I dreamed of Tunde before I even knew him properly—his hand in mine under a wide tree, our textbooks open but forgotten, as if the world had already said yes to us.
When I woke up, my first instinct was to check my phone. Even though he hadn't asked for my number. Even though I knew there'd be nothing there. Still, I refreshed WhatsApp, using up the little data I had. Nothing.
But later that morning, I saw him again. Waiting outside my lecture hall like he belonged there.
"You didn't run away," he said with a grin.
"I don't run," I replied. "Not anymore."
From that day, we started walking to class together. It was casual at first—light jokes, shared laughter, harmless teasing.
He told me how he hated eba but loved amala, how he secretly vibed to Fuji even though he acted like a soft R&B guy, and how he once failed math so badly in secondary school he faked a fever the next day.
Then it shifted.
"I wish I knew my dad better," I confessed one evening. We were sitting on the grass near the old admin building, our bags forgotten beside us. "He left when I was six. Never came back."
He didn't speak for a while.
"I wish I could forget some things about mine," he said eventually. "It's not always about who leaves. Sometimes, it's who stays—and breaks you quietly."
I didn't press him. We gave space to our silences. That was our rhythm.
Then, one Thursday after class, he surprised me.
"Can I take you somewhere?"
"Where?"
He just grinned. "You'll see."
We boarded a keke to the edge of town. The sun had started to set, casting everything in a soft gold. He led me down a dusty path to a quiet spot overlooking a stream.
"This is where I come when life feels heavy," he said.
I sat beside him, watching the water ripple like it held secrets.
"You really like me?" I asked, eyes fixed on the stream.
"No doubt in my mind," he said instantly.
"Even though I'm not like the other girls?"
"You mean the ones with iPhones and perfume that costs more than school fees?"
I laughed. He smiled, but then his tone turned gentle.
"Mercy, I like your fire. Your honesty. The way you don't shrink yourself. You remind me that being real is still enough."
My eyes stung.
"Don't cry," he whispered, brushing my cheek softly.
"I'm not crying," I lied. "Dust entered my eye."
He chuckled. "Okay. But… can I do this?"
Before I could ask what he meant, he leaned in—and kissed me.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't needy. It was soft, like a question. Like he was asking for permission with every second.
When he pulled away, I said nothing. I just rested my head on his shoulder.
That was the first time I felt something like joy.
Not butterflies. Not adrenaline.
But joy—quiet, warm, and real.
---
After that day, we were "a thing." Unofficial but obvious. People noticed.
Girls whispered when I passed. Some gave me side-eyes. Others didn't bother to hide their shade.
> "Na wa o. Poor girl don catch rich fish."
"Shey na jazz she use?"
But I didn't care.
He walked with me. Ate with me. Even came to my hostel once, bringing plantain chips and zobo like a prince in disguise.
Mama noticed.
"You dey smile anyhow these days," she said during one of our Sunday calls. "Talk true—na love dey do you?"
I blushed, even though she couldn't see me. "Maybe."
She laughed. "Just be careful. Love sweet—but e no dey feed person."
"I know, Mama. But he's not like that."
And he wasn't. Not then.
But things changed.
It started small—missed texts, short replies, new excuses.
> "I'm tired."
"Group meeting ran late."
"My dad's in town."
I believed him. I wanted to. Until I couldn't anymore.
One Friday, I saw him at the campus canteen, laughing with a girl I'd never seen before. She was beautiful, in a polished, expensive way. Her gold earrings caught the light even in the shade.
He saw me. Froze.
I turned and walked away.
That evening, he came to my hostel gate, hands in his pockets, eyes unsure.
"She's just a family friend," he said. "Her dad and mine served in the army together. She came to drop something."
"You were laughing like you hadn't laughed in days."
"I laugh with you every day."
"Not lately."
He sighed. "Mercy… don't do this."
"I'm not doing anything," I said softly. "I'm just noticing."
He reached out, touched my arm. "I care about you. You know that, right?"
I nodded. "But sometimes, caring isn't enough."
He looked at me like my words had slapped him. "So what are you saying?"
"I don't know yet," I whispered. "But I need time."
And I walked away.
That night, I cried again. Not under my bedsheet this time—but in the bathroom, where the walls smelled like bleach and the tap barely worked.
I didn't want to lose him.
But I didn't want to lose myself either.