Chapter 1: Pepper Soup Burn and Broken Promises

The waiter lose grip of the steaming pepper soup pot.

The aroma of fresh catfish and the spicy scent of uda just hang for air, heavy like harmattan dust. As the pot tumble, hot broth splash everywhere. One old man jump up, dey wipe soup from him Ankara, dey vex. The sizzle nearly drown people chatter. My reflex fast, I stretch arm to shield my babe, but na my own face collect the hot soup—sharp burn, only God save my eyes. The pain, ehn, I no wish am for even my enemy. My chest full of worry and small pride as people rush bring water; some dey shout, “Yah! Sorry oh!” while others dey look us like say we dey act Nollywood.

One year pass, she still reject my marriage proposal.

After everything wey don run between us—all the laughter, the plans wey we dey form inside our small parlour—she just look me finish talk, “I no fit marry you.” Her voice low, but e cut pass cutlass. Na like say the pepper soup scar wey mark my face na another person sin. That day, her voice steady, but her eyes dey shift like say she dey find escape for the ceiling. Her aunty dey squeeze her shoulder, dey whisper "no mind am." Her friends just dey press phone, dey avoid my eye, as if ground go open swallow them.

Her reason: our star signs no match.

I remember how she try force laugh, like person wey dey fear to cry, then talk: “Tunde, you know say Aries and Virgo no dey gel. Our horoscope dey show wahala for future.” That moment, I nearly laugh, but my heart don already break. Horoscope ke? Which day Morayo turn astrologer? I remember her mama own, always say, "You go marry who your star align with!" but Morayo before no even send those kind talk.

She once promise me say the scar wey dey one side of my face no go affect our relationship.

I fit swear, na her words dey give me hope then. She rub palm oil gently for my bandage, dey whisper, “Tunde, this scar no fit change the person wey you be. No mind dem.” She go press my hand, eyes red but strong. My chest go soft, say at least I get one person wey see me pass my face. Even when her aunty come, call me "Okpala Ebubedike" for surviving, Morayo go smile and defend me.

But e no tay, I hear am dey complain to her childhood friend:

The day na one soft Thursday, sun dey lazy for sky. As I waka near veranda, her voice sharp for air, clear pass radio. I stop, dey pretend say I dey check my phone, but her words dey bite me for ear.

"Why I go dey pay for wetin he cause himself?"

Her voice sharp, no pity. She hiss, the kain way person dey hiss when Okada splash gutter for their new slippers. I just stand, my heart slow like say e wan break but e tire.

"To spend my whole life with am—I no think say e make sense."

She sigh loud, as if the scar dey her back. Her friend, Funmi, just dey nod, voice low, “I talk am since.” I wan run but my leg hook ground. My mind dey turn like generator wey choke.

Na that day I reason say star sign no even concern am at all.

For my mind, na so I dey do calculation. I remember how she dey happy for Instagram with me, but for real life, na the scar dey referee our love. I just bone, dey form strong, but the pain deep.

Na me she dey shame for.

The way she dey act, na like say to show me outside na big wahala. Even her social media, my picture dey fade small small, like person dey erase am from memory. Sometimes, e be like say I dey chase her shadow—na so I begin reason say maybe I gats free myself. But love dey blind person sometimes.

But as I wash my face for toilet, I dey realise—some scars no dey heal, no matter the cream.