Chapter Eight: Unsent Messages and Open Doors
788 Words
Jabi Lake Lodge, Sunday Morning
The lake shimmered in the early light, mirroring the grey-blue sky and scattered palm trees standing like sentinels along the shoreline. Birds skimmed the water in rhythmic circles. It should’ve been peaceful. Healing, even.
But Adanna sat on the patio of her cabin, wrapped in her cardigan, laptop open, heart clenched.
She finally opened Emeka’s email.
> Subject: Closure or Confusion?
Ada,
I know I’m the last person you want to hear from. I don’t deserve a reply. But not a day goes by that I don’t think of what I left behind. You. Us.
You were everything right in my life, and I was too immature to see it. I let pressure, fear, and my family’s expectations ruin something sacred.
I heard you're doing well. That you’re in Abuja. I’d love to talk. Not to disrupt your life, but to say things I should have said then. Maybe I still love you. I don’t know. I just know I miss you.
—Emeka
Adanna stared at the screen, her eyes dry, her soul stormy.
Maybe I still love you?
He had taken everything from her—her peace, her confidence, her laughter during her hardest academic year. And now, he wanted what? A conversation? Closure?
She stood abruptly, pushing the laptop aside. Her chest rose and fell like someone who had run a marathon without moving an inch.
“God,” she whispered. “Why now? Why do men come back when I finally start breathing again?”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
---
Later that morning, the team gathered for a final reflection session before heading back to the city. They sat in a circle on low stools, with Toba standing like a quiet conductor.
“I want each of us to share one thing we learned this weekend,” he said. “Professionally or personally. No pressure. Just honesty.”
The team went around—Zara joked about needing more rest and less fake productivity; Deji, one of the younger interns, mentioned how he'd learned more about site analysis in two days than two semesters in school.
When it was Adanna’s turn, all eyes turned to her.
She hesitated.
Then she said, “I learned that healing isn’t a destination. Sometimes, it’s a cycle. And you don’t always get to control when old pain knocks again. But you can decide not to open the door.”
Everyone was quiet.
Toba’s eyes lingered on her.
They all clapped gently, but he didn’t. He just nodded—like he understood too well.
---
That afternoon, while everyone packed up to leave, Toba caught up to her near the pier.
“You going back with the group?”
“I’ll take a ride with Zara. She needs help navigating back through Wuse.”
He nodded. Then handed her a small white envelope.
She frowned. “What’s this?”
“Don’t open it yet. Wait till you get home.”
Her curiosity threatened to explode, but she obeyed.
As they drove back into the city, Adanna stared out the window at the dusty roads, the BRT buses cutting through traffic, the hawkers dancing between cars at traffic lights.
Life in Abuja looked the same.
But she wasn’t the same.
---
Back home that evening, after she had unpacked and helped Mama set the pot of rice on the fire, Adanna sat on her bed, the envelope in her lap.
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a folded sketch—a new version of the Onwudiwe design.
Her layout, her style… but with touches she hadn’t included.
A hidden prayer wall facing the sunrise.
A garden path shaped like a dove.
And in the corner, in careful, handwritten ink:
“For the woman who designs with heaven in mind.”
—Toba
Adanna gasped softly.
Not because of the drawing.
But because of the care.
It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t romantic in the cliché sense.
It was thoughtful. Intentional.
Healing.
Her phone buzzed.
This time, it was Toba.
> “You don’t have to reply. Just know—I see you. Not as someone healing, but as someone whole. You’re not your heartbreak, Adanna. You’re your faith. Your fire. Your brilliance.”
She sat with that message, her hand over her mouth.
Tears welled up, but not the kind Emeka used to trigger.
These were grateful tears. Whole tears. God-kind-of-peace tears.
---
That night, as she knelt beside her bed, Adanna prayed.
“Lord, I don’t want to run from the past or rush into something new. I just want what’s real. What’s You. If this is You, let it bloom without fear.”
And deep in her spirit, she felt it:
Peace.
- Writer
