Chapter 1
Tinu · Ten years ago
They say you always remember the first time you meet the love of your life. Personally, I think you also remember what you were wearing, what you ordered, and how you pretended to be cooler than you actually were — right before you tripped over your own nerves.
For me, it was a coffee shop. A cute one near my office — my unofficial second home and emotional support caffeine provider. The staff knew me by name and pastry preference. I was that customer who ordered the same thing every day and tipped like I was paying for therapy, which, in a way, I was.
So naturally, when my dear meddling friend Bola insisted I meet this “amazing guy,” I chose the one place where I had home-court advantage. I figured if the date was awkward — and let’s be honest, they usually are — at least I could hide behind my cappuccino and pretend to be fascinated by the foam art.
Now, Bola didn’t suggest I meet him; she ambushed me into it. It happened at a party the previous weekend, somewhere loud, sweaty, and filled with people pretending to have deep conversations over Afrobeats.
“No thanks,” I told her when she first mentioned it.
“You’ll like him, I promise,” she said in that tone women use right before ruining your weekend.
“I’m sure I would,” I said, “if I were interested in meeting random men and pretending to care about their favorite football club.”
“Tinu, abeg,” she groaned. “You are too fine to be single. How else will you meet your husband?”
“Through divine revelation,” I muttered. “Or maybe he’ll fall from the sky holding jollof.”
She switched to pidgin, the universal language of persuasion. “You too do. We ugly girls don marry leave you. All you fine, successful ladies — small good man go talk to una, una go dey suspicious.”
I should’ve known that was her way of saying she’d already gone behind my back.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, mostly to end the conversation.
“Oh, great,” she smiled. “I’ve already given him your number.”
I nearly dropped my drink. “You did what?”
But Bola was already halfway across the room, claiming she had to greet Susan before she left. Classic.
When the day finally came, I arrived early — partly to calm my nerves, partly to scope out the exits in case I needed to fake a family emergency.
The smell of freshly ground coffee beans filled the room. The barista waved at me — my fellow caffeine comrade — and I settled into my usual corner: the one by the window, where the light hit just right for pretending I was in a movie montage about a woman rediscovering herself.
Then he walked in.
Now, I’m not saying the earth tilted or angels started humming in the background, but… I definitely forgot how to sip my coffee for a second.
He wasn’t exactly handsome in a magazine-cover way — his nose was a touch too big, his hair needed a bit of convincing to stay in place — but his smile? Lord have mercy. That smile could have melted an ice cube from across the room. And the dimples. Why do dimples always spell trouble?
“Hi,” he said, stretching out his hand. “I’m Tayo. Was hoping you were my date.”
And what did I say, with all my charm and poise?
“Uhn? Sorry, I didn’t quite… understand you.”
Understand what, Tinu? I thought to myself, the man introduced himself, not gave a TED Talk.
He smiled wider, which did not help my brain function.
My inner voice screamed: He’s probably a player. Look at those dimples — weapon-grade.
Still, I shook his hand. He was tall, fit, and the way his T-shirt hugged his arms made me remember my pastor’s sermon from last Sunday: Beware of men whose muscles speak louder than their character.
I snorted mid-thought and started laughing.
“Please share the joke,” Tayo said, taking the seat across from me.
“Oh, nothing serious,” I said, still smiling. “My pastor says I should avoid men like you.”
He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Men like me? Well, your pastor hasn’t met me. Maybe he meant men who’ll sweep you off your feet and keep you grounded.”
Smooth. Too smooth. My heart fluttered anyway. Useless organ.
Later that night, I called my best friend, Lara. Because of course, I did. If you don’t debrief your best friend after a date, did it even happen?
I lived in a penthouse in Ikoyi — not because I was fancy (okay, a little because I was fancy), but because after years of heartbreak and hustle, I’d decided comfort was a love language. My living room had floor-to-ceiling windows that showed off Lagos at night — glittering lights and distant chaos, like beauty wearing a little madness for perfume.
“Lara,” I said breathlessly, “he’s perfect. Attractive, eloquent — not like the other disasters I’ve dated.”
She groaned. “You sound like you’re in love already. Please, remember — wolves can wear fine shirts too.”
“Relax,” I said. “Bola vouched for him.”
“Ah,” Lara said darkly. “Bola. The same Bola who once dated a man that claimed he was fasting whenever the bill came?”
Okay, point taken.
We chatted, and I told her about his situation — job-hunting, just finished his master’s.
“Ah ah,” Lara exclaimed. “So he’s unemployed! Bola conveniently forgot to mention that part. You’re dating potential, my dear.”
“It’s not that deep. We’re just getting to know each other,” I said.
She sighed. “Fine. Just don’t start paying for everything. I know you, Tinu.”
By the following Saturday, we had our second date — a movie. And a double date, no less, because Lara and her husband Femi insisted on investigating.
Tayo looked even better this time, in jeans and a fitted shirt that made me briefly forget my own name. The man had no business looking that good on a Saturday afternoon.
We watched the movie — well, he watched it. I was too busy overanalyzing every gesture, every laugh, and imagining Lara’s interrogation face later.
After the film, the introductions happened.
“Tayo, meet Lara and her husband, Femi.”
Femi shook Tayo’s hand with the warm caution of a protective brother. “Thanks for agreeing to this, my guy. I wouldn’t have.”
Lara smiled tightly, already assessing him like an HR manager at an interview.
While they got acquainted, I drifted into nostalgia. Lara and Femi’s story was legendary — they met during NYSC camp, in the chaos of khaki uniforms and canteen food that could humble anyone. Lara’s uniform had been so oversized it looked like she was smuggling watermelons. She ended up buying a new set at Mami market, and that’s where she met Femi, who wouldn’t stop staring at her.
“He’s looking at you,” I’d whispered.
She’d scoffed, “He’s just remembering how I yelled at him yesterday for jumping the queue. Let him keep his fine face.”
Well, fine face married her within a year. I wanted that kind of love — the real, messy, everyday kind.
So yes, I wanted Tayo to be my Femi.
Lunch afterward was lively — laughter, teasing, small talk about football and Lagos traffic. Lara, of course, turned the meal into an interrogation session disguised as conversation.
“What was your master’s degree in?”
“Any job offers yet?”
“What are your long-term goals?”
Poor Tayo. But he handled her like a pro, answering each question with patience and humor. Femi liked him — I could tell.
When the bill came, Femi grabbed it. “This one’s on me,” he said. “You can get the next one.”
Tayo nodded. “Sure thing.”
Lara shot me a look that said, Don’t you dare get too excited.
But I was already gone. Floating. This felt different — easy, natural, warm. Like maybe, just maybe, the universe was finally rewarding me for all my romantic trauma.
I was still glowing when I turned to meet Tayo again after saying goodbye to Lara and Femi. But then — I saw him.
My smile froze. My heart thudded.
It couldn’t be.
And yet there he was, standing beside Tayo, laughing like he had every right to still exist.
“Hey, Tinu,” Tayo said cheerfully. “Meet my guy, Fola, the one I told you about—”
His voice faded as I locked eyes with the ghost from my past.
I tasted bile. “You.”
“Tinu,” he said quietly.
And just like that, several years of carefully constructed peace evaporated — replaced by a storm I thought I’d buried for good.
Chapter 2
Twenty-One Years Ago
If I close my eyes, I can still see her — seventeen-year-old me — standing in front of Queen’s Hall, clutching a notebook like it was a shield against the world. I was wide-eyed, hopelessly naive, and convinced that the University of Ibadan was the grand stage upon which my adult life — and perhaps a fairytale romance — would unfold.
Spoiler alert: it unfolded, alright. Just not the way I expected.
My roommate, Lara, was everything I wasn’t — confident, loud, and gloriously unbothered. She had the kind of energy that could either get you in trouble or get you free suya at midnight. Never a dull moment with that girl.
She’d been begging me to follow her to fellowship for weeks. “It’ll be fun, Tinu!” she said, as though fun and fellowship belonged in the same sentence.
I’d dodged her every time — headache, laundry, imaginary assignments — until one fateful day she cornered me.
“This one’s special,” she said. “They’re having a joint service at Idia Hall.”
Against my better judgment, I agreed. After all, I thought, how bad could it be?
“Are we going through Independence Hall?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said breezily. “You want to go around and walk for another fifteen minutes?”
I should’ve said yes.
You see, Independence Hall — “Indi Hall” to insiders — was infamous. A male-only fortress populated by some of the most creatively unruly boys on campus. Walking through Indi as a girl was like walking through a gauntlet of unsolicited poetry and catcalls — mostly of the “Hey fine girl, where you dey go?” variety.
As we entered the courtyard, I whispered a desperate prayer to pass unnoticed. The Lord, however, was apparently busy that day.
“Hellooooo!” someone shouted from an upstairs window.
Then came the whistles, the hoots, the collective chaos.
Now, let me paint the picture properly: I was petite, bookish, and trying to disappear into my own shadow. Lara, on the other hand, was tall, curvy, and shaped like a Coca-Cola bottle drawn by an enthusiastic artist. Together, we looked like the before-and-after of a fitness ad.
“Just ignore them,” Lara said.
Then, of course, one of the boys yelled, “Come and see Cow Bell and Cow Fish!”
The courtyard erupted in laughter.
And just like that, I learned that humiliation echoes louder in open spaces.
My legs turned to jelly, and I started plotting my transfer to another university. But not Lara. Oh, no. My fearless roommate decided this was her moment.
She stopped, raised her hand in a majestic fist, and — with the confidence of Beyoncé on a world tour — flipped them the middle finger. Then she turned and gave them a slow, exaggerated wiggle of her hips.
The boys lost their minds. They cheered like she’d just scored the winning goal at the World Cup.
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.
Yep, that was Lara. The girl I both admired and feared in equal measure.
I met Fola that same year — courtesy of Lara, naturally.
He was… well, fine. Unreasonably fine. Tall, dark, sculpted, and carrying the kind of quiet confidence that made you forget your GPA. He was a final-year petroleum engineering student, and I was a wide-eyed fresher who still thought “petroleum engineering” meant working at Total filling station.
I had no business even speaking to him, but destiny (and a healthy dose of Lara’s recklessness) had other plans.
“I hear he’s a cult boy,” Lara said one afternoon.
“Who told you that?” I asked, scandalized.
“Everybody knows. Look at him — that’s the look of a man who carries cutlass at night.”
“Cutlass ke? He doesn’t look the type!” I protested, because at seventeen, I believed looks revealed souls.
She rolled her eyes. “You and your fine-boy blindness. If trouble starts, don’t call me.”
Naturally, I went on a date with him the moment he asked.
“Lara, I met Fola at SUB yesterday,” I said casually, pretending it wasn’t a big deal. SUB, Student Union Basement, was a hang out spot where students hung out for different reasons.
“Uhn uhn,” she replied, flipping through a magazine.
“He asked me out.”
The magazine dropped. “You said no, right?”
“Well…”
“Tinu!” she said, sitting up like a mother catching her child sneaking out.
“I mean, you’re not interested, are you?” I asked quickly.
She smirked. “And if I was?”
“Then I’d cancel,” I lied, already mentally picking an outfit.
She sighed. “Just be careful. These cult boys are dangerous.”
“He’s not a cult boy,” I said dreamily. Famous last words.
Saturday came, and I transformed my room into a war zone of clothes. I changed six times — maybe seven. I wanted to look mature, mysterious, but still approachable. The result was a confused blend of Sunday service meets fashion show.
By 4 p.m., I was ready. By 5 p.m., I was still ready. By 6 p.m., I was ready… to cry.
He finally showed up close to 7.
If I’d had more backbone, I would’ve said something cutting like, You’re late, Mr. Fine Boy. But seventeen-year-old me? She smiled and said, “No problem!”
We took a cab to a restaurant in town. I don’t remember the food — only his cologne, the way his shirt hugged his shoulders, and how his eyes lingered a second too long. He talked about his life — how he lost his dad young, how he supported his mum — all delivered with that deep, soulful tone men use when they know you’re falling for them.
And oh, I fell. Hard.
By the time he asked if I wanted to stop by his place, I’d already constructed a mental wedding guest list.
He lived off-campus in one of those “face-me-I-face-you” houses where you could greet four families just by sneezing too loudly. His friend was away, so we had the room to ourselves.
He gave me water, because I said no to alcohol — look at me, virtuous and naive. We talked, laughed, and then he offered to massage my feet.
That was the moment I realized every mother’s warning about fine boys was prophecy.
As he pressed his thumbs into my arches, my mind wandered. This man could be the father of my children, I thought. Our kids would have his dimples.
Then, out of nowhere, I blurted, “Are you in a cult?”
He laughed so hard I thought he might choke. “What do you think?” he asked.
Before I could answer, he kissed me.
It was soft, warm, and terrifyingly electric. My brain — once full of rules and warnings — short-circuited. Suddenly, all I could think was so this is what romance novels were talking about.
Everything else that night felt like a dream painted in rose-tinted nostalgia — clumsy, breathless, tender. He was gentle, constantly asking if I was okay. I said yes to everything — mostly because I didn’t yet know how to say no.
At the time, I thought it was the most magical night of my life. Looking back, I want to hug that girl — and maybe shake her a little.
The next morning, I woke up disoriented, sunlight filtering through thin curtains. For a second, I didn’t recognize where I was — until I felt his arm draped over me.
He smiled. “Morning.”
I smiled back, pretending my heart wasn’t sprinting like a rat in a maze.
He made breakfast. It was… not good. But I ate it anyway, smiling like a fool.
We went back to campus together, and as I prepared to face Lara’s interrogation, a thought crossed my mind — he never actually answered that cult question.
But I was in love. And love, at seventeen, is louder than common sense.
Chapter 3
Ten Years Ago
There are moments in life when time doesn’t slow down — it sprints. That was me, purse clutched like a lifeline, running out of that restaurant as if oxygen had become optional.
“Tinu! Wait! Please, talk to me,” Tayo’s voice called behind me, confused, desperate.
Talk to him? I couldn’t even hear myself think. All I knew was that I needed to move — away from him, from Fola, from the explosion that was my past suddenly crashing into my present.
“Tinu, stop, please,” he said, stepping in front of me.
His eyes were wide, worried. He looked genuinely lost, like a man trying to solve a riddle without realizing he was the riddle.
“Please, say something.”
I stared at him. My brain was a storm of disbelief. Then I turned to go the other way, hoping distance could fix what logic couldn’t.
“Let me take you home,” he said, reaching for my hand.
Home? I didn’t even know where “safe” was anymore. “I’ll get a cab,” I said, pulling away.
“Please, Tinu,” he pleaded. “I can’t let you walk alone like this.”
“Just leave me alone!” The words came out louder than I intended — sharp, brittle, raw.
He froze, stunned. Then, quieter, he said, “I don’t know what’s going on, but at least let me make sure you get home safe.”
Something in his tone — that gentleness — softened me. “Fine,” I muttered.
As we walked back toward the parking lot, Fola was still there. Of course he was. Looking casual, like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb in my life. We passed him in silence, and I felt the weight of a thousand unspoken words pressing on my chest.
I gave Tayo Lara’s address. He didn’t ask questions, just drove, his jaw tight. He waited until she opened the door before leaving.
Lara’s eyes widened when she saw me. “Tinu? What happened?”
“Can I crash here tonight?”
“Of course. But first, talk to me — what’s wrong?”
“Tomorrow,” I said, already crumbling.
“Did he hurt you?” she asked, voice sharp with alarm.
“No, nothing like that.”
Later, alone in her guest room, I lay staring at the ceiling, replaying every word, every look, every coincidence that suddenly didn’t feel like one. I couldn’t decide what terrified me more — that Tayo might have known about Fola, or that he hadn’t.
An hour later, I went to get water. Lara was sitting in the living room, pretending to write something down.
“You’ve been out here all night, haven’t you?” I said, sitting beside her.
She didn’t answer.
“I shouldn’t have come,” I whispered.
“You’re exactly where you should be,” she said softly.
I hesitated, then said, “I saw Fola tonight.”
She jumped up like I’d slapped her. “What?!”
“Quiet, you’ll wake Femi.”
She lowered her voice but not her shock. “You mean… he’s alive?”
“Very alive. And apparently, Tayo’s friend.”
“Oh, God,” she murmured, pulling me into her arms. “You’ll be fine, my dear. You have to be.”
I went home the next morning and did the only rational thing: turned off my phone and crawled into bed.
Sunday was supposed to be for rest, but peace wouldn’t come. I drifted between memories and exhaustion, until a loud knock jolted me up.
I opened the door — too tired to check first — and there he was. Tayo.
“Can I come in?” he asked. He looked like I felt — hollow-eyed, sleepless, carrying a question that had no easy answer.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Please.”
I stepped aside.
He sat down, exhaling like a man about to confess. “Fola told me everything,” he said quietly. “I swear I didn’t know. He told me he’d made his money from a contract — I believed him. I had no idea about your past with him.”
My throat tightened.
“I’m not here to defend him,” he continued. “I just needed you to know I love you, Tinu. I know it’s soon — maybe too soon — but I can’t help it. I love you.”
Love. The word sounded fragile and dangerous in my apartment.
“I’m not Fola,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’ll never hurt you. Let me prove that.”
He meant it — I could see that. But the words floated around me like smoke, too light to hold on to.
“I just need time,” I said finally.
He nodded, stood, and left.
When the door clicked shut, I took sleeping pills and finally slept.
Lara called every day that week. Sometimes twice. Sometimes just to breathe on the line and make sure I was still functional.
Tayo sent flowers — tulips, lilies, roses — each with a note more tender than the last. At first, I thought it was guilt. But guilt doesn’t come wrapped in such sincerity. Eventually, I gave in.
We met for lunch. We avoided the subject of Fola like it was a live wire on the table between us. He talked about a job interview; I smiled, pretending to feel steady again.
For a few days, it worked. Until the universe decided to play another cruel joke.
Two weeks later, I was summoned to my boss’s office. I walked in — confident, professional — until I saw him.
Fola.
Sitting there like a ghost with a business card.
“Tinu,” my boss said cheerfully, “this is Mr. Fola Ogunlade, Managing Partner at Twinkle Capital. They’re interested in acquiring Owena. Since you built it, you’ll walk him through everything.”
I could feel my soul attempting to detach from my body.
Owena was my project — my passion, my escape, my comeback. It had carried me through heartbreak and self-doubt. Now the one man who broke me was trying to buy it.
“Pleased to meet you,” I managed, extending a hand I wanted to use for slapping.
“Hello, Twinkle,” he said smoothly.
My boss raised a brow. “Twinkle?”
“We were friends in university,” Fola replied easily.
“Any conflicts of interest?” my boss asked.
“None at all,” I lied with a smile so fake it deserved an Oscar.
Then, just to torment me further, my boss said, “So, is Twinkle Capital named after her?”
“Yes,” Fola said.
“No,” I snapped, at the same time.
He didn’t even blink. “We have history,” he told my boss, “but we haven’t seen each other in seven years.”
“Can I have your card?” I cut in sharply. “We’ll schedule the data-room session.”
I took it and fled before I forgot how to breathe.
Back in my office, I called Tayo. “Did you tell Fola about Owena?”
He hesitated. “Yes, but that was before I met you. Bola told me you were MD. I mentioned it casually — as a finance person, you know, small talk. I didn’t think he’d actually go after it.”
“Well, congratulations,” I said tightly. “He’s trying to buy it now!”
The next day, Fola appeared in my office again.
“Do you love him?” he asked, like we were picking up an old argument instead of a business meeting.
“Who?”
“Tayo.”
I gripped my pen. “We’re here to discuss Owena.”
He leaned back in the chair, legs crossed, a lazy smirk on his lips — the same one that once made my seventeen-year-old heart somersault.
“You know he loves you,” he said.
“Not that it’s your business.”
“That didn’t stop you back then,” he said, smiling wider.
Rage flared. “How dare you. You show up here after everything, and this is what you have to say?!”
He had the decency to look momentarily contrite. “You’re right. Wrong time, wrong place. Have dinner with me tomorrow.”
“Never.”
“One dinner. Then I’ll leave you alone.”
“What do you want from me, Fola? Isn’t Tayo your friend?”
He shrugged, smile never fading. “Why don’t you find out over dinner?”
When I told Lara, she nearly combusted.
“Tinu! No! Have you lost your mind?”
“I don’t want to, but I think—”
“Then don’t!” she snapped. “Give me his number, I’ll tell him where to shove his dinner.”
“Trust me, Lara. If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t.”
She sighed, exasperated. “That’s the problem. When it comes to Fola, I don’t trust you. When will you stop letting your heart lead you back into the fire?”
“I’m not the same person,” I said quietly.
But as the words left my mouth, I wasn’t sure if I believed them.