You see, Abuja has a way of turning quiet nights into full-blown episodes of madness — especially when love and military uniforms are involved.
That Friday, I had promised myself a peaceful evening. No drama, no stress. Just music, chilled drink, and my peace. But as usual, life had other plans — plans dressed in camouflage.
It started with a message from Captain Tunde.
> "Babe, I dey your side. Open the gate."
That man had a voice that could melt your anger and restart it at the same time. You know those men that carry confidence like perfume? That was Tunde. Everything about him screamed control — the way he walked, the way he called my name, even the way he touched his gun made me forget my problems for a second.
We had been seeing each other for six months. He was my calm and my chaos, depending on his mood and mine. But that night, I could already sense wahala floating in the air like generator fumes.
As he stepped into my apartment, I could smell the mix of sweat and cologne — that distinct "barracks man" scent. He looked tired, tense, and quiet. I knew better than to start an argument.
"Baby, you look stressed," I said softly, taking his cap from him.
He gave a tired smile. "It's the parade. And one stubborn sergeant wey no sabi respect."
I laughed, not knowing that the "stubborn sergeant" he was talking about was the same man who had been secretly texting me sweet nonsense for weeks — Sergeant Kola.
At that moment, I didn't feel guilt. I just felt… complicated. Tunde was the man I loved, but Kola was the one who made me laugh. You won't understand unless you've been torn between danger and desire.
Later that evening, while Tunde showered, my phone buzzed on the bed. I checked it out of reflex — and my heart skipped.
Kola: I miss you. You still up?
I froze. The message stared back at me like judgment itself. I quickly locked the screen, but it was too late.
From the bathroom, Tunde's voice came — steady, suspicious.
> "Joy, who's texting you?"
My throat went dry. "Ah—just Rita," I lied, fumbling to put my phone away.
He didn't reply, but I could feel his eyes on me even from behind the shower curtain. That was the thing about men like Tunde — they could sense lies the way soldiers sense gunfire.
Dinner was awkward. He didn't eat much. He kept looking at me like I was evidence in a case. By 10 p.m., he said he was going back to the barracks.
I exhaled in relief as soon as the door shut.
But my peace didn't last ten minutes. My phone buzzed again — this time, another message from Kola:
> "He left, right? I'm outside."
Outside? I ran to the window. True to his word, Kola stood there, leaning against his motorcycle, dressed in casuals, smiling like the devil himself.
My heart raced. Everything in me said don't do it. But curiosity and recklessness won. I slipped on my slippers, grabbed my scarf, and sneaked out.
He grinned when he saw me. "I told you I couldn't stay away."
We talked for a while — just small talk, nothing serious. But somehow, standing there in the cool Abuja night, under the yellow streetlight, something shifted. He brushed my arm lightly, and I didn't stop him.
That's when we heard the unmistakable sound of a military jeep pulling up.
Headlights. Footsteps. Voices.
And then — Tunde's voice.
> "Joy!"
I froze like a thief caught mid-act. Kola turned, eyes wide. The night went silent, heavy, dangerous.
That was the exact moment I realized — peace was officially over.
To be continued…