Abandon relationship

The rain had a way of falling in Ibadan that made everything slow down. The students of Atlantic University had long learned to dash between hostel blocks with plastic folders over their heads, the unlucky ones drenched to the bone. For Zara, though, rain meant silence. A rare peace from the voices, the laughter, and the pressure of being seventeen in a world that expected her to act twenty-five. Zara Efe was a first-year Mass Communication student, with chunky glasses always slipping down her nose and a battered pink journal she carried everywhere like it contained her soul. She preferred campus corners—the library's second floor, under the mango tree near the Faculty of Arts, or the rundown café by the gate where the generator hummed louder than conversations. That morning, she sat in that very café, stirring a lukewarm cup of tea while watching water cascade off the roof like tears the sky couldn't hold. That’s when he walked in. Damien. He wasn’t particularly tall or the loudest guy on campus. But Damien had the kind of face that stayed with you: calm eyes that looked like they’d seen too much, lips always poised like he was about to say something smart, and that quiet kind of confidence people mistook for arrogance. He ordered coffee—black, no sugar—and sat two tables away from her. Zara recognized him from her department. She’d seen him during orientation week, the only guy who didn’t raise his hand when asked who wanted to be class rep. But today, he looked different. He looked... alone. And maybe that’s why she said something. “Rain makes the tea taste like metal,” she muttered without looking up. He chuckled, surprising her. “I thought it was just me,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. Campus life in Nigeria had its rhythm. Morning lectures, power outages, late-night suya runs, and the eternal hustle to secure Wi-Fi strong enough to stream YouTube. Zara and Damien fell into each other’s lives like pieces of a song that didn’t need a chorus. They talked about everything—music, politics, grief, books, trauma, Lagos, their families, and the future. Damien had lost his elder brother two years ago to a robbery gone wrong. Since then, he didn’t talk much to anyone, except Zara. She, on the other hand, hid behind her journal, afraid of people, of heartbreak, of being seen. But with Damien, she let the pages open. They would meet every evening under the mango tree. He’d wait with his hands stuffed in his pockets, and she’d show up with her journal and a snack. Sometimes, they sat in silence. Sometimes, they laughed so hard the security men stared. Zara’s hostel mates began to whisper. “Have you guys done it?” “Are you dating?” “He’s cute. You better lock it down before someone else does.” But it wasn’t like that. Not yet. Or so Zara thought. Things changed by the middle of second semester. Damien started replying to messages late. He’d cancel plans last minute. He missed their spot three times in one week. And the worst part? He didn’t explain. Zara noticed everything. How he avoided eye contact during lectures. How his laughter grew shorter. How his shoulders seemed heavier. Then came the whispers. “He’s always with that Law girl now... Kechi.” “Have you seen them at Alumni Hall?” “Heard they’re always together in the study lounge.” At first, Zara denied it. She told herself they were just friends. Damien wasn’t the type to leave without a word. He wasn’t... like the others. Until the day she saw them—Kechi and Damien—sharing a bowl of ice cream, laughing like Zara never existed. She didn’t confront him. She just walked away, heart in her throat, tears she refused to let fall. She’d been abandoned before. By her father. By her stepmother. By her own sense of self-worth. But this? This felt like betrayal wrapped in silence. The campus lights flickered that night as she sat by herself, writing in her journal: I thought you were different. But maybe that’s the thing about hope. It blinds you before it burns you. She didn’t cry. Not until two nights later, when her favourite lecturer, Miss Tomilola, handed back their essays and scribbled a note: “Your voice is powerful. Don’t lose it for anyone who won’t listen.” It shattered her. Zara stopped going to the café. She stopped writing. She deleted every picture they took—except one. The one where Damien wasn’t looking at the camera but at her. That one stayed buried in her gallery like a wound that wouldn’t close. She tried to forget. Focused on her grades. Spent time with Mimi, her roommate Before Damien disappeared into the arms of another girl, there were moments—real, tangible ones Before Damien disappeared into the arms of another girl, there were moments—real, tangible ones—that Zara replayed in her mind like old songs. The night power went out across the campus, and they sat on the rooftop of the old Journalism building. He had brought puff-puff and a flask of hot Milo, and they took turns telling ghost stories. Zara remembered how the moonlight made him look soft, like someone safe. “You ever feel like you’re holding your breath in life?” he had asked. “All the time,” she’d whispered. He’d touched her fingers, and for the first time in a long while, Zara felt seen. Like someone understood the chaos inside her head. No judgement. No pressure. And maybe that was why it hurt so much when he pulled away without warning. Not with anger. Not with lies. Just... distance. Like she was a phase he’d grown out of. During the semester break, Zara moved to her cousin’s apartment in Ikeja, Lagos. The buzz of traffic, the heat of danfos honking, the megaphones of street vendors—it was chaos and comfort. Here, she could hide. Lagos didn’t care about her heartbreak. It swallowed everything and kept moving. She interned at a small radio station, fetching tea and editing audio clips for an overenthusiastic OAP named Queen B. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept her mind busy. One rainy evening, while buying boli at the corner of Allen Avenue, she saw a boy playing the saxophone under the shade of a shut-down shop. His music was raw, beautiful, sad. She stood in the rain, soaked again, listening. It reminded her of Damien. Not him, but the way he made her feel—right before he didn’t. Zara scribbled in her journal that night: > Healing is slow. Like Lagos traffic. But it moves eventually. Long before Damien, there was another man who walked away. Her father. Zara was only nine when he kissed her forehead and said, “I’ll be back before you know it.” He never came back. He had started another family in Warri. A woman with a fancy job and three kids. Her mother never really recovered. She packed away her heartbreak in silence and raised Zara on small tailoring jobs and prayers. That was when Zara began writing. Little poems on the back of used notebooks. Letters she never sent. Words became her shelter. She never trusted easily after that. So when Damien left, it wasn’t just about him. It was about every man who had promised her permanence and delivered pain. By third semester, Zara was different. She wore bold colours now—yellows, deep reds. Her words were sharper, her eyes clearer. She no longer needed to be invisible. She joined a campus writing club. Every Wednesday, they gathered behind the Arts Theatre to share spoken word and stories. She read her work with power, and people listened. One day, after her reading, a final-year guy named Tobi approached her. “You write like someone who’s been through war.” “Maybe I have,” she said, shrugging. He smiled. “You won.” Tobi was nothing like Damien. He wasn’t mysterious or brooding. He was kind, loud, and asked too many questions. He sent her voice notes saying things like, “I hope your day is light, like harmattan breeze without dust.” She liked him. But she didn’t let him close. Not yet Campus gossip eventually brought Kechi to her hostel door. Tall, confident, flawless makeup—Kechi was every inch the girl people expected Zara to hate. But when she spoke, it was with a vulnerability Zara didn’t expect. “I didn’t steal him,” Kechi said quietly. “He came broken. I thought I could fix it.” Zara didn’t respond. “I see now… he wasn’t over you,” Kechi added. “And maybe he never will be.” Zara closed the door gently, not with spite but with understanding. They were both victims of the same thing. Damien didn’t know how to stay. The Open Mic Showdown The annual LitFest Night at Atlantic University was a big deal—an inter-campus competition for writers, poets, rappers, and thinkers. Zara was selected to represent her department. The amphitheatre was packed. Cameras. Bright lights. Judges from Abuja. Zara stepped up to the mic, took a breath, and spoke: > To the boys who love in whispers And leave in storms... You do not deserve the fire in us. We are not halfway houses for broken souls. We are homes. And someday, someone will stay. The silence after her piece was louder than the applause that followed. She walked offstage and into the night, knowing that piece wasn’t just for Damien. It was for every girl who ever asked, “Why wasn’t I enough?”