Loving Ehma

I wasn’t supposed to be at the wedding especially not in a white dress. It wasn’t the usual Saturday morning for me. It was my wedding day, and I was supposed to be excited about it. The morning sun poured gently through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the bridal suite. Everything looked perfect, too perfect. The makeup artist’s hands moved expertly across my face, yet my eyes stared blankly into the mirror. Laughter bubbled around me, bridesmaids chattering, snapping selfies, adjusting dresses, but it all felt distant, like a dream I wasn’t part of. My hands trembled slightly as I held the bouquet, the flowers suddenly too heavy, too symbolic. I smiled on cue when my mother walked in with happy tears, but deep inside, something twisted, a quiet storm I couldn’t name. The hairpins tugged at my scalp, the lace gown itched, and the room spun gently. Everyone kept saying, “You’re glowing,” and I kept nodding, but my heart… my heart felt unsure. Not scared of the day, but unsure of the man waiting at the altar. I had questions, too many, but no space to voice them. Not today. Not with all eyes watching. So I smiled again, that perfect, practiced smile. And waited for the music to start. I had just finished NYSC and was supposed to relocate to Abuja and start life afresh. I had plans and had even saved up to start a new business. I graduated from the Department of Theatre Arts in Unilag, and although I had a passion for the course, I had no intention of pursuing it professionally. I was single. I was so single, down to the last e in the word “single.” I’d never been lucky in relationships, to the extent that it became normal for me. I accepted my fate with men. Not Mama. She wouldn’t stop talking about marriage and how she couldn’t wait for me to bring a man home. I avoided conversations with her because I knew they would always end with, “Daughter, when are you getting married?” I couldn’t believe I was now old enough to be asked that question. I would sigh and say, “Mama, make me see food chop first,” in local pidgin English. Mama would go further, saying that I wasn’t getting any younger and needed to get married soon. But who cares? I don’t. I don’t care about spending the rest of my life with a man. I don’t care about marriage at all. But if I ever dared say those words to Mama, she would wail about how my father’s people had finally gotten to her. All that drama, I avoided it like the plague. The soft rustle of my gown pulled me back to the present, but my mind slipped, just for a moment, to how all of this even began. It was supposed to be a casual lunch. Mama had insisted on it. “Just meet him, biko. No pressure,” she had said, clapping her hands together like the matter was already settled. His name was Bayo, tall, calm, the kind of man who never raised his voice. He talked like he had it all figured out, and maybe he did. He listened when I spoke, laughed at my jokes, and even offered to drive me home after the second meeting. And then came the gifts, quiet, expensive, intentional. It felt so unreal and rushed, like there was a deadline he wanted to beat. No man had ever treated me the way Bayo did. But somehow, something just didn’t feel right. Mama started calling him “our husband” before I even knew his middle name. I didn’t love him, not really. But I liked the way everyone looked at me when we walked into a room together. I liked how Mama glowed with pride. I liked the idea of being chosen, even if it wasn’t the choice I would have made for myself. Maybe that’s how it started. And maybe that’s the problem. I met Bayo at the NYSC camp. It was one of those chance meetings that didn’t feel like anything special at first. We were standing in line for food, both of us irritated by the heat and the flies, when a girl beside me cracked a joke loud enough for both of us to hear. That was Ehma — wild, witty, impossible to ignore. “If this food doesn’t kill us, the sun surely will. At this point, I’ll marry the next person with a cold bottle of Pepsi.” The words made me snort — loud and unexpected. I turned, and so did the guy beside me. We both looked back at the same time, and there she was Ehma. She stood with her hands on her hips, a slight smirk dancing on her lips, her face glowing with a kind of confidence that didn’t beg for attention. She commanded it. She had this effortless beauty, the kind that made you pause. Tall, smooth caramel skin, lashes that curled like they had their rhythm, and eyes that looked like they saw more than they said. She wore her camp cap backwards, and her khaki pants were rolled just slightly at the ankles, like even in the most rigid place, she still found a way to be herself. Bayo and I burst into laughter at the same time. The genuine kind, loud, sudden, and relieving. Like we all needed a break from the tension of the day, and Ehma handed it to us on a silver platter. That was how it started, one joke, one laugh, one shared moment in the middle of a chaotic queue. From that day on, we became inseparable, Ehma, Bayo, and I. A trio. A bubble. A beginning. There was something about Ehma. It wasn’t just her beauty, although, that alone could make heads turn effortlessly. It was how she carried peace like perfume, how her laughter wrapped around you like a soft blanket, how she made you feel seen, truly seen, even when you hadn’t said a word. I started spending more time with her. It wasn’t planned. It just… happened. After morning drills, when most people rushed to their bunks or chased after their platoon crushes, I’d find myself searching for Ehma,. She always had a way of finding the shadiest tree, sitting with a bottle of water and a mischievous smile, like she was waiting for the world to come sit beside her. And most times, it was me. We talked about everything, and sometimes, about nothing. She told me about growing up in Enugu, how she had once wanted to become a fashion designer before switching to study Mass Communication. I told her about my childhood in Lagos, the chaotic energy of it all, and how I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted from life anymore. But whenever I was with her, none of that uncertainty mattered. She made life feel slower…softer. Even the harsh camp routines started to blur when we were together. She’d make jokes during parade rehearsals, whisper comments during boring lectures, and drag me to the mami market to buy suya even when I was broke. With Ehma, I laughed harder. I breathed easier. She didn’t try to fix me, she just made space for me to exist. And I found myself leaning into that space more than I realized. Sometimes I’d catch her mid-sentence, the wind catching her braids, sunlight dancing across her cheek, and I’d wonder how can someone carry so much light and not even know it? I didn’t know what it meant yet. I didn’t know what it would become. But I knew one thing clearly, being with Ehma felt like home. But then… There was Bayo. With him, it wasn’t butterflies or fireworks. It was calm. Safety. Like I could sit beside him and be entirely myself. no pretending, no performance. He listened. Genuinely listened. And I never felt judged, no matter what I said. It wasn’t romantic, at least, not for me. It felt like home. Like the kind of friendship that could last a lifetime. And yet, somehow, despite Ehma’s grace and effortless beauty, despite everything , it was me Bayo kept looking at. It was me he wanted. I never understood why. But maybe… I never really wanted to.