Chapter 1: Darkness and Divorce

Six years after secretly marrying Akinlolu, we ended it the only way Lagos people know—quietly, in darkness, away from amebo eyes.

The silence around our union always felt like wearing borrowed shoes—tight, pinching, and never truly yours. So ending it quietly, just as we started, made sense. For Lagos, only this city fit produce two people wey go end marriage for the same darkness wey dem start am—far from busybodies and their wahala.

He no want his small girlfriend to carry the shame of being called husband snatcher.

Akinlolu feared wahala—the type of noisy disgrace wey fit scatter babe reputation for Lagos street. For am, image na everything. Man wey dey dodge palava like danfo dey dodge LASTMA.

He said, "I don't want anybody to know we were ever married."

His voice was low, almost begging. The way he talk am, e resemble person wey dey cancel secret cult membership, not marriage. You see the fear for his face—shame dey worry am pass police case.

I just nodded, kept quiet, and added another zero to the property settlement figure.

The paper cold for my hand, biro dey slip small. For Lagos, even divorce dey sweat. The pen scratch for paper, and for that moment, I feel nothing—like I dey sign for Jumia delivery, not my own divorce.

Akinlolu’s face changed.

His brows squeeze, lips press together. E be like when NEPA take light for middle of your favourite program.

"Is it only money you care about?"

His voice come with that familiar hurt—like he expect me to beg or drop small tears. Na only Nigerian man go talk that kind thing, as if woman wey wan secure her future dey do bad thing.

I let out a small laugh.

E sound dry, like laughter wey dey struggle come out. For outside, I for just hiss and waka go.

"After all these years, you still know me pass anybody."

My tone sharp, a little playful, but pain dey hide under. Na only Yoruba woman go hear that laugh and understand say heart dey bleed.