Lovers

Part 1: The First Sight Again I didn’t expect to see Dapo that night—not at that gallery, not at that time, and certainly not when I had finally managed to move on. It was raining in Lagos—one of those deep, humid rains that made the city smell like earth and secrets. I stood beneath the glow of the gallery lights, holding a glass of white wine I had no intention of finishing. The art was forgettable. The company even more so. But the silence in my head was golden, and for once, I was grateful for it. Until I turned, and there he was. Dapo. Seven years had done little to dull his charm. He looked older, sure. A little broader in the shoulders, a little more seasoned around the eyes. His beard was fuller. His hairline, mercifully intact. But the way he scanned the room, thoughtful and calm, reminded me of late-night talks in his car outside my flat in Surulere, where we would argue about music and quote poetry to each other like mad people. He hadn’t seen me yet. My heart thudded as if I were twenty-four again, unsure, hopeful, and terrified. I should have walked away. But I didn’t. “Amaka?” His voice—deeper than I remembered—cut through the low hum of the gallery chatter. I turned, pretending surprise. “Dapo?” A smile broke across his face, and it hit me straight in the chest. “Wow. I almost didn’t believe it. You look…” “Older?” I offered, my lips twitching. “Even more beautiful,” he said. No hesitation. Typical Dapo. Always knew what to say and when to say it. We hugged—an awkward, tight thing that held more memory than comfort. He smelled the same. Earthy. Safe. He wore a navy blue kaftan and leather slippers, effortlessly elegant. I suddenly felt self-conscious in my black jumpsuit and minimal makeup. “So,” he said, still looking at me like I was the only person in the room. “How have you been?” I exhaled. “Surviving. Thriving. Designing ads for brands I don’t care about and writing poetry I’ll never publish.” His eyes lit up. “Still writing?” “Always.” A pause hung between us like a comma in the middle of a sentence neither of us wanted to finish. “I’ve missed you,” he said, quietly. My throat tightened. “Don’t do that.” He nodded slowly. “Okay.” We drifted to the balcony. The rain had slowed, now a gentle mist that made the city lights shimmer like promises. We leaned against the rail, our shoulders barely touching. “Are you here with someone?” I asked. “No. You?” I shook my head. “Temi invited me. One of her many networking events.” “Same Temi that hated me?” I laughed. “She didn’t hate you. She hated what we were.” He looked at me. “What were we, Amaka?” I didn’t answer. How could I? We were almost everything. Almost lovers. Almost forever. But I ran. I told myself the timing was wrong. That I needed to find myself. That love could wait. But I lied. Dapo was the one person who saw me—not the curated version I presented to the world, but the messy, aching woman underneath. And that terrified me. “I think about you sometimes,” I admitted. He smiled, sad and soft. “I think about you every time I hear Asa’s Bibanke.” We laughed, and the spell of the past tightened its grip. I didn’t expect to see Dapo that night—not at that gallery, not at that time, and certainly not when I had finally managed to move on. It was raining in Lagos—one of those deep, humid rains that made the city smell like earth and secrets. I stood beneath the glow of the gallery lights, holding a glass of white wine I had no intention of finishing. The art was forgettable. The company even more so. But the silence in my head was golden, and for once, I was grateful for it. Until I turned, and there he was. Dapo. Seven years had done little to dull his charm. He looked older, sure. A little broader in the shoulders, a little more seasoned around the eyes. His beard was fuller. His hairline, mercifully intact. But the way he scanned the room, thoughtful and calm, reminded me of late-night talks in his car outside my flat in Surulere, where we would argue about music and quote poetry to each other like mad people. He hadn’t seen me yet. My heart thudded as if I were twenty-four again, unsure, hopeful, and terrified. I should have walked away. But I didn’t. “Amaka?” His voice—deeper than I remembered—cut through the low hum of the gallery chatter. I turned, pretending surprise. “Dapo?” A smile broke across his face, and it hit me straight in the chest. “Wow. I almost didn’t believe it. You look…” “Older?” I offered, my lips twitching. “Even more beautiful,” he said. No hesitation. Typical Dapo. Always knew what to say and when to say it. We hugged—an awkward, tight thing that held more memory than comfort. He smelled the same. Earthy. Safe. He wore a navy blue kaftan and leather slippers, effortlessly elegant. I suddenly felt self-conscious in my black jumpsuit and minimal makeup. “So,” he said, still looking at me like I was the only person in the room. “How have you been?” I exhaled. “Surviving. Thriving. Designing ads for brands I don’t care about and writing poetry I’ll never publish.” His eyes lit up. “Still writing?” “Always.” A pause hung between us like a comma in the middle of a sentence neither of us wanted to finish. “I’ve missed you,” he said, quietly. My throat tightened. “Don’t do that.” He nodded slowly. “Okay.” We drifted to the balcony. The rain had slowed, now a gentle mist that made the city lights shimmer like promises. We leaned against the rail, our shoulders barely touching. “Are you here with someone?” I asked. “No. You?” I shook my head. “Temi invited me. One of her many networking events.” “Same Temi that hated me?” I laughed. “She didn’t hate you. She hated what we were.” He looked at me. “What were we, Amaka?” I didn’t answer. How could I? We were almost everything. Almost lovers. Almost forever. But I ran. I told myself the timing was wrong. That I needed to find myself. That love could wait. But I lied. Dapo was the one person who saw me—not the curated version I presented to the world, but the messy, aching woman underneath. And that terrified me. “I think about you sometimes,” I admitted. He smiled, sad and soft. “I think about you every time I hear Asa’s Bibanke.” We laughed, and the spell of the past tightened its grip. I didn’t expect to see Dapo that night—not at that gallery, not at that time, and certainly not when I had finally managed to move on. It was raining in Lagos—one of those deep, humid rains that made the city smell like earth and secrets. I stood beneath the glow of the gallery lights, holding a glass of white wine I had no intention of finishing. The art was forgettable. The company even more so. But the silence in my head was golden, and for once, I was grateful for it. Until I turned, and there he was. Dapo. Seven years had done little to dull his charm. He looked older, sure. A little broader in the shoulders, a little more seasoned around the eyes. His beard was fuller. His hairline, mercifully intact. But the way he scanned the room, thoughtful and calm, reminded me of late-night talks in his car outside my flat in Surulere, where we would argue about music and quote poetry to each other like mad people. He hadn’t seen me yet. My heart thudded as if I were twenty-four again, unsure, hopeful, and terrified. I should have walked away. But I didn’t. “Amaka?” His voice—deeper than I remembered—cut through the low hum of the gallery chatter. I turned, pretending surprise. “Dapo?” A smile broke across his face, and it hit me straight in the chest. “Wow. I almost didn’t believe it. You look…” “Older?” I offered, my lips twitching. “Even more beautiful,” he said. No hesitation. Typical Dapo. Always knew what to say and when to say it. We hugged—an awkward, tight thing that held more memory than comfort. He smelled the same. Earthy. Safe. He wore a navy blue kaftan and leather slippers, effortlessly elegant. I suddenly felt self-conscious in my black jumpsuit and minimal makeup. “So,” he said, still looking at me like I was the only person in the room. “How have you been?” I exhaled. “Surviving. Thriving. Designing ads for brands I don’t care about and writing poetry I’ll never publish.” His eyes lit up. “Still writing?” “Always.” A pause hung between us like a comma in the middle of a sentence neither of us wanted to finish. “I’ve missed you,” he said, quietly. My throat tightened. “Don’t do that.” He nodded slowly. “Okay.” We drifted to the balcony. The rain had slowed, now a gentle mist that made the city lights shimmer like promises. We leaned against the rail, our shoulders barely touching. “Are you here with someone?” I asked. “No. You?” I shook my head. “Temi invited me. One of her many networking events.” “Same Temi that hated me?” I laughed. “She didn’t hate you. She hated what we were.” He looked at me. “What were we, Amaka?” I didn’t answer. How could I? We were almost everything. Almost lovers. Almost forever. But I ran. I told myself the timing was wrong. That I needed to find myself. That love could wait. But I lied. Dapo was the one person who saw me—not the curated version I presented to the world, but the messy, aching woman underneath. And that terrified me. “I think about you sometimes,” I admitted. He smiled, sad and soft. “I think about you every time I hear Asa’s Bibanke.” We laughed, and the spell of the past tightened its grip. I didn’t expect to see Dapo that night—not at that gallery, not at that time, and certainly not when I had finally managed to move on. It was raining in Lagos—one of those deep, humid rains that made the city smell like earth and secrets. I stood beneath the glow of the gallery lights, holding a glass of white wine I had no intention of finishing. The art was forgettable. The company even more so. But the silence in my head was golden, and for once, I was grateful for it. Until I turned, and there he was.