It all began on a harmattan morning in Abuja, when Kamsi spilt coffee on Somto's white linen shirt at a book café in Wuse 2. He looked down at his chest, then up at her flustered face, and chuckled like he had just been handed a rose, not a ruined shirt.
"Don’t worry," he said, brushing it off with a familiar warmth. “At least now I have a reason to talk to you.”
Kamsi smiled, heart thudding louder than the city traffic outside.
Their love story unfolded like poetry. He was a lawyer with a quiet sense of humour and a love for history. She was a documentary filmmaker who saw stories in everything, even the silence between people. They explored Abuja together—Jabi Lake on weekends, hidden restaurants in Garki, stolen kisses behind curtains at weddings they crashed just for fun.
When Somto said, “I want to build a life with you,” she believed him.
Kamsi had her secrets, though. And so did he.
One night, after a successful premiere of her film on broken homes, Kamsi sat beside him in bed and whispered, “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
She told him about her father, a prominent politician, who had a secret second family for years. How the betrayal broke her mother, how she never fully trusted love again until Somto.
Somto held her hand and kissed her forehead. “We all come from broken pieces,” he said. “But we can choose not to break others.”
She felt safe in his words.
But Somto wasn’t who he claimed to be.
Kamsi found out two weeks before their traditional wedding. She was at the salon when her friend Ifeoma sent a voice note that would change everything:
“Babe, you’re marrying Somto? As in, Somto Obasi? Kamsi, that guy is married. He has a wife and child in Port Harcourt. I swear, I didn’t know it was the same person until I saw your pre-wedding photos on Instagram. Please confirm—I hope it’s not true?”
Her heart stopped.
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She didn’t cry immediately. She didn’t scream. She sat still, letting the sound of hair dryers and wedding gists swirl around her like a fog.
That night, she confronted him. His silence was louder than any denial.
“Yes,” he finally said. “But it’s complicated. My marriage… It’s been over for years. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You lied,” she whispered. “You let me dream. You let me plan a future with you, while your past still had a hold on your present.”
Somto knelt, begged, and pleaded. He said he loved her. That his marriage was dead, only on paper, and he was staying for his son until the time was right.
“But you never gave me that choice,” Kamsi said, her voice cold. “You decided I didn’t need the truth.”
The wedding was cancelled.
Abuja buzzed with whispers. Some blamed her for not seeing it. Others blamed him for the deception. Kamsi didn’t care.
She packed up her apartment, left the city, and moved to Jos for a film residency. There, in the quiet of the mountains, she began to piece herself together.
She didn’t block Somto. She didn’t need to. Some silences speak louder than a thousand messages.
Months later, she released a new film: “The Lies That Bind Us.” It was raw, emotional, and unfiltered. A love story soaked in truth, betrayal, and survival.
It went viral. People cried. People related. People healed.
At the premiere, a journalist asked her, “Was this based on a true story?”
She smiled softly. “Aren’t all stories, in one way or another, true?”
Some lies shatter hearts. Others shape them. But Kamsi learned that the truth, no matter how painful, always sets you free.
And this time, she chose freedom.
