, close to her final exams and almost at the end of a chapter that had taken years. Tammy was genuinely excited for her. Everything was moving the way it was supposed to move even when it didn't feel that way.

Jay had been content for a while. She had gone to see Leonard again and came back glowing in a way that was specific to people who had just spent time with someone they really liked. She had started calling him her man. They were sweet together. Jay had even begun pulling back from other conversations, other people, showing up less online and more in his chats. Even when they argued — which was becoming more frequent — she came back to him. That was what it looked like when someone had decided on a person even before they had said it out loud.

But this particular morning Jay had called and she didn't sound enthusiastic

'Tam, I don't feel so good.'

Tammy had started to associate that sentence with Leonard. It was beginning to appear too regularly.

'My love what happened again?'

'It's Leo. He called and just started accusing me out of nowhere. I don't even know what I did.' Her voice was so low Tammy had to press the phone harder against her ear to catch it.

'But why though? What did he say specifically?'

Were they all like this? Osaze was not different with the way he kept accusing her about having other men in her life.

'I don't know.' There was a pause and then she was crying. 'I feel so sad and I don't want to be alone. Can you come over?'

'We could go out if you want. Get some air.'

'No my love.'

'Swimming? You love swimming.'

'I just want to be indoors.'

'Okay.' Tammy sat with that for a moment. She never quite knew what to say to Jay when she was sad. She knew what to say in theory but not to her specifically and she knew Jay wouldn't hear it properly anyway because she loved this man.

'My chest pains are back.'

That changed things. Jay had respiratory issues that had been getting worse over time and her chest episodes had landed her in hospital more than once.

'I'll come over. Do you need anything?'

'No I have everything. I even cooked yesterday.'

'I'll be there this morning.'

She meant it this time. She had a history of promising and not arriving — her friends knew it, they all complained about it, mostly Jay — but she dressed quickly, called a ride and was on her way before she could talk herself out of it.

Jay opened the door looking exactly like herself which meant she looked beautiful even while sad. Her lashes were done and her nails were fresh and she still managed to look put together in the middle of falling apart. They hugged.

'How are you?'

'Sad.' The reply came simple and honest.

'I'm sorry.'

'Tam I sent him a message. A really bad one.' Jay's voice dropped like she was confessing something. 'I emailed him.'

Tammy processed that. 'Did he block you?'

'No.'

'Then why did you go to his email?' She was trying very hard not to smile. 'Wait — what did you say?'

Jay shook her head slowly. 'I can't tell you.'

'Jay. How bad was it?'

The smile broke through on Tammy's face and Jay caught it and despite everything started laughing.

'I told him — fuck you from the depths of my ass.'

'Jay.' Tammy shouted and was already laughing. 'You weren't even blocked and you went to his email to say that? Why would you do that?'

'I was angry. He came at me in a way I didn't expect.'

'Did he reply?'

'No. He stopped replying everything.'

'So now you both sit in the silence until someone reaches out I guess.'

'I would never.'

And Tammy knew Jay meant every word of that.

'I told him in the email I would never text him again.'

Tammy laughed at the image of Leonard waking up to that email. She thought about all the other things Jay must have said before and after that line.

Jay asked about Osaze while they were eating. Tammy told her they were talking but didn't say much beyond that. She wasn't happy with where things stood but she didn't have the energy to explain something she didn't fully understand herself. Osaze had called her back that morning after missing her earlier calls and they had spoken briefly. He had also promised to send her money at some point. She hadn't thought much about it.

Jay's soup was excellent the way it always was. She had a way of making food look and taste considered, taking her time with it in a way that Tammy never had patience for in her own kitchen. Neither of them ate much though. That was the problem with being around someone when they were sad. The sadness transferred. Tammy found herself quieter than usual, thinking more than she wanted to, feeling things she had set aside resurface without invitation.

They went to Jay's pharmacist for her chest medication and when they came back Tammy decided to stay. She didn't say it as a decision, she just didn't leave. She stayed that evening and then the next day and the one after that.

Jay went about her work during the days but came back earlier than usual each time. Some nights she cried quietly before sleeping. Tammy was there for all of it and also useless for most of it because she was carrying her own weight.

The fight with Osaze happened during those days.

She had called him and he picked and was warm with her, they spoke and it was fine. Then she mentioned the money he had promised and he had told her he would sent it later. When she had told him she would call him back everything changed.

'Oh because I didn't give you money to buy smoke you'll call me back?'

She had stared at her phone. Where had that come from. She didn't even smoke at home. He had offered her the money himself, it was his promise not hers and she had barely thought about it in the way he thought of it. He knew this because he had told her himself she didn't ask him for things. She rarely asked him for anything.

She didn't need his money.

She tried to reach back out after the call. He ignored her. Ignored her messages too.

She sat with that silence and let herself think clearly for the first time in a while about what this actually was.

He believed men were built differently from women and used that belief to justify things she couldn't agree with. He spoke about his different views on faith in a way that dismissed hers entirely. He told her about other women casually, called them flings, described them in ways that were designed to land and she had pretended not to notice. He had been posting on his Snapchat during the weeks he barely texted her — different places, different things, and girls, positioned in a way that was hard to misread. Had he done that intentionally the same way she had posted those pictures? Or had he simply not thought about her at all while she was saving stories for him?

It was never him. It had never once been him. Every silence had a justification. Every absence had a reason. Every argument started with something she said or something she posted. She had bent herself into uncomfortable shapes trying to account for a person who never once accounted for her.

The more she saw of him the less she could find a reason to stay.

'Fuck you.' She typed and sent it before she could think about it. Then she deleted his number. Then she went to Snapchat and blocked him there too.

It hurt. More than she had expected it to. Jay had witnessed all of it and was furious on her behalf.

'I don't like that boy.' She said it with conviction. 'Why will someone who is always on something come and talk to you anyhow when you don't even do half of what he does. Something is genuinely wrong with him.'

Whether it was intentional or simply who he was she couldn't determine anymore and she no longer wanted to. She didn't want to be in his world. The pain of that decision sat with her through the days that followed and she and Jay carried their heartbreaks together, drinking wine on some evenings, laughing at their own situations with the specific humor of people who have no other choice. Jay wanted money and love simultaneously and saw no reason why she couldn't have both. Tammy wanted money and had quietly decided she wanted to be a mean girl to men going forward. They were both in their early twenties and would not be forever and the world owed them something better than this.

She texted Que that morning. Que had barely responded and Tammy assumed the exam pressure was swallowing her. She reached out again in the evening. They exchanged a few casual messages and then a few hours later, just a few minutes after five in the evening, her phone buzzed with something that made her go completely still.

My dad is dead.

He died on Monday.

That day had been a Thursday.

It was my eighth birthday. I had been so excited. I was finally turning the same age as my friend Mary.

Mary was beautiful. She had full eyebrows and black hair. Her eyes were shaped in a way my six-year-old self wanted. Her lashes were longer than mine, her body hair so soft, and it made me hate my hairless skin. She had so much hair on different parts of her body that it made her the envy of everyone around.

All the boys wanted to be friends with Mary. They wanted to play with her during our playtime. They gave her their tickets when she lost in a game so she could continue. They let her win. Whenever Mary cried, we stopped playing games and focused on her to make sure she was okay before we continued.

It felt like the world revolved around her.

Of course, I had friends too. I had people who liked me as well, but it was only because of school. They liked me because I always came first. Everyone wanted to sit with me during exams and wanted me to teach them all I knew.

During exams, I felt like Mary. I was the celebrity, but it only lasted a few weeks. My life would go back to normal. I would be non-existent. I would only be in the background.

I cared, but not much. I was okay so long as I had friends to play with.

Exams had finished now, and we were planning our end-of-term party. School was basically for rehearsals and fun. No learning.

Mary and I attended the same school and stayed in the same compound. We went to school together and came back together.

We had lots of company coming back, and it was because of Mary. The boys would want to impress her by buying her snacks, walking with us, and some even tried to breakdance in front of her.

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I would wonder what it was like to be her.

She had been two months older than I was but had been prettier. She had breasts forming on her chest and mine was still flat. She had more flesh, and I had been considered too skinny.

Her parents made her the finest braids, with beautiful adornments, and I cut my hair because my mother believed it would be a distraction and didn’t need that much stress.

But I needed it.

I wanted to look pretty so the boys would like me, and cutting my hair didn’t do that for me. If anything, it made me less beautiful.

I had only been tall. Too thin and too tall for my age.

I had been the tallest in my class except for a boy named Kevin. It would make me feel inferior when I stood with my friends who were shorter. I would slouch when I walked. I would feel so bad when someone said, “Wow! You’re so tall and you’re only eight.”

The thing was, I wondered why I didn’t look as good as my friend, and I had asked her.

“Why do you think I don’t have breasts like you do, and why am I hairless?”

“You’re not hairless, and I hate having so much hair.”

“Why are my breasts small?”

“Mine came when I turned eight,” Mary said.

That had made me look forward to my eighth birthday.

I thought I would grow bigger breasts like Mary when I turned eight, but I hadn’t.

My parents had organized a party for me with my friends. It had been small. Just my friends and I eating cake and dancing together. It ended early, but we had all been so full of energy.

We had all decided to play outside that evening.

The night was going fine.

Uncle David had passed by us, and most of the kids had run to hug him, including me. He bought things for us, including biscuits and sweets. When we hugged him that evening, he had wished me a happy birthday and had carried Mary before giving us all sweets.

We had resumed our game when he left, only for him to return outside again.

This time, he had on only shorts.

He had been standing just outside his door, watching us play the game.

After a few minutes, he called Mary.

“Do you want Indomie?” I heard him ask her.

Of course she did.

What kid did not want noodles?

Mary nodded and went inside with him.

The rest of us continued with our game until it began to get dark. Little by little, everyone began to return home.

I had forgotten about Mary and assumed she might have gone, even though I had not seen her leave Uncle David’s house.

It had been me and another child my age around when Uncle David came out of his house and raced past us with a bag in a hurry.

Nobody asked him anything.

A few seconds later, Mary came outside.

It had not been her prettiest sight.

She had tears running down her eyes and blood between her legs. Her dress had been stained too. Her tears were accompanied by catarrh, and she had just stood at his door, looking at us with tears running down her eyes.

I had not realized it then that he had forced himself on her.

It was the other boy who was with me who ran to call her mother.

Her mother had screamed and cussed and cried. She had asked me questions about what Uncle David wore and the direction he took.

I had been scared by how the situation grew serious.

I had gone back home with my mum, who had told me never to go to the house of any male neighbour.

I knew then that Uncle David had done a bad thing to Mary, something he should not have done.

I had barely seen Mary after that.

She stopped school, and a few weeks later, she relocated with her mother.

I had not seen or heard from her again.

I wonder if Karma caught up with Uncle David.

If it didn’t, I wonder if it ever would.

His name had been Richard.

Richard was the first boy I ever liked. Feelings I could not explain at such a very young age also swelled inside me when he was around, when I thought about him. He was nice to me. He was friends with my elder sister; they had been classmates, and he always walked her home before continuing his journey.

I returned from school before my sister. She had been sitting for her WAEC then and had enrolled in lessons after school, which kept her in school longer than she was meant to. I would wait for my sister at the gate when it was close to the time she came back just so I could see Richard.

He got used to me waiting for them. He had started to buy me gifts. It had started with junks, chocolates, biscuits he knew were my favourites. Then he bought me hair clips and lip glosses. I used the lip gloss when he came around. He had begun to come around more often now.

I had looked forward to his coming around to show him my paintings, my school results, so he would see how well I was doing. But I had stopped all that the day I had seen him kiss my sister. My little mind had been hurt, but I didn’t understand why then. I only knew I wanted him to be that way with me, despite our size not matching. I didn’t even think of the twelve-year age difference.

I had stopped waiting for my sister when she came back with Richard. I would stay in my room until she came to knock. Most times I would go to church with my mum. I still got gifts from Richard. He would ask if he would see me and I would say I was tired and half asleep.

We grew up on an island and I had time to myself when I went to the seashore just behind my compound. It was all blue river with white sand. I would go there to look at the ships passing by, moving very slowly, but I would always see them, making the loud noise like a horn.

The morning I had gone there, I had been hoping to catch crabs. I would pour water into holes I saw and they would come out, and I would take them into my jar. It was a sport I did for fun on Saturdays, very early in the morning.

It had been the Saturday I had seen his dead body.

I had been out early, very early in the morning. I had seen the brown clothing just close enough to the river shore. It had looked big, curved like a rock to my five-year-old mind until I came forward.

When I moved forward, I saw the trail of blood mixed with the sand and some with the water. For some reason, I wasn’t scared. I went forward.

I got close enough to see the body.

I had seen his face. One of his eyes was swollen. It had a long tear from the ear to the mouth, which had blood on it. His brown shirt had holes that showed deeper into his skin and brought out blood, and a knife had been just below his neck.

My mind could not remember now if it was right or left, but I screamed.

I had screamed only after fully assessing the body. My voice echoed through, louder than I thought it would, and people had begun to run towards me from different angles, people who had not been there.

The first person that had arrived had quickly carried me and was running away from the body. I knew him; he was my mother’s friend too.

I saw people gather around Richard as I was being carried away, people looking at me like I had seen something strange.

I was five.

I had just seen my first dead body.

And it was the boy I had a crush on.

Her sister had been ill for a while now. She had fever and a cold but had been getting better. She anticipated the night because of the telenovelas that aired from 7 in the evening all through 10, from one to another, and they all had a plot twist for each episode that made missing the next one feel like actual torture that causes pain.

Chiamaka had finished everything she had going on, had washed the dishes, had finished her assignments and had forced herself to finish the meal her mother made since she knew how Amaka barely ate.

It had been her, her mother, her brother and her baby sister in the living room that night, watching the novella that had been airing. The night had been going fine. The female main character had gotten into an accident and the person who loved her thought she was dead. It had been nothing but suspense.

The rain had started falling heavily again.

Nothing had prepared Amaka for what happened next.

“Blood of Jesus. Blood of Jesus.”

Her mother’s hand had been in between her sister’s mouth and her legs shaking.

“Get me a spoon,” her mother shouted.

That was the first time she had heard her sound and look that hysterical.

Amaka did not have time to think. She only obeyed orders.

She rushed to the kitchen, which was a distance. She heard the chaos still going on in the living room but did not understand. Her thirteen-year-old mind had known something was happening but didn’t know if it had been serious or not.

She had rushed back with the spoon, her heart beating fast. Her brother had already been there with oil. Crude oil. She didn’t know they had crude oil at home.

Her mother had put the spoon in the mouth of her baby sister and Ehi had already been stripped naked. Amaka had seen her shaking. She understood immediately.

Her sister had been having convulsions.

She had seen other women, a bit too much for her to keep count, running to their estate to her mother, and her mother had done things: onions, crude oil, spoon. And the kids would be fine.

Amaka wondered why her mother put the spoon between her sister’s mouth. She was two.

“Go and call Pastor Ifeanyi,” her mother shouted.

Again, Amaka did not think. She acted.

She raced through their entrance door and through the gate, barefooted, under the rain, with people in the street looking at her as she ran.

“Come, what’s happening?” A woman who had been a nurse and ran a chemist had asked.

They called her “Aunty Nurse,” but at that time, Amaka did not care about Aunty Nurse.

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She raced past her and had landed in the compound of Pastor Ifeanyi. Luckily, his gate was not locked. She ran straight to his door and knocked as hard as she ever could.

It was Pastor Ifeanyi’s wife who had answered.

“Amaka?”

“My sister is dying. Please, where is Pastor Ifeanyi?”

“Jesus Christ.”

The woman shouted.

“Daddy!”

She rushed inside and was back out with her husband after a minute.

On seeing him, she ran back inside the rain, not paying heed to their calls, but knew he would follow, and he did.

She ran past Aunty Nurse again.

Now Amaka was older, she wished she had stopped to tell her, who had been a medical professional, about the situation. Maybe things would have turned out better.

Instead, she ran and returned back home.

Her mother was crying, calling on the blood of Jesus, doing different things to her sister, who had the spoon in her mouth and had been shaking.

Pastor Ifeanyi had dashed in immediately and had made for her mother and immediately started speaking in unknown tongues.

His wife had followed.

Another adult had followed.

And another.

They had all been praying.

One of them, now Amaka could not remember who, had asked them to go inside their room and lock themselves. He told them to pray for their sister.

They had gone inside the room and had been praying. They both knelt on their knees and had been talking to God.

Amaka did not know what to ask God, but told God to make the situation calm and let her wake up tomorrow with everybody alright and her ready for choir practice.

She had prayed that repeatedly until she slept off.

When Amaka opened her eyes, everywhere was calm.

Quiet.

She had looked at her brother sleeping and had woken him up too. She had been locked inside for too long. She prompted that they go out, and they had, with her taking the lead.

Amaka saw her mother with her sister on the ground.

Her eyes closed, and not opening.

She had seen her face and now would never forget.

She did not understand and did not cry.

Her mother was crying. People around were. They had been consoling her and she had not been listening to them.

Amaka held on to her little brother and hugged him tightly, her tears dropping.

Pastor Ifeanyi’s wife had hugged them. Another adult told them to go bring out her clothes to burn.

“The dead has nothing to do with the living,” she said.

They were both stuck between crying and obeying orders, and they obeyed orders.

They obeyed orders.

She had brought the clothes. She had watched them gather her things. Watched them put her body in a carton and had them cover it.

She had been cleaned.

Worn her best shirt and skirt.

“Wait, her pictures.”

Her mother said with tears in her eyes.

“Amaka.”

She said, and Amaka understood.

She made for her pictures in her own room. She gathered all of them till the last one. She looked at it and had stared at it for a long time and had decided she would keep this one for herself.

She quickly squeezed it inside her pocket, and now she was older, she was glad she did.

By the time she came back in, they had moved out with her sister.

An adult took the pictures from her, and that had been the last time she had seen her sister.

She had not remembered the night after that but had thought about the night constantly. She had cried during most nights when rain fell in August.

She had grown older and had wondered if she would have called Aunty Nurse instead.

She grew older and it hurt her more.

She had heard of a workshop and had wanted to try it out, using the story as her own essay she needed to present from that night, even though she wasn’t a hundred percent qualified.

The day she wrote, she cried.

She felt relieved.

She hurt.

She cried again.

But she had, and she was going to submit it anyway.

Tammy stared at Osaze's last messages longer than she had intended to. She turned it over in her mind slowly. He had clearly manipulated the entire situation and somehow she had ended up as the one who was fake, the one who was frolicking. She knew she had made a mistake too. She should never have posted those pictures.

She replied anyway.

'I don't know what you want me to say.'

She always knew exactly what she wanted to say. She just couldn't say it.

He didn't reply. She assumed he had put his phone down to cool off and would be back after a while but hours passed and nothing came. She called. He didn't pick. She gave it a rest.

Why did he get so angry when he barely reached out to her in the first place?

He texted her later that night. Still upset but still wanting to talk. She apologized again. She set aside the fact that he had been the one to ghost her — she would bring that up another time. For now she was in the wrong and she needed to patch things up, so she went soft on him. She kept apologizing until things felt stable again.

She called Jay after. Jay was back from Lagos and Tammy had promised to check in.

Jay didn't sound like herself when she picked up.

'Hey love, what's happening?'

'I'm good my love. How are you?'

'I'm good too. You don't sound it though.'

'That's because I don't feel it.' She didn't sound sick. She sounded sad and Tammy knew the difference. 'It's Leo. He hasn't texted since I got back. After he confirmed I was home safely he just — stopped. He's not calling either.'

'How long?'

'Since yesterday.'

'Has he posted anything?'

'No. But I know he's online and choosing to ignore me. I don't understand because we were so fine in Lagos. He was so sweet.' She let out a long groan. 'I miss him.'

'It's still early to judge.' Tammy said carefully. 'Just don't overthink it. You have clients you've been pushing back — focus on those for now.'

'Yeahh.' Slow and unconvinced. 'What's been up with you? How's your Benin boyfriend?'

Tammy rolled her eyes. 'He's not my boyfriend. But he's fine. We've been talking.'

She told Jay everything. The pictures she had posted to get a reaction, the argument that followed, the way he had come back anyway. 'I don't know how to feel about it honestly. I like that he still wants to be here but I don't like how he goes about it. It feels manipulative.'

'I get that.' Jay said. 'Especially after the ghosting. But why did you post something you knew would give him the wrong idea?'

'I genuinely don't know.' Tammy tapped the side of her own head gently. 'I really don't know.'

'It's calm. He'll come around. Just don't do it again.'

'I'll try.' It came out as a tease but looking at it honestly it wasn't just a statement. She enjoyed ragebaiting and she could see clearly that Osaze was deeply affected by the things she did.

God help her.

They ended the call shortly after. She tried Osaze again. No answer. She left it.

The days moved quickly the way they always did. She was mostly at home, talking to her close friends, writing more. BROKEN was moving slowly but at least it was moving. She hoped to publish it one day. She just didn't know when.

Osaze came around gradually as the days passed but something had shifted. His texts were dry. He didn't pick her calls consistently. Sometimes he promised to call at a specific time and never did. She stopped waiting by her phone for it.

There was more to life than Osaze, who was probably in the arms of another woman while she let him occupy her thoughts. She needed to focus on her writing and on getting a job.

And on Royce.

She had been a terrible friend. She hadn't called him since they went out together and she hadn't thought about his father's X-ray nearly as much as she should have. She dialed his number. It rang and went to voicemail. She left a voice note on his WhatsApp instead.

'Big head. Your call went straight to voicemail. Whose daughter are you deceiving at this hour? Anyway — how's your dad. You still haven't told me what's going on.'

He hadn't been with anyone. He was at the hospital with and had just started his chemotherapy. But Tammy didn't know that yet.

Jay texted. Business was picking up and going smoothly. Leonard had reached out. Tammy called immediately to get the full story.

'Guyyyy.' Jay sounded livelier but there was an edge underneath it.

'What happened?'

'You won't believe what Leo told me. Do you know Jenny Jenna?'

'Your friend? What about her?'

'First — at this point I cannot call that girl my friend.'

'What happened?' Tammy was already leaning in.

'You know the way I talk to you about Leonard? I was doing the same with her. Telling her things, sharing everything. Bro — do you know what Leo told me this morning? Jenny added him to her private story.'

'No way.' Tammy was genuinely surprised. 'But why?'

'Guyyy.' Jay sounded pained. 'I regret telling her anything about him.'

'Did you confront her?'

You dey whine? 'Of course I confronted her.'

'And?'

'She said she didn't even know he was in her private story and that she didn't take it as anything serious.'

'Na so.' Tammy did the thing she always did with her nose when she knew someone was lying. 'All of a sudden, after you tell her about him, he mysteriously ends up in her private story.'

'Omo guyyy.' Jay was laughing now despite herself. 'I don't understand that girl.'

'Na your friend na.'

'Which friend?' Her reply came fast and final. 'That girl is not my friend.'

'I love Leo for this.' Tammy was laughing with her.

'Very sharp boy.'

'That's my lover.' Jay was smiling through the phone now.

'Sha sha, now you know what to tell her and what not to.'

'Me? I won't tell her anything again. Ever.'

Tammy smiled.

They made plans to see each other soon. They barely saw each other in person but the communication never stopped. When the call ended Tammy tried Osaze again. He didn't pick. He texted a few minutes later. When she replied he took a long time to respond. When she replied again he did the same thing.

It was his pattern. He called when he wanted to talk. He texted when he felt like it. The ball was always in his court and he loved it there.

And she didn't seem to mind.

God help her.

'Hey, good morning.' She picked up. 'I'm good, how are you?'

She had not expected what followed.

He came at her immediately. Accusations about her ex, about her still being in a relationship, about lying. His voice was sharp and controlled in a way that was somehow worse than shouting. She had tried to calm him down but he wasn't interested in being calmed. He had already decided what the truth was before she said a word.

'If you're upset about my post can you at least let me explain?'

He claimed he had muted her story and hadn't seen what she posted. Which made no sense. If he hadn't seen anything then how did he know enough to be this angry? She had a strong feeling he was lying but this was not the moment to say so.

'Osaze can you calm down and let me explain?'

'Explain what Tammy. That while I was here thinking about you, you were thinking about your ex? That's an insult. That's an insult to me Tammy.'

'I am not thinking about my ex. I told you I ended things with him around my birthday. He keeps coming back but I keep turning him down.'

'He keeps coming back and you keep fighting the urge.'

'No. It's not like that.' Her voice had gone slightly unsteady. 'You ghost me. You don't text often. You don't reply my messages. I don't know where I stand with you.'

'Tammy didn't I tell you my mum was ill?'

He had. Twice. And she had not asked about it once. She hadn't thought it was serious. She hadn't thought to ask. The realisation of that sat uncomfortably in her chest but she pushed past it.

'You did but I didn't think it was that serious.'

'It was. I had to leave PH urgently because she was in hospital.'

'But you could have told me more—'

'You know I don't like telling you my problems Tammy.' That was true. She knew that about him.

'But I had told you and not once did you ask about her. Not once.'

'I'm sorry.'

She hadn't seen this coming. She had imagined their reunion differently. In her version he would have been the one apologising. She would have been the one with the upper hand. Instead she was here, voice shaky, saying sorry for something she genuinely hadn't known was happening.

'I didn't know it was bad. I thought you were ignoring me.'

'I wasn't.'

'I thought you stopped caring.'

'I stopped caring Tammy?' His voice dropped. 'And I think of you all the time? All those nights sitting at my mum's bedside — you were the only one on my mind. Do you know I watched your cartoon? Because of you Tammy. I watched your cartoon.'

Something about that specific detail landed differently from everything else he had said. Not the declarations. Not the anger. The cartoon. She knew exactly which one. The image of him sitting in a hospital watching something she had recommended while his mother was ill and while Tammy had been posting pictures of her ex — that image sat in her chest and stayed there.

'I didn't know.' Her voice came out shaky more than she intended. 'How was I supposed to when you don't talk to me?'

'You wouldn't have known anyway. Not when your mind is somewhere else.'

'Stop it.' The irritation was rising now. She had been the one trying to do right by him. She had ended things with her ex. She had turned him down every time he came back. She had done all of that quietly and without credit and now here she was being accused of the opposite.

'I have not been with my ex.'

'That's what you'll say.'

'You know what Osaze — if you're going to distrust me regardless then fine. You can leave me alone.'

'I know. That's obviously the next thing you were going to say.'

'What do you want me to say? I'm trying to explain and you won't listen.'

'I won't listen because you'll lie to me.' His voice was calm. Completely calm. She was the one who sounded unsteady and he sounded like someone who had already made peace with whatever conclusion he had reached. That imbalance made her angrier.

'Let's talk later.'

'Call me when you're ready to talk.'

She ended the call before he finished the sentence.

She sat with her anger for a moment. What had just happened? She had gotten ghosted for weeks and somehow ended up on the defensive. She had been the one doing right by him — quietly, without fanfare — and she was the one who ended up apologising. The injustice of it sat hot in her chest. She put on music. She hated the quiet, so she shuffled through her Wizkid playlist.

Twenty minutes later he texted.

My lover.

She stared at it. Then another message arrived with a laughing emoji attached.

My lover are you ignoring me now?

Was he mocking her? She had planned to leave him on delivered for as long as she could manage. She lasted approximately four seconds.

'Osaze. Leave me alone.'

'No.' The reply came immediately. No pause at all. And despite everything a small warmth moved through her at that single word. 'When it was my turn and I asked you to leave me alone you refused. Remember?'

She remembered.

'You wouldn't let me explain myself.'

'Please do.' He replied. 'On call.'

Of course on call. That way he could catch every inconsistency. That way the conversation stayed in his hands. She called him anyway. He picked on the first ring.

'My lover.'

She had no real idea why she was explaining herself. She was the one who had been ghosted. She was the one who had sent messages into silence for days. But she had posted those pictures and she had done it on purpose and she knew it and he knew it and the only way through was honesty that she wasn't fully prepared to offer.

'Will you let me explain?'

'Go on.' He said it the way someone says it when they're not actually listening but waiting for the version that doesn't add up.

'I'm not in a relationship. I don't have anyone here in PH and if this is about my pictures—'

'I didn't see any pictures.'

She paused. Breathed. 'My lover I don't have anything with anyone in my city. I promise you. I haven't been talking to anyone else either.'

'But you still talk to your ex?'

'No.'

He laughed.

'I don't. I promise.' She waited. He said nothing. 'I'm sorry if I made you doubt me in any way.'

'You don't talk to your ex but you talk to other boys.'

The contained anger cracked open again. She felt it move through her fast.

'There's no point explaining myself if you've already decided what you believe. I'm ending the call.' She said it and then she did it without waiting for his response.

She stared at her phone. She should never have posted those pictures. She had written a script in her head for how that confrontation would go — he would bring it up gently, teasingly, she would reassure him, he would believe her. Clean and simple. What she had gotten instead was this.

Her phone buzzed. One notification. Then another. Then another.

My lover, you don't want to talk to me again?

Although you've made me waste my time coming to PH.

But now that we're past that, can I get to know the real you?

Let's try again one more time. At least this time I get to see who you really are.

She read them in order. Then read them again.

Was Osaze a mad man?

How was this topic even still open for discussion?

A topic like this should have come to an agreement, not led to an argument.

Her husband, Fred, had walked out on her after she told him about her plan to go through with surrogacy.

“You are a fertile woman! Why in the world would you want another woman to carry my child?”

“Your child?”

“If I wanted another woman to carry my child, I would have married another woman and not you.”

“Your child? Fred, you seem to be forgetting that it takes two to tango. It is also my child. And it is my body, Fred. It is my body and my life.”

“It is our life. I just cannot wrap my head around it. Why wouldn’t you want to give birth to your own child?”

“Fred, I’m scared. I don’t live healthily, I know. We both smoke occasionally. We drink when we go clubbing, and that’s almost always. I don’t want to go through that process, through that pain. I know you might tell me nothing might go wrong and that I’ll be fine. I still don’t want it. Epidural to make the process better? I still don’t want it.”

“How then can you call yourself a mother?”

“It is my egg. It is me who will take care of that baby and shower them with love. Do I have to go through childbirth to be a mother?”

“No… but yes, in a way.”

Tosha laughed.

“That’s funny, because the woman you call Mum isn’t the one who gave birth to you.”

The silence that followed was loud.

Both of them stared at each other quietly.

Both angry.

One scared.

“I need some air,” he said, before walking out.

Tosha sat on the couch in the living room.

Her shoulders slouched, and the first tear dropped.

How was he so narrow-minded?

But then again, it was his choice.

It was still narrow-minded.

In a way, they all were.

She wanted her own child.

She wanted her own child so badly.

Just not through her womb.

Why was that so hard to understand?

Tosha picked up the cigarette on the center table and took a few drags.

This wasn’t a time to cry.

This was a time to make a decision of her own.

Just the way he made the choice not to accept surrogacy, she also made the choice to go through with it.

Her body.

Her choice.

She wouldn’t let her love for Fred make her conform into doing something she didn’t want to do.

She was scared of childbirth, alright.

And that wasn’t a bad thing.

It was her choice to make.

She wanted a child, and she did not need Fred to agree with her on that.

He was being selfish.

She thought.

The evening flew by quickly.

She finished the cigarette she had picked up earlier and changed into something comfortable.

She was eating when Fred came back in.

It was almost midnight.

He didn’t say anything to her, and neither did she.

Instead, he walked over and sat opposite her in the living room, the center table dividing them.

“We need to talk,” he said, almost too calmly.

He was seated now.

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“Go on,” Tosha said, dropping the bowl of cereal she had been eating.

“Tolashade… I cannot.”

He barely called her by her full name.

She knew it was serious.

So was she.

“Fredrick… I can understand,” she responded.

“I can’t have you go through that. I’m sorry if it may seem close-minded, but I just can’t. I’m not against you. I’m not going to force you, and you cannot force me either. You can call me traditional, and that’s fine, but I just can’t.”

“I can understand,” she repeated.

“Is this something you really want to go through?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want that. I think we know what we have to do. There’s no point wasting time and fighting over it. We’re two adults who know what we want.”

“I can understand.”

They stared at each other for a long time.

She knew he wouldn’t conform.

She wouldn’t either.

They both knew they wouldn’t.

“We’ll speak better in the morning. Good night,” he said before making his way upstairs.

She picked up her bowl of cereal and went back to eating.

Her body.

Her choice.

“I come to you as a woman…”

That was the message Fejiro had seen through her notification bar. Her heart skipped a beat.

I come to you as a woman?

Was she perhaps dating another woman’s man?

She had been with her boyfriend for almost seven months now, and she had never caught him with another woman or even suspected him.

Fejiro quickly opened the Instagram notification and was greeted with a screenshot. It was a screenshot of a comment she had made on her friend’s post. She looked past the picture and moved straight to the message.

“I come to you as a woman. I know you are not involved in this, but I know you are aware that your friend refuses to leave my husband, Chidiadi. Please tell her to either reply to me or leave my husband alone.”

Fejiro was confused.

Her friend Becky had been dating for over a year now. His name was Chidiadi. He had been wonderful to Becky and even to Fejiro. He bought them gifts, sent money to Becky often, and even gave some to Fejiro.

Fejiro had been rooting for Chidiadi so much that she always commented, “Asa Chi” or “Asa Odogwu” whenever Becky made a post. This particular time, she had commented:

“Asa Chi.”

Fejiro couldn’t believe it.

She felt betrayed, even though she shouldn’t have.

Becky had been her friend for over three years and had been dating this man for over a year, yet she had never known he was married.

It made her wonder.

Becky went to church more than she did. She was deeply religious and attended only one church. She served in the choir, talked about God often, talked about her church often, and always spoke about how much she gave back to it.

Fejiro remembered the time Becky and Chidiadi had fought.

Becky had been hysterical. She had gone begging him, but he ignored her. She had called her mother, who told her not to cry and said they would take his name to their church.

They did.

Not long after, Chidiadi came back begging.

He even paid for her trip to another country to apologize for the fight.

Becky had said it was God. She said her church had God, and that was why her prayers had been answered.

It had made Fejiro curious.

Becky was always talking about her church and its miracles. Fejiro had asked her to invite her so she could receive her own miracle someday.

Becky never did.

She promised one Sunday after another but never followed through.

Fejiro was no child.

She knew Becky didn’t want her in that church, and she had made peace with that.

But now…

None of it made sense.

Her mother knew she was dating a married man, yet they still carried that man’s name to church in prayer.

What kind of church was that?

Just then, Becky’s call came in.

“Wassup?” Becky said.

“Wassup,” Fejiro replied.

“The clothes you ordered just came in. Would you like to come get them?”

“Yes.”

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A few minutes later, she was out of her house and on her way to Becky’s place.

She wanted to confront her physically.

She wanted to see how Becky would react.

When she got there, Becky didn’t even give her room to speak before saying,

“Fejiro, do you know you’re very careless?”

“How?”

“You left your underwear here for two weeks now.”

Fejiro hadn’t remembered.

“What if I take it somewhere and do something to it? How would you know?”

“What?”

“I’m just saying. You have to be careful. Girls are spiritual these days. If they can tie a man, they can do other things too.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Continue speaking English,” Becky laughed.

Fejiro didn’t know whether to confront her or simply go home.

She had been hit with one surprise earlier, and now she had been hit with another.

Who was this person?

She thought she knew Becky.

Today, she realized she didn’t know anything about her.

After a while, she took herself home.

She didn’t forget her underwear this time.

She sat with everything she had discovered that day.

The underwear lay beside her on the bed.

Fejiro didn’t know much about spirituality, but she picked up a pair of scissors, picked up the underwear, and began cutting it into pieces.

As she cut, she spoke aloud to whoever was listening.

Whoever controlled the spirituality she had seen play out around her.

“I disconnect myself from everything that might have been done against me using this. As I use these scissors to tear it apart, I disconnect myself.”

She repeated it over and over, surprised by herself.

When she was done, she threw the underwear away and went to bed, not knowing what to do about Becky.

Should she ignore everything she had found out?

Or should she cut her friend off?

The thought stayed with her as she drifted to sleep.

Author’s Note: Consent given out of fear is not freely given. This story explores coercion, intimidation, and the difficult questions many survivors ask themselves afterward.

Shania had been talking to this boy for a few weeks now. He had been charming. She had met him on social media and had been surprised when she saw his request because of how good-looking he was.

Fine boys have pride.

She also felt he wouldn’t text her and that they would probably just end up viewing each other’s stories, but he had texted her the very first day she accepted his request.

He told her about how he had been scrolling through Instagram when he saw her picture, and when he came to her page, he had been wowed. Shania was also wowed by his, but she had not told him. She couldn’t.

She liked him.

They had texted every day since then. He had called constantly. He had sent her money randomly too. She had gotten very comfortable with him in less than two weeks. He called her more than anyone else around, told her about his day and what he was doing while he did it, and she had grown comfortable enough to do likewise.

The first time he suggested that they go out, she had been eager to. She knew it was too soon, but she really wanted to see him, and he ticked off the green in her boxes.

They agreed to meet.

It was going to be dinner in a week’s time. She had been the one to pick the restaurant, and he had agreed. She picked a new restaurant in town, had gone through their menu beforehand, and felt it fit enough.

He insisted she wore a new dress and paid for it.

Paid for her to look good.

She had not disappointed.

She showed up for the date in a long red silk dress, split on her right side up to her thigh. She matched it with gold heels and a gold purse. She had also paid for a makeup artist and a hairstylist home service. They both arrived at the same time, and the whole process had been chaotic, even for her, who had done nothing but sit still.

He had been taller.

He looked more muscular than in his pictures.

She stared at his features and found herself intrigued. He sounded just like himself, but this time she could see him smile, gesture, laugh, and talk. She spoke to him too, at length, and it had gone on like that while they ate dinner until he received a call.

He excused himself when the call came in and returned later, no longer looking like his jovial self.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s work stuff. I left my other phone at the hotel I booked. It’s not far from here.”

“Oh.”

“I want to go, but I still want to spend the night with you.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like to come back with me? It’s a suite. You’d love it.”

Of course she would.

She shouldn’t have.

But she did.

She accepted, and he cleared the bill almost immediately for them to leave.

When they had settled in, Shania had been relaxed and had looked forward to the night when he started to play music.

Everything changed when he picked another call.

He went into the bathroom, but she could still hear him.

“But we were not meant to kill anybody on the job.”

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She could barely make out the words after that because he had turned on the shower.

Her heart skipped.

Was she in the wrong place?

With the wrong person?

And was this the wrong time?

Yes.

He came out of the bathroom after a while and apologized for taking so long with a smile. He told her a job had gone wrong and he was trying to fix it.

“What do you do?”

“I rob banks,” he said.

The silence lasted for more than ten seconds before he broke it.

“Wouldn’t you like for us to have fun?”

The sexual attraction and every fantasy she had built about him died instantly, leaving nothing but fear.

“You rob banks?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I have a pistol here if you want to see.”

“No.”

She shook her head.

She didn’t want to see a loaded gun.

“Okay.”

He smiled.

He smiled as though it were normal.

It was the same smile he had worn before, but this one sent chills down her spine.

He moved closer to her and began kissing her neck.

“You look so sexy tonight,” he said as he tried to touch her breast.

She moved his hand away.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to.”

“It’s not like I can force you, can I?”

She shook her head.

Again he asked.

“It’s not like I can force you, can I?”

It had not clicked the first time.

But it did the second.

He would have his way with her either way.

He had a gun with him.

He robbed banks.

He was physically bigger and stronger than she was.

He wasn’t the sweet guy she had been texting earlier.

He was going to force himself on her.

He moved toward her again.

This time, she did not push him away.

She allowed him to touch her.

She allowed him to spread her legs.

She allowed him to have his way with her.

He moaned.

Called her sweet.

Then finally stopped.

He had been extremely gentle afterward.

She had not spoken to him again.

She left very early the next morning and got home before the break of dawn.

Still wearing her long dress, she sat in the center of her room and cried her eyes out.

She could not say anything about this.

It was rape.

Wasn’t it?

It wasn’t forced.

But it hadn’t been consensual.

It was dirty.

It was low.

It had been terrifying.

She wondered what would have happened if she had rejected him again.

She wondered if she was a coward.

But she chose not being hurt physically over fighting a battle she knew she would lose.

If it escalated, everybody would know.

Including her family.

She would be labeled a rape victim, and her life would change.

No.

She wasn’t a coward.

The first slap had been swift. He heard the sharp sound ring through his right ear before the pain finally hit him.

“Put yourself together, or to my God, you will end up like him,” the man who had slapped him said.

It was his friend.

Or so he thought.

And what he had meant by like him was the dead body lying on the ground. Felix had been there for over six minutes now—not counting the few extra minutes he had still been alive. Minutes that would have been enough for them to call an ambulance before he died.

“You just watched Felix die!” Martins’ voice came out harsh, a tear slipping beneath his eyes.

“And I do not mind watching you die too,” Brown replied, pointing the gun at him. “You either die here, or you leave here with me.”

Martins turned to look at his dead friend. He was terrified of them both. One was already dead, and the other was about to do to him exactly what he had done to Felix.

The whole evening replayed in his head. Too many memories crashed into him all at once.

They were three best friends. Brothers in everything but blood. They had met in their first year at university, and Martins had always believed their friendship would last forever.

They had grown from teenage boys into men.

Brown and Felix were married. Brown had no children. Felix had twins—two beautiful little girls who had just turned three.

Martins wondered how Felix’s wife would survive the news.

And it had all happened because of Brown… and his greed.

The three of them had built a company together. Felix had been the major shareholder because he provided the capital, while Martins and Brown held equal shares.

For eight years, everything had gone smoothly.

Then a foreign investor came along.

He wanted to use their company to move drugs.

It was the perfect cover. They would continue importing legitimate goods while secretly transporting narcotics, and the money he offered was enough to change anyone’s life.

Felix refused.

Felix was good.

Brown wanted the money.

He tried convincing Felix. When that failed, he offered him a cut of the money he’d already collected from the investor.

Felix still refused.

Even Martins had considered it before realizing Felix was right about the risks.

So Brown came up with another plan.

He told them they had a meeting with investors in another state who wanted to meet the majority shareholder. Brown booked them into a luxury Airbnb tucked away inside an upscale gated estate, saying the investors preferred privacy over hotels, and everything had been pleasant until Brown brought up the deal again.

Felix shut him down.

Brown snapped.

“You cannot be the only one who makes every decision!” Brown shouted. “You may have started the company with your money, but Martins is the brain here.”

“And you?” Felix shot back. “What do you bring to this company except bad ideas and bad investments?”

Brown struck him across the face.

Just as he had done to Martins.

Then he pulled out a gun.

“Brown!” Martins shouted.

Brown dropped a folded document onto the table and pointed the gun directly at Felix.

“Sign.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Then I have no choice but to kill you and keep the business moving regardless.”

It was a stupid decision.

Felix lunged at Brown, probably believing his friend wouldn’t actually pull the trigger.

The gun fired.

The bullet struck him squarely in the chest.

Felix collapsed onto the floor.

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Martins rushed to him, trying to stop the bleeding. He reached for his phone to call for help, but Brown kicked it out of his hand.

“Put yourself together.”

Now Martins was facing the possibility of dying too.

All of it flashed through his mind in seconds.

“Are we clear?” Brown asked.

Martins nodded.

“I’ll have to hurt you a little. Maybe even shoot myself. Then we’ll call the police and make it look like an armed robbery.”

“They’ll never believe it,” Martins managed to say.

“They will if I tell the story. As far as everyone is concerned, you watched your best friend get shot in front of you. You’re in shock. You can’t speak. Nobody can prove whether that’s real or not.”

Martins stared at Brown.

Who was this monster that had been his friend for all these years?

“If you want to keep living… and you want your sister to keep living… you’ll keep this secret.”

He paused.

“It was a mistake. I didn’t know when I pulled the trigger after he dived at me. I’m sorry.”

His voice softened.

“But if you tell anyone… your sister dies. Then you die.”

Martins understood.

He didn’t know how he would live with himself.

But he understood.

He never uttered a single word.

He was in shock.

After all…

He had just watched his best friend get shot in front of him.

“I’m really not sure, but I know I would like to make an NBA baby,” she typed.

She always said that. She had said it so often that she sounded delusional to the people she told, but to her, she had only become more convinced as the years went by.

She loved love. She just no longer believed it was enough.

Love did not make her happy. Love never did.

On the contrary, money did. The career she had chosen did.

She wanted growth in her life and in what she wanted to do, and until she got that, nothing else was going to happen.

Dami had realized she had been the cause of her own singlehood, and it did not bother her much. In one way or another, she had left every relationship she had managed to build.

First, there had been the man she had loved the most—her very first boyfriend. The first man she had explored her body with. While it had only lasted a short while, he had turned out to be both a cheat and a sugar boy. She left him and began dating again.

The next man was nothing like her ex. He was more solid, more strict, and he restricted her from a lot of things, including posting herself on social media. Then she found out he had another girlfriend whom he had been dating for months before meeting her.

She left him too.

Then she met another.

It was this one who made her decide to stop trying to settle into marriage.

He wanted her, but he did nothing for her. He did everything, yet absolutely nothing for her. They fought. They argued. They quarreled. Yet she still got nothing out of it.

She left when he insulted the people she actually cared about.

She hated the idea of being with another person.

She looked at her friends in relationships and saw how sweet their love seemed, but she had decided none of it was for her.

She had concluded that the majority of relationships she had seen were built on lies and sacrifices—even when those sacrifices hurt one partner. Even when mistakes were never corrected, people still clung together for the sake of staying together.

Dami hated the idea of marriage.

She loved love, but hated marriage.

She wanted children of her own, with a man of her choice, but the idea of being someone’s wife terrified her.

What if she simply focused on making her money, had children with someone even more influential than she was, and raised them with nothing but love and abundance?

Why did no other girl around her think like she did?

Why were they all in such a rush to answer the last name of a cheating man?

Why did no girl dream of keeping her own last name the way she did?

What if she didn’t want to get married?

Surely that shouldn’t make her any less of a woman… should it?

She kept communication with Osaze despite the small arguments that kept finding them. He got angry with her sometimes but denied it whenever she asked. He acted jealous too, occasionally, but wouldn't admit to that either. She wondered if it was the memes she posted — most of them vulgar, admitting to things she didn't actually do, but she found them funny and reposted them anyway. She had asked him directly if he had any issue with them and he said he never got to see them. He claimed her stories upset him and ruined his mood so he had stopped viewing them altogether and called them rubbish. She hadn't known what to do with that information.

The days kept moving at the same pace. Routine mostly, except for the days she went out with Que or the days she visited family. She was sure Osaze had gone back to Benin by now. She never found out exactly when he left because she never got to see him again after that second visit and they barely spoke these days. He had told her once that if he wasn't responding it meant he was angry. She filed that away and tried not to think about it too much.

Things between them had been rocky. He hadn't totally gone silent the way he had before but he was barely there. Barely responding. Barely calling. She wondered if this was simply who he was. She tried not to let it bother her but there wasn't much to fill the space he left. She didn't have many people around her. The last time she had, things had fallen apart badly enough that she had quietly decided she could do with fewer people in her life. She was still learning how to sit with that decision.

Good news had arrived in her email though. The company she had applied to and taken the test for had moved her to the next stage of the interview process. She had read the message three times before it fully registered. She decided not to tell anyone until she had made it through to the final stage and actually gotten the job. Until then she needed a distraction. Something to take her mind off Osaze.

Movies didn't work. Novels barely helped. She opened Snapchat and scrolled until she landed on Royce.

Royce was a distraction. He had always been one of the constants — the person who showed up whenever she needed a shoulder. She knew he liked her. He had told her several times and she had always laughed it off, always made it feel like a joke so things wouldn't progress beyond what she wanted them to be. She saw Royce as a friend. He had stopped wanting to be just that a long time ago but that was fine by her.

'Hey Royce.' She texted casually, scrolling past the weeks of missed calls and unanswered messages without acknowledging any of them. 'Hope you've been good.'

'No Tammy.' His reply came after a few minutes. 'You blew me off the last time we were supposed to see and you never reached out after.'

She remembered that night. It was the same night she had gone to see Osaze the second time and slept through the dinner reservation she had made with Royce. She pushed past the mild guilt.

'I'm sorry, I was busy. What do you have going on today though?'

'It's fine.' A sticker arrived before his next message. 'Do you want to hang out?'

'Let's go get food.'

'Okay. I'll come get you.'

'Okay.'

He texted her when he was downstairs. It was Royce so she didn't put any real effort in. A bubu gown, a scarf, a shoulder bag and sandals. When she got into his car he looked her over slowly.

'There is no way you're wearing this for a date.'

'Who said this was a date?'

'Isn't it?'

'Royce I just want food. I want to eat inside the car. I don't know what you had in mind.'

'Are you good?'

She nodded and fastened her seatbelt. 'Let's go.'

'Where to?' The car was moving out of her street now.

'Anywhere chill you've eaten at recently.'

'I know a spot.'

'Cool. I'll play music.'

She put on Sweet One by Wizkid. One of her favourites from her favourite Nigerian artist. She had chosen music specifically to avoid small talk. Her mind was elsewhere and she had no energy to pretend otherwise. Royce interrupted the quiet anyway.

'Are you cool?'

'Yeah.' She was looking out the window at the shops passing by.

'You don't seem cool.'

'I am.'

'Did you fight with your boyfriend?'

'We're not together anymore.'

'Wow.' He paused. 'I mean — I'm sorry. What happened?'

'Nothing new. Caught him cheating.'

'I'm sorry about that Tammy.'

'It's fine.'

He went quiet for a moment before he continued. 'You know who wouldn't cheat on you though?'

She laughed before she could help it. Royce always did this. Every time she had a crisis he found a way to position himself as the better option and she always found it funny because he was always serious and she could never bring herself to be.

'You think it's funny?'

'Yes.' She turned to look at him properly. 'You know it's the men who say things like that who end up hurting a girl even more.'

They were pulling into a restaurant parking lot now. She knew the place. Had been a couple of times before. When they parked he asked what she wanted.

'Jollof rice.'

'Every time.'

'Igwe, order your fufu and egusi.' She was already laughing.

'Exactly what I'll do.' He was laughing too as he got out of the car.

She was alone in the quiet now. She gave herself something to do with her hands and started looking through the side compartment the way she always did in other people's cars without thinking much of it. She found documents, his license, a pack of gum she slipped into her bag without guilt. Then her hand landed on something else. A folded printout. She opened it.

It was an X-ray. A full body sketch, dense with markings she didn't understand but felt the weight of immediately. She stared at it for longer than made sense. Something about it felt wrong in a way she couldn't name. She folded it back along its creases and held it in her lap and waited.

He was back sooner than she expected. The moment he settled into his seat she held it up.

'Are you sick?'

He reached for it quickly. She lifted it higher and he missed.

'Are you sick?' She asked again, quieter this time.

'No.' He wouldn't look at her.

'Royce.' She reached out and hit him lightly on the chest with her free hand. 'Talk to me.'

'Ouch.' He caught her hand and held it against his chest for a moment. 'If I was — would you love me the way I want you to?'

She didn't laugh this time. The joke didn't land the way his jokes usually did. Something in his voice was different. Flatter. Like the humor was a reflex and not a real feeling.

'Stop playing.' Her voice had gone serious without her deciding it. 'Are you ill?'

'No.' He said it again but he still wasn't looking at her and his jaw was tight in a way she had never noticed before on his face.

'Then whose is it?'

'My dad's.'

She handed it back slowly. 'What's wrong with him?'

'Nothing serious.'

It was serious. She could feel it in the way he took the printout from her without looking at it and folded it back into the compartment like he had done it many times before. Like it lived there.

She wanted to push. She wanted to ask him to be honest with her the way she had never been fully honest with him. But some things weren't hers to demand and she knew when to leave a door alone.

'Here's your food.' He handed her a plate and a juice box. His voice was lighter now, a decision made to move on from it. 'And your drink.'

'Thank you.' She took them and opened the plate and took a picture of both their meals sitting side by side before she started eating.

They talked for a while after. He said he was glad she was no longer with her ex and she let him have that without mentioning Osaze. She wasn't sure what she and Osaze even were and didn't feel like explaining something she didn't understand herself. Royce made a joke about wanting to get married early and have a family while he still could because he didn't know how much time he had. She had told him not to say things like that. He laughed when she shouted Godforbid and the sound of that word in her own mouth caught her off guard for just a second.

By the time he dropped her home it was late and she was tired but lighter. She felt better for having gone out. She thought less of Osaze after spending time with Royce and that felt like a small victory.

She posted the food picture on her WhatsApp status. Both plates visible. She knew exactly what anyone who saw it would think and she posted it anyway. Then she went to her camera roll and found pictures of herself with her ex — the ones where his face wasn't visible but his presence was clear — and posted two of those too.

She knew it was a wrong move. She always knew. She just let herself make it anyway because she wanted a reaction from Osaze and she wanted him to feel something and she was tired of being the only one sitting in whatever this was.

She was right about the reaction. The next morning she woke up to new messages and a missed call.

She always made the wrong move. She always knew. And she did it anyway.

Jaden had been very angry the moment he spotted Amy through the glass walls of the restaurant.

He had been seated at the extreme end of the restaurant and could see people walking by. It was a sunny day—a beautiful sunny day—but it had been ruined. All the anger he had been managing suddenly rushed back at once.

Only a few days ago, he had found out that Amy, his girlfriend—now ex—had been sleeping with his best friend, now ex-best friend.

Jaden had felt so much anger he had wished them dead.

He had hit his friend the night he found out.

He had gone to Amy’s house after she claimed she was having terrible period cramps. Thoughtful as always, he had wanted to surprise her with a care package. He didn’t need to knock or announce himself since he had a key to her apartment. He had simply opened the door.

When he climbed upstairs, he saw them.

His friend behind her, moving at a rhythm while she arched her back in a doggy position.

Neither of them noticed him until he threw the care package he was holding at them.

He had gone directly for his naked friend and hit him repeatedly. He had flung things around the house. He had even pushed Amy in the process.

Jaden had gone back to his place hurt and angry. He drank by himself until he felt nothing.

He had sulked for days.

He had been drinking.

And today, on this beautiful sunny day, he had decided to come out to enjoy the cake and ice cream he had specifically picked.

For his own personal reasons, he had wanted sugar.

Not tea.

Not coffee.

Just sugar.

Then he watched Amy walk into the restaurant.

She came to sit opposite him, and his jaw tightened. She looked tired.

Sleep deprived.

“Jay, please hear me out.”

She tried to touch him, but he moved his hand away in disgust.

“I will say this before I leave you.

I never want to see you.

I never want to speak with you.

I hope life grows miserable for you.

I hope you feel a pain far deeper than all I felt, even if it’s only for a minute.

And I hope you die.”

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Jaden picked up his phone and walked out of the restaurant.

He heard her call his name.

He heard her say, “Please.”

He could have sworn she was crying now.

His car was parked right across the street, and he walked faster as people began to stare at an angry man with a crying woman following behind him.

He had just crossed the street and gotten close enough to his car when he heard it.

The sound of a vehicle hitting something.

People screaming.

Jaden turned.

Amy’s body lay in the middle of the road.

Blood covered the front of the bus.

Blood stained the ground beneath her.

Her head…

There were blood clots.

Things he couldn’t even make out.

Just red.

So much red.

The bleeding came only from her head while the rest of her body remained still in the middle of the street.

People began to gather.

People who had seen her following him.

People who were now staring at him.

Phones came out.

Someone started recording.

And then something strange happened.

All the anger Jaden had carried for days suddenly disappeared.

He searched for the rage that had fueled every cruel word he had spoken only moments ago.

He couldn’t find it.

There was no satisfaction.

No victory.

No revenge.

Only a silence so heavy it swallowed every hateful thought he had ever had about her.

Jaden had felt broken.

Twice.

“It’s really not going to be that bad. You’ll have fun, and we’ll still get money.”

“But why would your man want to see two naked ladies have sex? Jesus Christ!” Rose said. “And why is the thought of this exciting you?”

Ada grabbed her breast playfully before getting her hand slapped.

“Come on. It’s going to be fun,” she replied.

Rose rolled her eyes, but she would never have said no. She wanted the money she was being offered; she wouldn’t come by something like that in a hurry. She had accepted the moment her friend dropped the offer. One of her men wanted to watch two ladies have sex, and he would pay them each five hundred thousand. Although Rose had never done it before, she looked forward to getting the money and had thought little of it.

That evening, both girls looked their absolute best. Rose was tall and thin with very long legs. She was dark-skinned and had insanely small eyes. Her friend, Ada, was the opposite of what she was. She was light-skinned, short, and had big round buttocks, perfectly accentuated in her red leather dress. Rose had also gone for a dress, but hers was silk instead.

When Rose got to see the man, he was ugly and by far older than they were, but he wore nothing but smiles when he welcomed them. He offered them food and wine, and Rose drank her fill. If she was going to do this, she would do it under the influence.

They moved to a dimly lit bedroom after a while, and Rose took the bottle of wine with her. She had begun to feel the influence now that she had settled into the big, soft bed. Her friend Ada made for her breast immediately they were together and moved her hand from one nipple to the other. It was no stress removing their dresses, and Ada did so herself hurriedly, like she wanted Rose the way a man would want a woman.

Both girls were naked now underneath a red illuminated chandelier. Ada kissed her, and Rose kissed her back. She enjoyed the way Ada’s hand moved, circling her body, from her breast to her stomach to the walls of her entrance—

“Fuck,” Rose moaned when Ada put a finger inside her and began moving slowly. Somehow, Ada managed to nibble on her nipples while she did this. She moved with one rhythm with her hand and another with her mouth.

Rose wasn’t sure if it was the wine or just her, but she loved every inch of it. She kissed her back hungrily, surprisingly pushing her onto her back before she began sucking on her nipples too as she lay on her soft body. Ada began moaning. Rose enjoyed hearing her moan and enjoyed the softness of her breasts and the hardness of her nipples.

“Can we 69?” Ada asked.

Rose did not hesitate, and they both had their mouths to each other’s entrance.

Nobody had ever made Rose feel that good or that comfortable with herself. She felt Ada’s tongue moving in different directions, all over her clitoris. She moaned and did the same thing Ada had done to her. They had been at it for a while and hadn’t realized when they had both followed each other’s rhythm and sucked each other at the same tempo. It had been the most satisfying orgasm she had ever had. She had hardly been moving; she had only been moving her mouth and relaxing her body on an even softer one. Somehow, she managed to feel what penetration and all the positioning had never done for her. She longed for pleasure like that again.

She was about to turn over to kiss her friend when she heard the ugly man speak as he came closer to them.

“You don’t mind if I join the party now, do you?” he said, fully erect, rubbing himself with his own hands.

Mschew.

Rose sighed in her head.

She remembered why she came here.