when love left lagos

I knew something was wrong because he didn't ask if I had eaten. For three years, that was his first question every evening. "Have you eaten?" Even when we were fighting, he would still text that. That Tuesday, by 8:17pm, my phone was still empty. I called. Once. He picked on the third ring. Hey,he said. Not babe. Just hey. I asked if he was home. He said no, he was with a friend. I heard a female voice in the background laughing. I pretended not to hear it. "Are we still going for my cousin's wedding on Saturday?" I asked. He paused. That pause was the whole breakup. "Bola, I don't think this is working anymore. I need space." I laughed. Because what else do you do when someone you built your whole future around tells you he needs space like you're a cupboard? "Space? We live in a one-room in Yaba, where will you put the space?" He didn't laugh. He said, "I'm sorry. I'll come for my things on Sunday." And he hung up. I sat on our bed — the bed I bought when his first business failed and I told him, "Don't worry, we'll buy another one." I stared at the wall where we had pasted our 5-year plan. Lagos house. Baby. Shop. Canada japa. At 11:42pm, he sent a text. "I left because I felt like I was drowning. You are too much. Too emotional, too serious about everything. I need peace." I read that text 47 times. I counted. That's when I understood — I wasn't losing a boyfriend. I was waking up from a dream I was the only one having. The next morning, I didn't cry. I opened my notes and typed: Day 1 after him. I will not call. I will not beg. I will not shrink myself to make a man comfortable."