Before Love Learned My Name
The first time I learned that love could leave, I was twenty-two.
It wasn't loud or cruel. There was no dramatic fight, no shattered glass or raised voices. Just a conversation that felt too calm for the way my chest was breaking open.
"I love you," he said. "I just can't choose you right now."
Those words stayed with me longer than he did.
I remember walking home afterward, Lagos buzzing around me like nothing had changed. Cars still honked. People still laughed. Life went on with an indifference that felt personal. I learned that day how invisible heartbreak could be.
I learned how easy it was to give everything to someone who saw you as optional.
After that, I became careful.
I learned to build walls that looked like independence. I told myself I was strong because I didn't need anyone. I buried my softness under ambition, my longing under achievement. I planned futures that didn't require another person's presence.
And it worked.
Until it didn't.
Because no matter how carefully I lived, love kept finding me in unexpected places—weddings I didn't believe in, quiet moments I pretended didn't matter, a calm voice that refused to rush me.
I didn't know his name yet.
I didn't know how deeply he would see me.
All I knew was this truth I refused to face for too long:
Love doesn't always arrive when you're ready.
Sometimes, it arrives to teach you how to be.