Chapter 3: When Love Turn to War

Morayo and I meet for university drama club. The memory still dey fresh—stage lights, laughter, smell of dust and sweat. We dey rehearse for old lecture hall, generator noise dey background, pure water sachet scatter for floor.

She be the princess for stage; I be the tree she lean on. Our play na Yoruba classic, “Moremi.”

If she no slip fall from platform and I no catch her—break my arm join—person like me for no ever enter Morayo world. The hospital pain, na that injury join our hearts together.

While I dey hospital, she dey visit me often, dey bring fried rice, ice cream, and gist about school runs. That time, Morayo playful, small stubborn, small spoilt—correct rich girl. If dem ask am for class, she go speak like Oyinbo pikin. But her laugh dey always make everybody happy.

E hard to match that memory with the cold, sharp CEO she be now. Her walk get command, her words dey cut like knife.

When she change? I dey ask myself everyday.

Probably for final year, when Morayo papa bring home one pikin from outside. The boy tall, fresh, small accent.

For first time, Morayo, wey always get her way, chop real slap from life. She realise say, just because she be woman, her papa no believe say she fit inherit the family business.

Morayo feel fear wey she never feel before. She no wan share her papa love or family money with anybody. Her mama just dey beg her to behave, but Morayo head strong.

But for the party, the outside pikin stand beside Papa Morayo, introduce to all business partners, while Morayo only good enough to gist with other women. E pain her reach bone.

That night, she come my hostel with designer gown, hug me like person wey dey drown. Her hot tears soak my shirt, leave mark for chest. My roommates just close curtain, no wan disturb us.

She cry and swear that night:

"I no go ever let that boy collect everything from me! I go show my papa—even if I be woman, I fit do something for my life!" Her voice crack, but she mean am.

From that day, Morayo change from carefree girl to hustler. She dey hustle like person wey dem pursue.

But to start business no easy—especially for person wey study music. After plenty wahala, she realise say all her cello shows for London no go help company succeed. Friends laugh her, some say make she find better work.

Papa Morayo insult her, try arrange marriage to form business alliance. Suitors from Ikoyi, Lekki, everywhere. Morayo no gree.

She threaten papa with her life, fight for last chance to prove herself. She swear if she fail, she go marry anybody he choose. Her mama dey cry, but Morayo head still strong.

So when she start company, Morayo no just dey fight for pride—she dey fight for freedom. For the right to be with me. She tell me, “Kunle, na me and you. If I fail, no be only me go suffer.”

I no go lie, Morayo really love me then. To give our relationship future, she stand up to her papa and create space for us. She dey sneak come my place, cook ogbono soup, laugh anyhow.

So I pour myself into her business, no holding back. Sometimes we dey work till morning, drink garri and groundnut when money finish.

Sometimes I wonder how Morayo and I end up like this. We both want the same thing, work hard for stable future. But after seven years, everything scatter. Even my prayer no fit hold am.

When Femi return and start dey send those suggestive messages, I vex and jealous at first. But after some fights, see as she no even care and dey complain say I dey disturb, my heart just cold. No more loving text, no more midnight gist.

No be just Femi presence pain me—na Morayo attitude make me feel she no love me again. Her eyes dey empty when she look me.

Her attitude no be today. Femi return just expose the last small cover wey remain for us. I been dey hope, but hope dry like harmattan breeze.

As I sit inside keke, watch city pass, I finally let go. Streetlights dey blink, my mind dey blank.

Dem say every relationship get seven-year itch. Maybe Morayo and I no pass that one. Maybe e reach my own time to rest.