Between The Warm And Cold Springs

Chapter 1: Beneath The Smile

I had always been told I was the strong one. People admired my beauty, hardworking nature, and how I carried my family’s burdens gracefully. They would say, “Shade, you are a blessing to your mother. Shade, you are the pride of your community.” I would smile, not because I disagreed, but because that smile was the easiest mask to wear.

Behind that mask was a longing. I wanted love—not the shallow kind that fluttered and disappeared, but a deep, anchoring love that made me feel chosen and safe. My father’s death left me as the eldest child with heavy responsibilities. My mother’s health was delicate, and my siblings depended on me. I worked, studied, cooked, guided, yet I whispered the same prayer at night: “God, send me someone who will love me for me.”

During my industrial training year in Ibadan, life seemed to answer. The city was vast, noisy, full of contradictions—ancient and modern, calm and restless. At first, I felt swallowed by its size, its ocean of brown rooftops, but slowly I found its rhythm. Food was cheap, the climate forgiving. Still, Ibadan was never truly home. Its welcome was shallow, its quiet often heavy. I remained a stranger, whispering to myself: Shade, you are here to grow. But in the corners of my heart, it was Ekiti, with its hills and waterfalls, that kept calling me back.

The company I was attached to sat in the heart of town, alive with the laughter of students and interns. One Friday evening, my colleagues insisted I join them for a get-together. I hesitated, but something in me yearned to step into the laughter I often watched from afar.

The hall buzzed with music and chatter. I stood at the edge of the room when my eyes caught his. Ade.

Tall, with an easy smile and a voice that carried warmth. He approached me confidently. “You don’t look like you belong to the edges of the room,” he said. “A beauty like yours should be at the center.”

I laughed nervously, caught off guard. His words flowed like practiced charm, but something in them made my heart quicken. When he admitted he needed a place to stay, my compassion overruled caution. “I rent a bungalow,” I told him. “It has an extra room. You could stay there, until you find something better.”

His gratitude warmed me. Perhaps, I thought, this was the answer to the prayer whispered in the dark.

Soon Ade became part of my everyday life. Over rice and stew, he painted pictures of us married, with children running through a modest but happy home. “You deserve more than the world, Shade,” he would say, brushing my hand as though by accident. “And I want to be the one who gives it to you.”

How could I not believe? Laughter, tenderness, companionship—they felt real. I silenced the flicker of unease I sometimes caught in his eyes. Love required trust, I told myself.

By the fourth month, I introduced him to my family as the man I intended to marry. My mother trembled with joy, praying blessings over us.

Then came the Saturday that changed everything. My colleagues surprised me with a party to celebrate a contract I had secured. As they clapped and teased, I caught Ade at the edge of the crowd, his smile unsettled, his eyes distant. I tried to ignore it.

The following Sunday, while I was in church, my neighbor called: “Shade, where are you? Ade is packing all your things!”

I rushed home to emptiness—savings, jewelry, clothes, gone. Ade’s number was switched off. My heart crumbled.

A friend delivered the truth: Ade had been fired months before for fraud. The night we met, he had only come to lobby for reinstatement. And worse—he was married, with two children.

I thought my world had ended. Betrayal seared through me. Yet after the first wave of grief, I steadied myself. Justice, I thought, must begin somewhere. I walked to the police station.

The officers looked at me with tired eyes. One scribbled in a ledger, another leaned back with his rifle by the wall, a third muttered “hmm…hmm…” as though my words were background noise. When I finished, they said, “Don’t worry, we will do the needful.”

I wanted to believe them. But days turned into weeks. No calls came. When I followed up, they frowned, irritated. “Madam, are you sure you want to pursue this? It can drag for a long time.” Another told me to “move on.” Their indifference hurt deeper than Ade’s theft. I felt abandoned, small, voiceless.

But then—the company. Word of my struggle reached the partners, and to my surprise, they summoned me. I walked into the conference room expecting dismissal, but found them seated with empathy.

“Shade,” one senior consultant said, “we cannot allow you to fight this battle alone.”

Their words cracked the shell I had built around my pain. They listened carefully, took notes, and gathered evidence. Unlike the police, they moved with urgency. They hired a lawyer, pressed contacts, and gave weight to what I had thought invisible.

Even beyond legal help, my colleagues wrapped me in care. Some brought food to my hostel, others walked me home in the evenings. They became family, filling the void the police had left.

The contrast was striking. Where the officers saw me as a burden, the firm saw me as worth protecting. Where the police gave empty promises, the company gave action. Where the system left me in shadows, the firm lifted me into light.

I realized then that rescue doesn’t always come from uniforms or institutions. Sometimes it comes from unexpected circles—people who choose to care when they have no obligation.

The police had promised to “do the needful,” but it was the company that did the actual needful—giving me back dignity, and reminding me that my story was worth fighting for.

Though scarred, I carried a new truth: I was not powerless. With the right people beside me, I could face even the darkest nights and still rise to see morning.

And as I looked back on Ade, I no longer saw him with the eyes of love, but with the clarity of wisdom. Some people enter your life not to stay, but to teach.

Love sometimes comes dressed in light, yet hides a dagger in its folds. That night at the party, when Ade’s eyes met mine, I thought I had found the beginning of a beautiful story. I did not know then that it was only the first page of an illusion.