Between The Warm And Cold Springs

My Surprise

It began on an ordinary Saturday morning, yet one that changed everything.

I had just moved into a modest apartment in Ketu after securing a new job in Ikeja. My mother came to visit, eager to see where her eldest daughter would begin a new chapter. Together, we went to the market, her wrapper tied firmly, her Bible tucked into her handbag as though even groceries could not be bought without prayer.

The market was alive with noise—traders calling out prices, children darting between stalls, the smell of fried bean cakes curling into the air. My mother and I were haggling over yams when the commotion began. A basket tipped over, a wheelbarrow tumbled, and before I could steady her, my mother lost her balance on the uneven ground.

Then, out of the crowd, a man rushed forward. His hands caught her before she could fall, his voice steady and reassuring. “Easy, Ma. I’ve got you.”

That was the first time I saw Abdul.

He guided her to a bench, bought her a sachet of cold water, and stayed by her side until her breathing calmed. His manner was neither showy nor hesitant—it was natural, as though kindness was a language he had spoken all his life. My mother, wary of strangers, studied him closely, but she could not deny the steadiness in his eyes.

Something in me stirred. Perhaps gratitude. Perhaps something more.

We spoke only briefly that day, polite exchanges over spilled yams and motherly thanks. But Abdul returned. Again and again. Not with grand gestures, but with persistence: visiting, checking in, showing himself not only to me but to my family.

At first, my mother hesitated. She was a devout Christian, and Abdul was Muslim. Religion, she feared, would build walls between us. But Abdul was patient. He listened to her doubts, answered her questions, and proved himself through action, not argument. He respected her faith while holding firmly to his own. Over time, even her resistance softened, and she said words I never thought I would hear: “Shade, he has shown he is worthy. If your heart is with him, mine will not stand in the way.”

Our love story began not with flowers or serenades, but with a moment of rescue in a crowded market. Looking back, I realize how fitting that was—because Abdul would go on to rescue me in ways far deeper than I could have imagined.

The wedding was beautifully simple, radiating an intimate charm that captured the essence of our love. While Abdul dreamed of a more elaborate celebration, my heart whispered that this understated elegance held a beauty all its own—one that felt just right for us.

I wore a white gown that shimmered beneath the sun, my mother’s eyes wet with both surrender and joy. Abdul stood beside me, his smile steady, his voice trembling only slightly as he vowed to love me through every storm.

For the first time in years, I felt chosen—not as someone’s convenience, not as someone’s stepping stone, but as someone’s home.

I thought the story had closed. That Ade was behind me, a forgotten page in a book no longer relevant.

But fate, with its cruel humor, was not done.

Some weeks after the wedding, a whisper of news reached me. One of my colleagues from our IT training in Ibadan—a man who had remained close to Ade—confided in me. He revealed that Ade had returned to his village. He was not living quietly, as I had once assumed, but spending lavishly, flaunting money that was never his. My colleague admitted he had kept Ade’s whereabouts hidden from the police, protecting him from the justice he deserved.

The words stung. Ade was not just gone; he was thriving in deceit, flourishing on the very things he had stolen from me. Still, I told myself it no longer mattered. I had moved on. I was in Ketu, Lagos now—building a new life with Abdul. My past belonged to another city, another time, another me.

Or so I thought.

One humid afternoon, after settling into my rhythm in Ketu, I strolled to the market. The air buzzed with the scent of roasted corn and palm oil, the chatter of traders thick in the street. I was cheerful, bargaining for yams, laughing with the women who sold tomatoes.

Then I heard it. A voice—familiar, too familiar. Rougher than before, yet unmistakable.

I turned, and my heart stopped.

It was Ade.

The same Ade who had once sworn forever, only to betray me. The same Ade who had vanished into the night with my savings, my gold jewelry, and the little box of clothes I had worked so hard to buy. He had not only broken my heart—he had stolen the very pieces of my survival.

And now, here he was.

I froze in place, hidden behind a cluster of women. Ade was thinner now, his skin dull, his frame worn out. Desperation dripped from every word as he argued with the young lady at the counter of a shop. His hands moved quickly, pleading, begging for more time to settle his debts.

Then, the cruel twist revealed itself.

The shop was not just any shop—it was one of Abdul’s family businesses. And the young woman standing firm, shaking her head at him, was none other than Abdul’s younger sister.

My stomach clenched. My world tilted.

The man who had betrayed me, who had stolen from me and left me in ruins, was now entangled with the family of the man who had saved me.

And in that instant, I realized: the past I thought I had buried was not done with me. Not yet.