Writers 
Your uncle in Abuja pulled strings for your internship at a digital marketing firm. While you secured a full-time role, Damilare from Ibadan Polytechnic, who worked harder, remained an intern.
At the Lekki branch, you attend a work conference on a Wednesday. He walks over, moving with an ease that feels foreign in Lagos . “There’s something about beats like this,” he says casually. “They make you feel like the star of your own reality show.”
You study the stranger carefully, noticing the sharp gleam of his canine teeth. “I come here for the music, nothing else,” he says.
You give him your number, and he mentions being a coder who travels often for work. But when he asks you out a week later, you say no .The way he had approached you as though spontaneity was as natural as breathing made you uneasy. There was something about his confidence, too smooth, like he’s following a script. written for a play you didn’t audition for.
****
You raise your phone to your mother’s face to show her his picture as she braids your hair.
“Nne, I won’t lie to you,” she says, shaking her head . “He looks like a heartbreaker, that one.” But your mom, who now felt more like a sister than a parent, continues, “But you won’t know if you never try,” she says quietly.
When your father refused chemotherapy because of the cost and passed away two years ago in December, you felt fragile, like a dry leaf waiting to be crushed. Christmases since then lacked joy, replaced by quiet rituals with your mother. Sitting in your father’s favorite chair, she would braid your hair in the style he loved, the one that made you look like Agbani Darego. You and your mother find solace in this ritual, quietly defying death. As she braids your hair, like somehow , the strands of hair would remind you of all his little idiosyncrasies.
Against your better judgment, you stand outside your Surulere gate in heels, waiting for him. He pulls up in his Lexus . “Guess who gave me a chance?” he teases, flashing those predatory white teeth . You smile, and try not to notice that he is staring at your body, that his eyes are never on your face but always lower.
At dinner, you choose ofada rice and braised beef, unsure of everything else on the menu. He orders fisherman’s soup, raving about it. You talk about work, and he shares how he supports his four siblings after losing his parents.He asks if you ‘ve ever left the country . You say no . He doesn’t make any snarky comments like Deji, your ex ,with his nonsensical fake accent who had studied abroad . He jokes about being mistaken for Muslim just because he’s Fulani.
You thank him for the date, and he responds with a low “Of course,” and looks at your face in a consuming way . You kiss him first.
The car's console gap makes it feel odd at first, and you blink twice as you stare at him, praying you didn't misread the signs . Nothing comes out of his mouth. Instead, he drives at full speed, parks in a remote spot and kisses you roughly . No man has ever made you wet with such haste . Your nails leave marks on his car as he keeps inserting his tongue in and out of your clit .You feel like all those white girls in movie scenes .
You officially become his girlfriend three months later, and he takes you to Dubai for a work conference. He introduces you to his siblings, and his uncle . You already feel like a wife-to-be. Suddenly, your life doesn’t feel like a bad edit. He buys you gifts, and you both spend many nights making love. You love the way his hands grip your Afro as you ride him, how his eyes rolls back like every part of you is too much to take
You start to feel it, little by little, one quiet night as he sleeps beside you, his long curly lashes spread like roses in a quiet field . The lingering doubt creeps in that this is all too good to be true, that no one can love you like this without a selfish motive. But you sleep anyway and try to silence the thought .
Three years later, you are sharing comfortable moments of silence together, finishing the lyrics of Bruno Mars . He tells you about his strange obsession with poetry. You find that warming—a guy who is tech-oriented is also a poetphile and you know you want him to be the father of your children .
One morning, he kisses you on the cheek in his apartment kitchen and says, “Amara, I want us to relocate to France.”
You stop beating eggs for pancakes and look at him from across the kitchen island. “I can’t leave my mother, Seun.” But that isn’t what bothers you. What disturbs you is that he expects you to run across the globe to another country and live there without marrying you.
Maybe you were rushing things with this rich guy and the thrill started to clog up your brain.
She can come visit, and my sisters like it there. They want to go to school there, and I think it’s something I can afford with my recent promotion,” he rambles, saying many things yet saying nothing about the role you were going to play.
“What about my job?” you ask, trying to think of something related to your relationship.
“Baby, there are so many digital marketing firms in France. You could start hunting from now, or even tell your boss to write you a recommendation,” he says, smiling like he just solved a puzzle.
You finally break the ice. “What about us?” you say quietly. “Aren’t we supposed to get married before we take that step?”
He looks at you like you just poured cold water on his face. “Baby, it’s not something I want right now. Honestly, I was brought up to believe it was very sacred, so I feel very disconnected from it.”
And he walks over to you, placing you on the kitchen counter. “I love what we have; you are my drug,” he says, raining kisses on your neck all the way down to your body. You do it on the counter for the first time.
When you tell your mother the news, her joy is mixed with a quiet sadness. She hugs you at the airport, her arms tightening around you as though she is bracing for a loss, as though this departure is the end of something she cannot name. She holds on, her face buried in your hair, whispering prayers as if the distance between you could erase the warmth of her touch. In her embrace, you feel the weight of a love that doesn’t want to let go.
Then you look over to your lover and try to smile, as though the unspoken truth isn’t eating away from within your chest. If this love fades, what’s next?
