Chapter 1: Old Calabash, Empty Heart

When I was eighteen, I once caught Tunde Ajibola helping a struggling student—Halima, the shy girl with the faded pink bra—fumble with her strap behind the dusty chemistry lab.

I remember the shock of that moment—the air thick with the kind of embarrassment only teenagers know, and the stubborn gen outside principal’s office buzzing louder than morning assembly. Tunde, usually confident and quick with jokes, suddenly looked like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.

The guy looked serious, his hands awkward and unsure.

His brow was furrowed, lips pressed in a tight line. I watched beads of sweat gather on his forehead as he tried not to meet anyone’s eyes, as if the world might disappear if he just focused on the tiny hooks in front of him. If not for the tension in the air, I might have laughed.

At twenty-six, following my family's wishes, I married Tunde Ajibola.

It was a wedding planned with the grandeur that Lagos society expects, every detail examined by mothers and aunties, every step measured by the elders. Tunde stood at the altar in agbada, regal and handsome, but there was a faraway look in his eyes that even the priest's booming voice could not banish. We danced to King Sunny Ade, our guests spraying us with naira notes, and Jollof rice with goat meat, puff-puff, and bottles of maltina lined every table. Yet, my heart felt like an old calabash—polished on the outside for show, but if you tapped it, all you’d hear was echo.

But everyone in Abuja’s social circle knew that in his study, he kept a portrait of that struggling student locked away in a drawer. But everyone in Abuja’s social circle knew—no matter how you sweep, secrets still hide under the carpet.

People would whisper during dinners and at Sunday brunches: 'You know Tunde Ajibola? The one with that hidden photograph.' Some swore they’d seen it, a faded picture carefully wrapped in brown paper, hidden under files and certificates. To me, it became like the family secret nobody names but everyone feels.

By the third year of our marriage, I brought up divorce.

I did not shout or throw plates like in those old Nollywood films. I just sat across from him in our silent sitting room, the ticking wall clock too loud. Before I spoke, I glanced at the family photo on the mantel and fiddled with my wedding ring, my fingers trembling just a little. "Tunde, we can't continue like this," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. The harmattan wind rattled the window pane, echoing the dryness between us.

He kept quiet for a long time before finally signing the divorce papers.

He held the pen with steady fingers, but I could see the vein throbbing in his temple. He signed, flipped the papers over, and pushed them across the glass table with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all our unspoken words. The silence between us stretched, thick as efo soup.

"If wahala ever reach you, just call me. I go answer."

His words came out soft, almost fatherly, as if he was offering me an umbrella before a storm. There was a small, sad smile on his lips, the kind Yoruba men use when they are hiding real pain. I nodded, but my chest felt heavy, as though something old and tired was finally being laid to rest.

Later, I attended a cocktail party, holding the arm of a partner from a top law firm.

The air buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses. The rooftop garden in Maitama shimmered with fairy lights, and the evening breeze smelled of coming rain. I wore a red gele that caught every glance. My new partner, Femi, towered beside me—confident, always knowing the right thing to say. My phone vibrated with congratulatory messages from old classmates, and the taste of chapman lingered on my tongue.

A childhood friend teased, "Back during the debate competition, you two used to fight like cat and dog. Who would have thought you’d end up together like this?"

She wagged her finger at me, her gold bangles jangling. People laughed, and I rolled my eyes, feigning annoyance but secretly enjoying the attention. Memories of sharp words and side-eyes in the old school hall flickered in my mind, and for a brief moment, I almost missed those simpler days.

That night, deep into the night, Tunde Ajibola’s number flashed on my phone for the first time in months:

I hesitated, staring at the screen while the generator’s hum mingled with distant car horns. Outside, the moon was bright over Abuja’s rooftops. My heart did a little dance I wasn’t expecting. I picked up, half-expecting silence, half-expecting rain.

"Back then, you insisted on that Maitama apartment because you could see his law firm from there."

His voice was low, almost teasing, but I could hear a note of longing tucked between the syllables. I let the silence sit, then let out a small laugh—one that tasted of regret and old secrets. In that moment, it was as if the years peeled away, and we were both young again, full of foolish hope. But hope is stubborn in Abuja, and sometimes, it calls you back long after midnight.