Chapter 1: The Candlelit Betrayal

I spent the whole afternoon glued to Nollywood romance films, searching for one magic trick to melt the heart of my cool, distant little uncle.

My eyes no shift from the TV, I dey pick every gesture, every line—how the actresses go tilt head, lower voice, or flash that teasing smile just to soften a stubborn man. I practice their sweet laughter for mirror, hoping say my own happy ending fit land too. But real life no be film, and inside my chest, my heart beat scatter like agbalumo seeds inside pikin hand. NEPA even took light, but I no move. I just dey there, practicing smile for darkness.

As I dey arrange candlelit dinner, na that time he waka enter with him female secretary.

I even arrange scented candles from Balogun market, set two correct plates with jollof and grilled turkey, play one old Asa song low-low. As door open, my heart jump, but when I see Kemi, her perfume enter before her, the air just heavy. She carried a small Ankara bag swinging on her wrist, nails painted bright yellow. She give that Lagos big-girl smile, her eyes dey scan the place, her smile dey cut like new blade from Oshodi market.

He just look uninterested, say he get online meeting to attend.

His voice flat like rain for zinc roof—no joy, no vex, just cold. I notice small frown as he look the table, like say e no even see my effort. Kemi adjust her bag and waka behind am, her heels click for tile like warning shot.

I just nod quietly, tighten my apron, return enter kitchen.

My hand dey shake as I adjust wrapper, wipe sweat for my brow. I try hum song, but tune just die for throat. I check efo riro for stove, but even the aroma no gree comfort me tonight. Kitchen too big, too empty, like say wall dey close in on me.

One hour later, the secretary waka comot from study, her face like nothing happen.

She waka out with phone for ear, dey laugh soft—her lipstick still set, eyes dey shine like person wey just close big deal. She pause, check her face for microwave glass, then waka like say she dey rule the house.

I stand, freeze, "goodbye" just hang for my throat—I no fit even greet her.

My lips dey shake, hands grip kitchen towel till my knuckle white. I wan talk, anything, but shame tie my tongue. For my mind, I dey see Mama face, she dey warn me: "No ever let dem see you cry, Amara." But tears dey close already.

Because I notice—though she still dey smartly dressed, the black stockings wey she wear come, e don disappear.

My eye shift to her leg—bare, smooth, dey shine, stockings no dey again. My heart fall, sharp pain just slice my chest. My mind dey race, dey remember every Nollywood scene wey woman remove stocking for inside room. I just dey feel like mumu.

I just stand there, shock tie me like wrapper.

Even kitchen clock dey tick loud. I try move, but leg glue for ground. Cold wind enter from half-open window, make me shiver. I dey wonder how I let things reach like this. If my aunties see me now, dem go say, “Amara, you dey fall hand.”

I turn, carry all the food wey I prepare, empty am for dustbin. As I dey dump the food, I mutter, "God, abeg, wetin I do deserve this?"

One by one, plate scrape, rice and stew mix with tears. The aroma wey fill kitchen before now dey bitter. I no send say I dey waste food—my heart just dey pour out for dustbin. My dreams, my effort, all gone with the click of the bin lid. Tomorrow, dem go ask me why my eyes swell. But who fit explain heartbreak?