Beautiful Poison (A Nigerian Love Story)

Chapter 3

Beautiful Poison

Chandeline Brouges was not the kind of girl who chased attention, and the north of the country had raised her that way. Up there, people measured worth by restraint, by how quietly you carried your burdens and how little you asked for in return. Her hometown was all narrow streets, early curfews, and elders who remembered your grandparents. It was a place where being loud or flashy got you talked about for years.

She stood at 5’10”, tall enough that she often had to adjust her posture in lecture halls so she wouldn’t block the view. Her skin was a deep, smooth brown that caught the light even under the dull fluorescent bulbs of the university library. She was broad-shouldered and full-figured, with curves that made secondhand uniforms sit awkwardly and drew stares she didn’t want. The “big breasts” thing had been a running, unwanted joke since secondary school, but Chandeline dealt with it by wearing loose blouses and keeping her head down.

Financially, her family was scraping by. Her was a carpenter, and her mother sold beanscake and pap by the roadside. University fees came in late every semester, paid in installments from savings, loans, and the small tutoring money Chandeline earned on weekends. She wasn’t supposed to be here—not really. But she was in her second year studying Theatre Arts, and she was determined to finish, even if it meant walking 40 minutes to campus to save transport fare.

The night she met David, she was walking home with her roommate Amaka after a late group study session. The road was dim, the streetlights on 4th had been out for weeks. Chandeline noticed the man before he noticed her—tall, fair-skinned, moving with that quiet confidence that didn’t match the rundown part of town. She thought he looked out of place, like someone from a billboard.

Then he tripped.

One second he was walking toward them, the next he was down, cursing under his breath as he grabbed his foot. Amaka was already moving, but Chandeline got there first, crouching beside him without thinking. “Are you okay? Can you stand?” she asked. Up close, he was even more striking—sharp jaw, dark eyes, and a look of pure mortification that made her want to laugh and reassure him at the same time.

He waved them off, said he was fine, and limped away before she could say anything else.

Later, in their cramped hostel room, Chandeline sat on the edge of her bed, picking at her nails as she told Amaka the story.

“He was embarrassed,” she said, voice low. “You could see it. He didn’t even look at me properly after he fell. Just kept saying he was fine and walked off.”

Amaka raised an eyebrow. “And you’re upset about that? Chandeline, the man fell on his face. You don’t owe him your number.”

“I know,” Chandeline said quickly. “It’s stupid. I don’t even know his name. But… I wish he hadn’t fallen. I wish he’d said something. Anything.” She paused, staring at the wall. “The moment I saw him, I felt it. Like I’d met someone important, even if I don’t know why. I wish he’d collected my number. I wish he’d call.”

Amaka sighed and handed her a blanket. “You fell for a stranger who didn’t ask for your name, Chandeline. That’s not love. That’s just a bad night and a good jawline.”

Chandeline didn’t answer. She just lay there, listening to the city outside, hoping that somehow, he’d walk that road again.

Back home with his foot propped up and an ice pack wrapped around it, David called Hope. He hadn’t planned to. He just needed someone who wouldn’t make a big deal out of it.

She came over an hour later with ointment and a small bottle of codeine. She didn’t ask questions, just helped him get comfortable on the couch, adjusted his pillow, and sat beside him until the painkillers kicked in. When he couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning, she reached under the blanket.

“Just to help you relax,” she said quietly.

He didn’t stop her. It wasn’t affection, and it wasn’t love. It was an emotion of a different kind—quiet, awkward, and over in a few minutes. She cleaned up, told him to rest, and left before dawn.

He caught his flight to Imo six hours later, limping and distracted, with no idea that the girl he’d missed speaking to was about to become the problem he couldn’t walk away from.

David left his Abuja apartment before sunrise, a walking stick under one arm and his duffel bag slung over the other shoulder. The toe on his right foot throbbed with every step, a dull, grinding pain that made him break out in a cold sweat by the time he reached the car. He hadn’t slept more than three hours.

“Cancel the flight,” Hope had said that morning.

“Can’t,” he’d replied. “Family’s expecting me.”

So he took a bolt—one of the local taxis that ran airport runs—to Nnamdi Azikiwe Airport, limping through the terminal with his jaw clenched. Pain wasn’t new to him. Embarrassment was. He still managed to collect the number of the woman in the seat next to him on the flight to Owerri. She was a lawyer from Port Harcourt, sharp and talkative, and he knew from the first ten minutes he’d never call her. Old habit. Collect, don’t connect.