Episode 19: Before the Wedding
1491 Words
The morning sun rose slowly over Lagos, painting the sky in shades of coral and gold. The city stirred with its usual hum — car horns, distant chatter, the sound of life pushing forward.
But Ada’s world felt unusually still.
She sat by her window, wrapped in her robe, a cup of tea warming her hands. On the small wooden table beside her lay a list: “Wedding To-Do” written in her neat handwriting. Only two things were left unchecked — write vows and breathe.
She smiled faintly at the irony.
Her mother had called earlier to remind her of fabric fittings and last-minute arrangements. Tunde had sent her a voice note that began with “Good morning, my love,” and ended with him humming a song he wrote for her. It was tender, sincere — but Ada’s heart felt heavy, not from doubt, but from the weight of change.
Tomorrow, she would become someone’s wife. And while she loved Tunde deeply, there was something quietly terrifying about that word — forever.
Later that afternoon, Ada went for a walk. The city was alive around her — hawkers calling out, children playing, buses weaving through traffic. But she moved through it all in a kind of calm haze.
She stopped at a bookstore she hadn’t visited in years — a small, dusty shop tucked between two cafés. Inside, the scent of paper and ink surrounded her. Books had always been her refuge, even when her world was chaos.
The old shopkeeper recognized her. “Ada, my dear! It’s been long.”
She smiled. “Life has kept me busy.”
He chuckled. “Busy is good. But don’t forget to pause once in a while. You used to sit in that corner for hours, writing.”
“I remember,” she said softly, her eyes drifting to the wooden chair near the window where she used to journal after her heartbreak.
She walked to that same corner and sat down. The world felt different now — quieter, more forgiving.
From her bag, she pulled out her new notebook, the one she’d bought for her vows. For a long time, her pen hovered above the page. Then, slowly, the words began to come.
> “Tunde,
Before you, I thought love had to be loud to be real — that it had to burn to be worth feeling. But you taught me that love can also be calm, patient, like the steady rise of dawn after a long night.
I won’t promise to be perfect. I’ve seen too much of life to believe in that kind of promise. But I promise to be honest — to speak even when my voice trembles, to choose us even when the past whispers its fears.
I promise to keep growing — not just for you, but for me. Because you didn’t rescue me; you reminded me I could save myself.
And every day, I will love you with a heart that knows what it means to break — and what it means to bloom again.”
When she finished, she read it aloud to the quiet room. The words sounded simple, but they were her truth.
She pressed her pen against her chest, eyes stinging.
“Bloom again,” she whispered.
That evening, Ada visited her mother one last time before the wedding. The older woman sat at her sewing machine, adjusting the final touches of Ada’s bridal gown.
“You still use that old machine?” Ada asked, smiling.
“It’s older than you,” Mama replied without looking up. “But it still works, just like my faith in you.”
Ada sat beside her. “Mama, can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“How did you know you were ready to marry Daddy?”
Mama paused, thread between her fingers. “I didn’t,” she said finally. “I was scared. Love always asks something from us — trust, patience, sometimes pain. But what matters is whether it grows you or shrinks you. Your father and I grew together, even through storms.”
Ada nodded slowly. “I think I’m growing too.”
Mama smiled, reaching for her hand. “Then you’re ready.”
There was a softness in her eyes — the kind that came from years of wisdom and wounds.
“I’m proud of you,” Mama said. “Not for getting married, but for finding yourself again before you did.”
Ada’s eyes welled up. “Thank you, Mama.”
Later that night, Ada lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The world outside was quiet — just the hum of crickets and the faint sound of distant traffic.
Her phone buzzed. It was a video message from Tunde.
She pressed play.
Tunde appeared on the screen, sitting on his couch, his face calm but emotional.
> “I know we’ll see each other tomorrow,” he said softly, “but I couldn’t sleep without saying this. You once told me you were scared that love might break you again. But Ada, love doesn’t break us — people do. And I’m not here to perfect you or protect you from pain. I’m here to walk beside you through it. I’m here to remind you that even when fear knocks, you can still open the door and say, ‘I’m not afraid anymore.’”
He smiled.
> “Tomorrow, I’ll marry my best friend — not because she’s flawless, but because she’s real. Because she taught me that healing isn’t about forgetting, it’s about remembering without hurting. Sleep well, my love. Tomorrow, we start forever.”
Ada covered her mouth, tears slipping through her fingers. She let them fall — not from sadness, but from gratitude.
The morning of the wedding came quietly.
The sky was pale blue, the air soft with the scent of rain about to fall. Ada’s room was filled with laughter — bridesmaids adjusting her veil, her mother giving last-minute advice, her heart racing beneath her white lace gown.
As the ceremony hour drew closer, she found a moment to herself. She stood before the mirror, her reflection both familiar and new. The woman staring back wasn’t the broken girl who once wrote poems about loss. She was whole — not because her heart had never been shattered, but because she had learned to piece it back together with grace.
Her phone buzzed again — a message from Tunde.
> “No turning back now, Mrs. Soon-to-be.”
She smiled, typing back, “I wouldn’t even if I could.”
At the venue, as the music began and she took her first step down the aisle, the world blurred — faces, flowers, soft murmurs. But when she saw Tunde waiting at the altar, everything went still.
He looked at her the way no one ever had — not like someone saving her, but like someone seeing her.
Their eyes met, and she remembered every night she thought she’d never love again. Every tear, every prayer, every moment of quiet strength that had carried her here.
When she reached him, he whispered, “You’re beautiful.”
She smiled. “So are you.”
The crowd laughed softly, but Ada barely heard them. Her heart was calm.
As the officiant began to speak, Ada’s mind wandered for a moment — not to the past, but to everything she had survived. Daniel. The heartbreak. The loneliness. The self-doubt.
All of it had brought her here — to this moment, where love no longer felt like a test, but a home.
When it was time for vows, Ada’s hands trembled as she unfolded her paper. Her voice was soft but sure.
“Tunde,” she began, “you walked into my life when I was learning to stand again. You never rushed me, never demanded I be whole before loving me. You just stayed — quietly, faithfully — until I remembered who I was.”
She paused, breath catching. “I once thought healing meant erasing the past. But now I know it means carrying it with grace. And with you, I’ve learned that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be enough. So today, I choose you — in joy, in uncertainty, in every version of the woman I’m still becoming.”
The audience was silent except for a few sniffles.
Tunde smiled, eyes glistening, and took her hands. “Then I choose you too — in every way, every day.”
As they sealed their vows with a kiss, applause filled the air. But Ada barely heard it. In her heart, she felt only one thing — peace.
The kind she once thought she’d never feel again.
When she looked up at the sky, a single raindrop touched her cheek — gentle, cool, like a blessing.
She laughed softly, whispering, “I’m ready now.”
And for the first time, she truly was.
- Writer
