Engaged To Escape
1529 Words
Long before Jimi Badmus’ name was even whispered in the Badmus or Adeshina households, Omolara had already chosen her own prince. And he came without a crown. His name was Korede — tall, lean, with tribal marks that framed a mischievous smile and eyes that glinted with too much ambition. He wasn’t born into wealth. He wasn’t bred for politics. But he had charm — the kind that could smooth over cracks and blur the line between danger and desire. The kind that made you lean in when you should be walking away.
They met on a humid Saturday in Lagos, during the annual Oja Cultural Food Festival — a noisy, colorful riot of sounds and smells. The sky was a hazy sheet of gold, the air thick with the aroma of grilled meat, spices, and palm wine. Music poured from loudspeakers — Fuji, Afrobeats, and drumming that made even the ground beneath her sandals vibrate.
Omolara had snuck out with her cousin, Ronke, under the guise of attending a “Youth Empowerment Seminar” at the Civic Center. Her mother had patted her cheek. “Remember who you are,” she’d said with a knowing nod.
But here, surrounded by ordinary people laughing, eating and watching the cultural dancers, dancing with wrappers tied around their waists, Omolara didn’t want to remember who she was.
She was standing in line for suya, fanning herself with a pamphlet, when Korede appeared — like heat lightning, sudden and impossible to ignore.
“Fine girl wey no suppose dey queue,” he said with a grin, stepping beside her and offering his own paper serviette to fan her. “You suppose get VIP pass now. Wetin all these boys dey do for your front?”
She glanced at him, skeptical but intrigued. His voice had a melody — street-laced, playful, confident. He wore a black T-shirt with a faded Superman logo, distressed jeans, and scuffed white sneakers, but somehow he carried it like a crown.
“And who exactly are you to hand out VIP passes?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
He bowed with exaggerated flair. “Ijoba. Street royalty. Number one Saviour of fine girls wey dey suffer.”
Her laugh was unguarded. Free. The kind that shook her shoulders and made Ronke glance back, surprised.
From that moment, Korede became her escape. They met in quiet corners of the city — hidden beaches, karaoke bars in Surulere, art cafes in Yaba. He never pushed for expensive dinners or designer gifts. He gave her something rarer: anonymity. Normalcy. A place to breathe.
She could sit cross-legged on his floor, her makeup wiped away, eating indomie from the pot while he talked about “digital business.”
“I dey mentor boys,” he would say proudly. “Teach them how to rise. Nobody go come save us from street if we no help ourselves.”
She’d raise an eyebrow. “Mentor boys with what? Forex and crypto?”
He’d smile that dangerous smile. “Na hustle. Legal, illegal — as long as person dey sharp. One day, baby girl, I go carry you go Dubai. No first-class nonsense. We go go real — skydiving, desert safari, all those things wey your papa money never even fit buy.”
And she’d laugh, half-mocking, half-hopeful. “Sure, Mr. Digital.”
But somewhere deep inside, she believed him. Because Korede wasn’t like the polished political sons her father paraded around. They reeked of calculation, entitlement, and guiltless privilege. Korede, at least, was honest about his chaos. And he made her feel alive.
What she didn’t know — at least not then — was that Korede hadn’t just found her.
He’d planned for her. Months earlier, during a poker game in a dimly lit room in Mushin, his boy Sunkanmi had leaned in and said:
“Omo, you sabi say Honorable Adeshina pikin dey waka solo sometimes? I see her for Jazzhole once. No driver. No security. Just one babe with sunglasses dey browse book section.”
Korede had leaned back, thoughtful. “You sure?”
“Sure die. If person enter that babe heart, na jackpot.”
Korede had nodded slowly, staring at his cards. “Make I dey watch.”
He started tracking her movements, watching her from a distance. Found out her favorite spots, who she trusted, when she liked to sneak out. It wasn’t stalking, he told himself. It was strategy. Precision. Business.
But somewhere between the plotting and the pretending, something strange happened. He started to like her — the real her. The way she quoted Chimamanda and called him out on his bull. The way she laughed like a girl who’d never been allowed to laugh too loud.
And yet, when news reached him — through one of his inside sources — that her father was planning to arrange her engagement to one Jimi Badmus, Korede didn’t panic. He smiled.
He knew it was coming. Elite families always arranged their daughters like property. And Jimi Badmus — clean-cut, Harvard-educated, politically correct — was the exact kind of man the Adeshinas would consider royal enough for their only daughter. But Korede wasn’t afraid. He had something Jimi didn’t. Her heart.
One muggy Thursday evening, as dusk fell over Lagos like a silk curtain soaked in smoke and orange light, Omolara sat on the bare floor of Korede’s flat, her arms wrapped around her knees. The room was dimly lit by a single rechargeable lamp that buzzed occasionally. Outside, the distant sound of a generator hummed through the window like a warning she couldn’t place.
Korede paced the room, restless. Shirtless, his lean frame cast sharp shadows on the peeling walls. He was quiet — too quiet — as if brewing something that required more than charm.
Omolara broke the silence. “My father’s determined. He’s not listening to me anymore. Jimi is everything he wants in a son-in-law — polished, political, predictable.”
Korede finally stopped pacing. He turned to her, expression unreadable. “What if… what if we stop fighting this thing head-on?” he said softly.
She looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”
He sat beside her, fingers laced, voice low and steady. “Think about it. If you keep resisting your father, he’ll only push harder. He’ll see you as rebellious, ungrateful, irresponsible.”
“Because I want to choose love?” she asked bitterly.
Korede smiled faintly. “No. Because you’re challenging power. And men like Honorable Adeshina Badmus don’t lose. Not without consequences.”
Omolara swallowed. She hated how true that felt.
“But if you play along,” Korede continued, “if you pretend to be cooperative… You become the good daughter again. He lets his guard down. Starts to trust you more. Maybe even begins to transfer assets in preparation for your ‘future’.”
Her eyes widened slowly. “Are you saying I should… agree to marry Jimi?”
He leaned in, his tone calm but laced with fire. “Not marry him. Let them think you will. Accept the engagement. Let the lawyers start drafting things. Let them make you heir to everything — the estate in Banana Island, the shares in Prime Holdings, the properties in Ibadan. It’s your birthright anyway. You’ve earned it, not Jimi.”
Omolara stared at him. “Korede, this is—this is…”
He placed a finger on her lips. “This is survival. We’ll vanish after the wedding. But by then, you’ll be rich. Independent. Free from all of them.”
Silence settled between them. The lamp buzzed louder, flickering as if it too sensed the tension.
She whispered, “But won’t that make me like them? Manipulative… selfish?”
Korede softened. He reached for her hand, placing it on his chest. “You’re doing this for us, Lara. For a future where no one controls you. Where no man tells you who to love or when to speak. Don’t you want that freedom?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Of course, I do. But it feels like lying.”
“It’s not lying if it’s for your liberation. You’ll play the game they started. But we finish it on our terms.”
She looked away, trembling. “And Jimi?”
Korede scoffed. “Jimi will survive. Sons of chiefs always do. He has ambition, not love for you. Trust me. He wants the name, not the girl.”
A long, shaky breath escaped her lips. Her chest rose and fell. Her voice came out in a whisper.
“Okay… I’ll do it.”
Korede’s eyes gleamed. “You will?”
“I’ll agree to the engagement. I’ll win my father’s trust. I’ll play their game…”
He pulled her into his arms, kissing her forehead. “And when the time is right, baby… we disappear. Together. And leave them with nothing but shock.”
As she melted into his embrace, a tear slipped down her cheek. It tasted of guilt.
She told herself it was a small price to pay for love. But deep in her chest, something whispered: Or is it for manipulation masked as love?
- Writer
