The first time Adaora met Chuka, it was during a rainy Wednesday in Yaba. Her umbrella had flipped inside out in the wind, and she stood at the bus stop, drenched, shivering, and cursing Lagos weather. Then came Chuka—white shirt soaked, but smile unfazed, offering her his only umbrella like a scene straight out of a Nollywood romance.
He was charming but not overwhelming, funny without trying, and his eyes… those eyes looked like they held secrets, but also safety. He walked her to her compound that day and didn’t ask for her number. He simply said, “If fate wants us to meet again, we will.”
They met again—two weeks later—at her friend Amaka’s birthday party. He was the celebrant’s cousin. Fate, indeed.
Love, when it finally came, rushed in like floodwaters. Adaora had spent too long guarding her heart after her ex-fiancé, Kunle, left her two months to their wedding for a woman he met on a business trip. But Chuka? He broke through her fears like they were glass.
He brought her breakfast on Saturdays, called her “Queen D” like she ruled a nation, and made her laugh in ways she hadn’t in years. He met her mother and knelt respectfully. He spoke about the future with clarity—children, a house in Lekki, vacations in Zanzibar. Adaora thought she’d finally won. The scars Kunle left were beginning to fade.
Until everything unraveled.
.jpeg)
It started with whispers—mutual friends who suddenly acted strange, Chuka’s phone always on “Do Not Disturb,” late nights with excuses that sounded more rehearsed than sincere.
Adaora wasn’t stupid. She worked in PR; reading people was second nature. One evening, when he said he was working late, she followed him. Her hands shook on the steering wheel the entire way to Ikeja.
What she saw would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Chuka—her Chuka—standing outside a hotel, holding a woman whose face Adaora knew too well.
Amaka.
Her best friend. The one who’d cried with her over Kunle. The one who introduced her to Chuka.
They kissed like lovers, not like a mistake.
Adaora couldn’t breathe. Her knees gave way, but she didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She drove home, numb.
The betrayal cut deeper than Kunle’s. Chuka had carved promises into her soul only to tear them apart, and Amaka had taken her heart and danced on it with stilettos.
When she confronted them, Chuka didn’t even bother to lie. He said it “just happened,” that he was “confused,” that he “never wanted to hurt” her.
But the damage was done.
Adaora disappeared for a while—left Lagos, turned off her phone, went to Enugu to heal. She painted every day. Each brushstroke was therapy, each canvas a scream she couldn’t voice. She cried into pillows, tore up pictures, and buried memories in silence.
Months passed.
One day, she got a message from Chuka:
“I’m sorry. I still love you. Can we talk?”
She didn’t reply.
Not because she didn’t have anything to say. But sometimes silence is the loudest answer.
Adaora returned to Lagos eventually—not the same girl, but a stronger woman. She wore her scars like armor. Betrayal had changed her, yes, but it didn’t destroy her.
One evening, at an art exhibition in Lekki, a man approached her. Kind eyes, soft smile, gentle voice.
“Hi. I’ve been standing here staring at this painting for five minutes, but I think I’m more drawn to the artist.”
She smiled.
Love, she had learned, isn’t about finding someone perfect. It’s about finding someone who doesn’t make you question your worth.
And this time, she would choose better.
