abandon relationship episode 3
1858 Words
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.
From that moment, something shifted.
Part Two: Connections and Codes
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.
Part Three: Distance in the Details
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.
Part Four: Breaking Points
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, who dragged her to a poetry slam in the city one Friday night.
It was there, in a dim-lit room in Bodija, surrounded by snapping fingers and smoky air, that she found herself again.
She got on stage and read her poem:
> To the boy who left like unfinished homework,
I hope the silence I became haunts you.
I hope you find pieces of me in other girls
And realize too late that I was whole.
The room exploded in applause.
And Zara smiled.
Part Five: Urban Echoes
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.
Part Six: The New Dawn
Zara eventually let someone else in. A final-year guy named Tobi from the same writing club. He wasn’t mysterious like Damien. He was bright and warm. He laughed easily and often. And when he spoke to her, he looked her in the eye like he saw all of her and wasn’t afraid.
They started small. Jokes. Study dates. Helping each other with assignments. One night, after walking her to her hostel, he said, “You deserve the kind of love that doesn’t flinch.”
She didn’t reply. But she thought about it for weeks.
She didn’t believe in forever anymore. But she believed in moments.
And Tobi was a good one.
Part Seven: Fragments and Forgiveness
Zara returned to campus with a new lens on life. The Lagos air had done something to her. Maybe it was the chaos, or maybe it was the clarity that came from stepping outside her comfort zone. She walked the familiar streets of Atlantic University now with a lifted chin and a quieter heart.
People noticed. Even Damien.
He was waiting outside the faculty one Monday afternoon, leaning against the wall like nothing had changed. Except everything had.
“Zara,” he said, his voice unsure.
She stopped. Looked at him. Saw the same eyes that once comforted her. But this time, she didn’t feel small.
“You’re back,” she said.
“Yeah. I’ve been... thinking a lot.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I messed up,” he added. “With you. With everything.”
Zara stared at him. “You don’t get to come back just because you finally realized something.”
“I’m not asking for anything. I just—needed you to know I never meant to hurt you.”
She nodded. “But you did.”
Silence stretched between them. She turned to walk away, then paused.
“I forgive you, Damien. But I’ve moved on. I’m not the girl under the mango tree anymore.”
She left him there. And it didn’t break her.
Part Eight: Becoming the Voice
Final year came with pressure. Project work, extra electives, and the looming future. But Zara thrived. She started a podcast titled Pages & Echoes, where she interviewed other students about love, loss, and identity. It grew quickly. Students from other schools tuned in, some even from outside Nigeria.
She hosted her first live show in Benin City. The hall was packed. Tobi was in the front row, beaming.
Her final poem of the night:
> To every girl still waiting by the mango tree,
Please come home.
Your story deserves pages.
Not pauses.
The applause shook the hall.
She didn’t cry. She glowed.
Part Nine: A Different Kind of Love
Tobi was gentle. Patient. Kind in ways that weren’t performative. He never tried to complete her—only celebrated her wholeness.
One evening, while walking by the Faculty Garden, he stopped.
“You know,” he said, “I think Damien did one thing right.”
“Oh?”
“He let you go. So I could find you.”
She laughed, soft and free. “Maybe. Or maybe I found myself.”
Tobi nodded. “And I’m lucky enough to walk beside you now.”
They didn’t kiss under the stars that night. They just held hands. And for Zara, that was enough.
Part Ten: Closure
Graduation came fast. Zara wore her gown like royalty. Her mum came, dressed in her best wrapper, beaming with pride. Even Mimi cried when Zara’s name was called.
As the sun dipped behind the school buildings, Damien approached one last time.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Thanks.”
He handed her a small package. Inside: a copy of her first chapbook, annotated. Highlighted lines. Comments in the margins.
“You taught me how to feel,” he said.
“And you taught me how to heal,” she replied.
They hugged. Not out of romance. But release.
Sometimes, the story isn’t about getting someone back.
Sometimes, it’s about getting yourself back.
Epilogue: The Girl Who Stayed
Zara moved to Abuja after graduation. She worked with a youth media NGO, helping teenage girls use storytelling to navigate their lives. Her podcast hit 50k subscribers. Her second book was in editing.
One day, during a Q&A at a school event, a shy girl asked, “Miss Zara, how do you deal with people leaving you?”
Zara smiled, kneeling to the girl’s level.
“You don’t deal with it,” she said. “You grow from it. You rise from it. You write from it.”
And when the girl smiled back, Zara saw herself.
Still here.
Still rising.
Still writing.
- Writer
