The Danfo Ride to Ikeja.

Photo by Dami Akinbode on Unsplash.

You were 22, three months away from 23, on a Danfo to Ikeja the first day you saw him.

He was wearing dark sunglasses but maybe because he was looking at you too. You could tell that he saw the effect he had on you.

Anyone else who paid even a little bit of attention could, too: your eyes were unabashedly on him, mouth slightly open and, distractedly trying to charge your phone with your power bank, you kept stabbing it on its head rather than the bottom where the charging port is.

There was space for three more people on the bench-type seat you were sitting on, but he, instead, went to sit on the second row.

When the bus began to move, you left your airpods in your ear but paused the music you were listening to.

You are a terrible singer and did not trust that Wizkid’s intoxicating On Top Your Matter would not travel from your ears to your mouth. You also wanted to hear him when he spoke to you.

You fiddled with your phone, texted your best friend a how far? Even though you had nothing to tell her, refreshed your Twitter page multiple times, contemplated posting an Instagram story, but kept your mind alerted to the door hoping that he would not get off before you both got a chance to talk.

You tried to conjure an excuse to speak to him but nothing came to mind, and then wondered why he hadn’t found a reason to talk to you.

Maybe you are not his type. You swallowed painfully.

At the last bus stop, you got down before him, turned at the corner and walked towards Computer Village.

So you were shocked to see him walk past you but pleased to catch a whiff of his cologne. And because you kept staring at his back, his eyes met yours when he turned to look at you. But he quickly looked forward and kept walking.

17 days later, while eating a midnight snack of indomie and egg, your phone notified you that an Olumurewa.Gbadebo now follows you on Instagram. The account was private but it is not everyday you come across a person with such interesting first and last names so, curious about the face behind the account, you followed back. '

It turned out to be the afro-carrying, sunglasses-wearing man on the Danfo two weeks ago.

You could have sworn that he couldn’t be any more handsome but, God, is the man even hotter on Instagram.

You were particularly fixated on a video where he was in a senator outfit playfully throwing a giggling child up; it was captioned, “The favourite uncle.” The baby pink of his outfit was warm against his dark skin.

You imagined being the one in his arms but, instead of being thrown up, lifted up. With his hands underneath your butt, holding you up; his jaw grazing your breasts; your arms around his neck; and his eyes fondly looking into yours.

You quickly went to your profile in an attempt to access it from his eyes and nodded satisfactorily.

He texted you a “Hi, how are you?” You considered ignoring him for 24 hours before responding.

He ignored you the first day he saw you after all, and then for another 2 weeks.

You looked down at the now-empty pot you ate the indomie and egg out of. What else is there to do at 2:47 in the morning anyway? “I’m good. You?”

“As if the gods knew I had been hoping to run into you again, I stumbled on your profile some minutes ago. You sat in front of me on a bus to Ikeja some weeks ago, I don’t know if you remember me”

“Ah, the one who ignored me. I think I do”

“Ignore you? How could I?”

“If you insist.”

His excuse was that he wanted to be sure that the attraction he felt to you was not because he and his girlfriend—now ex, thank God—were in a rocky place in their relationship.

Although he broke up with her two days after the Ikeja trip, weeks later, he was still unable to get you out of his mind.

You were shocked by the power that coursed through your veins when he told you he had been thinking about you.

He asked you on a date to make up for the unpleasant first meeting. You sat up in bed to reply that Nok By Alara would be a great place because tasting their abula was on your bucket list.

*

Before is a memory turned to dust

After is a world where there is no us

– Titilope Sonuga, Tumbling

On your 25th birthday, you got married to Murewa. You who frowned at boyfriends proposing on graduation days suggested the weekend, because love disappears the need for celebrating differently and opens your mind to simultaneous celebrations.

He suggested golden brown for the colour of your outfits; it would look exquisite on your glorious dark skin, he said.

But when the day came and you saw him in that finely-tailored Agbada he effortlessly wore like a second skin, it was your legs that almost forgot how to work.

You had both agreed to meet each other alone first, before having to perform affection in front of everyone else.

He looked down at you and said hoarsely,

“You are breathtaking.”

“Thank you for marrying me,” he said and swallowed.

You wanted to banter, to say, “Don’t flatter yourself. If I don’t, no one else will,” but there was too little time to say all that you wanted to. So you smiled warmly and replied,

“You are welcome.”

In the wedding hall, as if the 500 guests did not exist, he focused squarely on you and read you his vow from a pink handwritten note he pulled out of the pocket of his sokoto.

Tears trailed down your cheeks at how thoughtful the gesture was, how insanely in love you are with the man standing before you.

Because the labour of your child went on for 20 hours and you had an eventual Caesarean section, Murewa, crouched by your hospital bed when the baby was finally delivered, apologised for putting you through that.

He nestled your left hand in his right hand and ran his left hand through your tired cornrows.

And back home, on that day in the bathtub when you sat in the water, your mind dismissing your body’s cold, crying at how betrayed you felt by your body in the theatre, at how very sad and tired you are, how annoyed the baby’s cries sometimes make you feel, Murewa walked into the bathroom, quietly got in behind you, and gently bathed you.

You sleep and wake up in the knowledge that it could have been you. It should have been you. The trip was the perfect gift from your son to celebrate your 35th anniversary, and Murewa, in excitedly telling everyone of the vacation, often joked that it was fitting because he met you on a trip, too.

On your way to the airport, you were stuck in a small traffic jam on the Third Mainland Bridge when one of the thieves smashed the driver’s window and stabbed Murewa on his thigh, furiously demanding all of the valuables in the car, including the ones you had on.

You will not get tired of wondering why he was stabbed, he would have willingly given them everything they wanted if it meant that you both would be safe.

Even when he was losing so much blood, he kept pleading with them to not harm you, he kept telling you he was okay.

After the thieves ransacked the long rows of cars and finally left, the couple behind you was kind enough to offer to drive you and your husband to the hospital.

At the back seat while using your scarf to put pressure on his wound, he smiled at you as a tear trailed down his face before he gently closed his eyes.

You were 57, your child 29, the day Murewa took his last breath.