Part 2: Old Songs, New Silences
1855 Words
Part 2: Old Songs, New Silences
We left the gallery together. No planning, no questions. It felt natural—like the universe had simply pressed "resume" on a paused story.
He suggested a late dinner, and I didn’t pretend to hesitate.
We drove in silence for a while. The kind of silence only people with history can share. No need to fill it with small talk or awkward laughter. Just presence. Dapo’s car smelled faintly of cinnamon and leather, and the radio played soft soul. He had always had impeccable taste in music.
“I know a place,” he said, taking a turn away from the island’s chaos.
“Still the king of hidden restaurants?” I teased.
He chuckled. “Of course. Lagos changes too fast. You need secret spots to stay sane.”
We arrived at a quiet rooftop spot in Lekki. Dim lights, acoustic jazz, and just three other couples scattered across the terrace. The waiter greeted him by name. Typical.
Over grilled prawns and jollof couscous, we started peeling back layers.
“So… married?” I asked, half-joking, half-bracing.
He shook his head. “Engaged. Once. Ended two years ago.”
“Oh.” I tried to hide the wave of relief. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It taught me a lot. Like how you can be with someone and still feel alone.”
I nodded. “That kind of loneliness is louder.”
“And you?” he asked. “Anyone important?”
“Not really. A few almosts. One serious one. Ended last year.”
He looked at me like he already knew.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He wanted a version of me I had outgrown. Said I had become… too ambitious. Too opinionated.”
Dapo raised an eyebrow. “So, too much of yourself?”
I laughed. “Exactly.”
“Sounds like a fool.”
I sipped my wine. “Sounds like a coward.”
There was a long pause.
“I wasn’t much better,” he said quietly. “Back then. I didn’t know how to fight for something soft. I didn’t know love could be both strong and gentle.”
His voice caught me off guard.
“I used to think love had to be loud. Explosive. A conquest,” he continued. “But now, I want peace. I want someone I can exhale with.”
God. The way he spoke. Like poetry with a heartbeat.
I looked at him then—not just as someone I used to know, but as someone I might still want to.
“You think we could’ve worked?” I asked.
He held my gaze. “I think we were afraid of how real it felt. And maybe… maybe we had to break to know what we needed.”
My heart thudded.
The waiter brought dessert. Plantain brûlée. We shared it like a cliché. His spoon brushed mine and my stomach flipped.
It was past midnight when we walked to his car.
“I should take you home,” he said.
I hesitated. “Or we could go for a drive. Like old times.”
He looked at me, searching. “You sure?”
We left the gallery together. No planning, no questions. It felt natural—like the universe had simply pressed "resume" on a paused story.
He suggested a late dinner, and I didn’t pretend to hesitate.
We drove in silence for a while. The kind of silence only people with history can share. No need to fill it with small talk or awkward laughter. Just presence. Dapo’s car smelled faintly of cinnamon and leather, and the radio played soft soul. He had always had impeccable taste in music.
“I know a place,” he said, taking a turn away from the island’s chaos.
“Still the king of hidden restaurants?” I teased.
He chuckled. “Of course. Lagos changes too fast. You need secret spots to stay sane.”
We arrived at a quiet rooftop spot in Lekki. Dim lights, acoustic jazz, and just three other couples scattered across the terrace. The waiter greeted him by name. Typical.
Over grilled prawns and jollof couscous, we started peeling back layers.
“So… married?” I asked, half-joking, half-bracing.
He shook his head. “Engaged. Once. Ended two years ago.”
“Oh.” I tried to hide the wave of relief. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It taught me a lot. Like how you can be with someone and still feel alone.”
I nodded. “That kind of loneliness is louder.”
“And you?” he asked. “Anyone important?”
“Not really. A few almosts. One serious one. Ended last year.”
He looked at me like he already knew.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He wanted a version of me I had outgrown. Said I had become… too ambitious. Too opinionated.”
Dapo raised an eyebrow. “So, too much of yourself?”
I laughed. “Exactly.”
“Sounds like a fool.”
I sipped my wine. “Sounds like a coward.”
There was a long pause.
“I wasn’t much better,” he said quietly. “Back then. I didn’t know how to fight for something soft. I didn’t know love could be both strong and gentle.”
His voice caught me off guard.
“I used to think love had to be loud. Explosive. A conquest,” he continued. “But now, I want peace. I want someone I can exhale with.”
God. The way he spoke. Like poetry with a heartbeat.
I looked at him then—not just as someone I used to know, but as someone I might still want to.
“You think we could’ve worked?” I asked.
He held my gaze. “I think we were afraid of how real it felt. And maybe… maybe we had to break to know what we needed.”
My heart thudded.
The waiter brought dessert. Plantain brûlée. We shared it like a cliché. His spoon brushed mine and my stomach flipped.
It was past midnight when we walked to his car.
“I should take you home,” he said.
I hesitated. “Or we could go for a drive. Like old times.”
He looked at me, searching. “You sure?”
We left the gallery together. No planning, no questions. It felt natural—like the universe had simply pressed "resume" on a paused story.
He suggested a late dinner, and I didn’t pretend to hesitate.
We drove in silence for a while. The kind of silence only people with history can share. No need to fill it with small talk or awkward laughter. Just presence. Dapo’s car smelled faintly of cinnamon and leather, and the radio played soft soul. He had always had impeccable taste in music.
“I know a place,” he said, taking a turn away from the island’s chaos.
“Still the king of hidden restaurants?” I teased.
He chuckled. “Of course. Lagos changes too fast. You need secret spots to stay sane.”
We arrived at a quiet rooftop spot in Lekki. Dim lights, acoustic jazz, and just three other couples scattered across the terrace. The waiter greeted him by name. Typical.
Over grilled prawns and jollof couscous, we started peeling back layers.
“So… married?” I asked, half-joking, half-bracing.
He shook his head. “Engaged. Once. Ended two years ago.”
“Oh.” I tried to hide the wave of relief. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It taught me a lot. Like how you can be with someone and still feel alone.”
I nodded. “That kind of loneliness is louder.”
“And you?” he asked. “Anyone important?”
“Not really. A few almosts. One serious one. Ended last year.”
He looked at me like he already knew.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He wanted a version of me I had outgrown. Said I had become… too ambitious. Too opinionated.”
Dapo raised an eyebrow. “So, too much of yourself?”
I laughed. “Exactly.”
“Sounds like a fool.”
I sipped my wine. “Sounds like a coward.”
There was a long pause.
“I wasn’t much better,” he said quietly. “Back then. I didn’t know how to fight for something soft. I didn’t know love could be both strong and gentle.”
His voice caught me off guard.
“I used to think love had to be loud. Explosive. A conquest,” he continued. “But now, I want peace. I want someone I can exhale with.”
God. The way he spoke. Like poetry with a heartbeat.
I looked at him then—not just as someone I used to know, but as someone I might still want to.
“You think we could’ve worked?” I asked.
He held my gaze. “I think we were afraid of how real it felt. And maybe… maybe we had to break to know what we needed.”
My heart thudded.
The waiter brought dessert. Plantain brûlée. We shared it like a cliché. His spoon brushed mine and my stomach flipped.
It was past midnight when we walked to his car.
“I should take you home,” he said.
I hesitated. “Or we could go for a drive. Like old times.”
He looked at me, searching. “You sure?”
We left the gallery together. No planning, no questions. It felt natural—like the universe had simply pressed "resume" on a paused story.
He suggested a late dinner, and I didn’t pretend to hesitate.
We drove in silence for a while. The kind of silence only people with history can share. No need to fill it with small talk or awkward laughter. Just presence. Dapo’s car smelled faintly of cinnamon and leather, and the radio played soft soul. He had always had impeccable taste in music.
“I know a place,” he said, taking a turn away from the island’s chaos.
“Still the king of hidden restaurants?” I teased.
He chuckled. “Of course. Lagos changes too fast. You need secret spots to stay sane.”
We arrived at a quiet rooftop spot in Lekki. Dim lights, acoustic jazz, and just three other couples scattered across the terrace. The waiter greeted him by name. Typical.
Over grilled prawns and jollof couscous, we started peeling back layers.
“So… married?” I asked, half-joking, half-bracing.
He shook his head. “Engaged. Once. Ended two years ago.”
“Oh.” I tried to hide the wave of relief. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It taught me a lot. Like how you can be with someone and still feel alone.”
I nodded. “That kind of loneliness is louder.”
“And you?” he asked. “Anyone important?”
Explosive. A conquest,” he continued. “But now, I want peace. I want someone I can exhale
- Writer
