23/02/2025
A friend sent this to me. So touching. Please read.
Chinaza sat on the edge of their old sofa, the one they’d haggled for at Oshodi market, its faded Ankara cover now peeling at the seams—just like their love.
Emeka stood near the door, his hands deep in the pockets of his faded jeans, eyes fixed on the floor. Five years of shared jollof rice dinners, midnight gist under the fan, and prayers at Redeemed flashed through her mind in the quiet. ‘I no sabi who we be again,’ he said at last, his voice breaking like a bad connection.
She nodded, tears wetting her cheeks, because she’d felt it too—the way small quarrels turned to silence, how they’d become like tenants in their own home. He picked up his Ghana-must-go bag, paused as if to say something, then stepped out. The door creaked shut, and the parlor felt too empty.
Later, she found a note under her tea mug: ‘I go always love the us wey we been.’ She smiled through the pain—because even when love scatter, e fit leave small sweetness behind.
If you have any story for us, please feel free to send it in.
