Chapter 2: When Trouble Wear Shoe

A sudden cold breeze blew outside the window, but inside the room it was as warm as a Lagos afternoon.

The air conditioner hummed quietly, but the warmth of old memories lingered, thick as ogbono soup. Even the faint smell of disinfectant from the first aid kit seemed to dance with the scent of recent rain on the red earth outside.

The man sitting across from me on the sofa wore a suit and tie, tall and slim.

He looked every inch the successful Abuja professional—tailored suit, tie knotted with care, polished shoes gleaming. But there was a tiredness around his eyes, the kind you only see in people who have learned to swallow disappointment.

His face was still as sharp and handsome as when he was eighteen.

Strong jaw, steady gaze. If you looked closely, you could see the old mischievous spark in his eyes, even though life had knocked some of the shine off.

Only the fresh wound on his temple looked out of place.

A thin line of dried blood traced his brow, already darkening. It stood out against his brown skin, a stark reminder that even the most put-together people carry their own scars.

An hour earlier, I got a call from the police post.

The officer’s voice was brusque, but respectful. “Madam, please, it’s about your husband. You need to come.” My heart skipped, but I didn’t ask too many questions. In Abuja, it’s better to show up quietly than to let gist spread.

Tunde Ajibola had gotten into a fight.

Apparently, it started over something small—somebody pushed, words flew, tempers flared. I pictured Tunde, always trying to be calm, finally losing his patience. It was almost funny, if not for the wound on his head.

When I reached there, a woman was holding his face, carefully cleaning his wound.

She bent over him gently, hands trembling as she dabbed at the blood with cotton wool. Her hijab was slightly askew, her lips pressed tight in concentration. I felt a pang of jealousy twist inside me, sharp and unexpected.

I recognised her.

I couldn’t forget that delicate face—Halima, with the same shy eyes and gentle smile from our secondary school days. She looked up, startled, her eyes darting away from mine as if she wished she could vanish into thin air.

Halima, our classmate from secondary school.

Back then, she was the quiet one, always keeping to herself, but her kindness spoke louder than any words. Even now, she still carried herself like someone used to tiptoeing around other people’s mess.

When she saw me, she shrank back like a scared bird.

Her hands fumbled, nearly dropping the cotton wool. She mumbled an apology, eyes fixed on the floor tiles. For a moment, I saw the old Halima—always careful, always nervous around people like us.

Tunde immediately shielded her behind him, frowning as he said to me:

He moved so quickly, almost instinctively, like a protective older brother. His brow creased in concern as he spoke, his voice low but firm.

"She’s timid. Abeg, don’t frighten her."

He gave me a look that said more than words—a silent plea not to start trouble. The way he stood between us, it was clear who his heart was protecting.

I didn’t say anything. I just followed the officer to sort out the paperwork.

I kept my lips pressed together, swallowing all the things I wanted to say. At the police counter, I signed forms, answered questions, and tried not to let my voice betray my feelings. The officer, a tired-looking woman with tribal marks, watched me with sympathetic eyes.

When I came back, Halima had already left.

The room felt emptier without her, as if she had taken all the peace with her. Tunde sat alone, staring at the table, his fingers tracing invisible lines across the wood.

On the way home, Tunde didn’t say a word to me. He was on the phone the whole time.

He turned his face to the window, the glow of his phone lighting up the cut on his temple. I could hear soft words—careful, apologetic—spoken in Hausa and English, meant for someone far away.

Even now, he was still talking softly to the woman on the other end, his voice gentle.

I watched his face in the rearview mirror—relaxed, almost happy. He had never spoken to me like that, not in all our years together. A part of me ached, but I bit my lip and looked away.

I had never seen this side of Tunde before.

There was something unguarded in his smile, a softness that belonged to a man unburdened by expectations. For the first time, I realised just how little of him I had ever truly known.

His face was relaxed, his eyes soft and full of care, completely focused.

He laughed quietly at something she said, the sound warming the car like midday sun. It was a laugh I had never been able to coax from him, no matter how hard I tried.

He gave all his patience to Halima.

Even when the call ended, he stared at his phone for a long moment, as if still hearing her voice. Meanwhile, I sat beside him, silent as a shadow, the city lights flickering past my window.

Right then, the idea of divorce entered my mind.

The thought came quietly, like a mosquito bite—sharp, but certain. I realised, in that moment, that I was only holding onto a name, not a marriage. My heart, stubborn as it was, finally let go.