Chapter 1: The Diary

When we started talking about marriage, I stumble on the diary Tunde Jinadu keep when he be sixteen.

My hand just dey shake as I flip through the pages that first night, eyes catch line after line wey dey sting like pepper. The bulb for my room dey blink, and the smell of old dust mix with Izal dey choke me. The words dey there, raw, unpolished, almost childish in pain and spite, but real:

“She too fat, and she dey like me. Abeg, e dey make me wan vomit.”

I close my eyes that moment, chest heavy, heart just dey do kpe-kpe for inside. Na me be the 'she.' That word just drag me back, like say person dey pull ear for market.

“I don get babe, make she just free me and stop to dey look my side.”

The complaints in his diary stop on May 13th.

That was the day I end my weightlifting career just to save am.

I remember small, back in my first year in university, he ask me: “You wan date?”

When I say yes, e be like say heavy load just fall from him shoulders.

I think say we love each other.

But at the end,

E just be like say na years of him dey struggle, dey try pay back wetin he feel I do for am.

Just like that, everything just lose meaning.

I break the engagement and waka comot from the Jinadu family compound.

As I dey waka for the compound that evening, the compound dogs dey bark, and the night air cold small, like harmattan wey just wan reach but never settle. I no look back, just dey drag my small Ghana-must-go, the jingling of my key holder dey echo for corridor.

Some months later, one night, he park downstairs for my flat dey wait.

When he see the man wey dey beside me, his eyes red like say he wan cry.

“Who be this?”

“Na your boyfriend?”

Him voice just dey tremble, as if cold dey catch am for inside. The security light throw shadow for him face, highlight the pain wey dey hide under him stubborn pride.