When love becomes a survival

It started with that picture… He was in a jersey, smiling too hard at the camera teeth out, eyes squinting like he didn’t have a single burden in this life. Taken at the balcony of a hotel. Bola had saved the picture twice once to admire, second time by mistake, or maybe by fate. They met through her cousin, Morayo. Morayo had posted his picture and said: “My friend liked you. He’s a good guy o. No do werey for am.” She laughed at the message on her way to the hospital, barely paying attention, but gave consent for her number to be shared. Had she known, had she really known… She might’ve never said yes. But she did. And that same day, her w******p pinged. Okiki: Hi Bola: Hi boo 😌 He laughed instantly. Told her his name was Okiki. She said, “Hi, my name is Bola Jesu.” And he laughed again. That was the first time he’d smile at her name. They talked here and there. Not consistently. She didn’t take him serious — too many “talking stages” that went nowhere. But Morayo would nudge her: “Reply him na, the guy’s actually trying.” Okiki called her at work sometimes always catching her during her most stressed moments. She’d answer with half-interest, distracted. Still, he kept trying. Then came that Friday. The day they decided to meet. No expectations. No pressure. But when she saw him jersey, cologne, that same smile from the balcony photo… Attraction punched her in the chest. She tried to act chilled. Tried to pretend. But before the night ended, they had kissed. In the sitting room. Not planned. Not drunk. Just… charged. She left that night confused, but smiling. He messaged her before she even got home: “You kissed me sha. I won’t lie, I’ve not stopped thinking about it.” She replied with one word: “Same.”