Lanre.

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You wanted to call. But then days became weeks and weeks months and just like that, eight months went by and you never did call.

Nike told you not to call; she said it would appear distasteful and mean. But you saw nothing wrong with wishing your ex condolences on the passing away of the woman he left you for.

You never did call. And now you’re sure that’s the back of Lanre’s head, in this Air Peace check-in queue on your way home to Abuja. His head hangs low; he’s looking down at his phone, or maybe a book. You remember now that he loves books; he’ll buy and read anything by Zora Hurston and Okey Ndibe. You miss him. In this stuffy airport amidst the crowd, amidst the shrill voices and laughter of badly behaved children, amidst the nudging and "Excuse me's" of passengers who won't watch where they're going, amidst the smell of antiseptic and newspapers – you admit to yourself that you miss him.

His woman died in a car crash in February. Deola broke the news to you. “What goes around comes around,” she had smacked, and it haunted you, because all you could think about was the torture he must have been going through.

They buried her the next day. They say her corpse was unrecognizable. They say her mother collapsed and was hospitalised for weeks following the funeral.

You should have called.

But then, what would you have said? “Hi”? Or maybe, “I miss you and I wish you had chosen me instead of her”? You would have said all the things in your heart; all the things your girls forbid you to say or even think. You would have told him that your heart stopped beating properly when he finally accepted that he had been cheating. You would have told him that, yes, you had been vile and vicious upon the discovery, but you secretly hoped you could work things out; that the day he came round to pick up his last suitcase, you had nearly killed yourself after he left and you had felt like an imposter in your own flat, empty and hollow without him; that he was your best friend in the whole world and you didn’t see your life without him; that you knew you were justified to be angry but all you wanted to do was forgive him; that you couldn’t sleep in your bedroom for months after he left because everything smelt like him; that you kept hoping this was all a bad dream. You would have told him all the things your girlfriends forbid you to say; all the things trips to Greece and a thousand nights of Suits and bottles of red wine have never been able to smother.

That’s Lanre at the front of the queue and you should go and say hi. Finally offer your condolences. But you had a late night packing and those dark circles under your eyes make you look like you’ve been crying and God forbid Lanre think you’re still not over him -- even if you aren’t, even if you know you will never get over him. Your entire existence has his fingerprints all over it; that imported fabrics business he forced you to start and helped raise capital for, because, as he said, how could you stay home depressed and job-searching when you were so brilliant and creative? That Venza he half paid for; that flat he found online, the one with the large master's bedroom and the abandoned swimming pool out back.

And that’s how you knew that he really loved her; that he would so easily walk away from everything you had built together, into the arms of another woman. That’s what broke you; that you both had drifted so far apart that he took up and started anew with someone else instead of trying to rebuild with you. How had he fallen so out of love with you and you hadn’t even noticed it crashing until it had completely unravelled at your feet?

And you always wondered about this other woman. A deft Google search revealed that she was slightly older than you, was a chartered accountant, had a son from a previous relationship, lived in Ikoyi, wore expensive clothes and was quite attractive. Her name was Grace.

Your girls say, “If a man will cheat, he will cheat,” but you still wondered what you had done wrong. Was it the insignificant fights about money, about the mess he left in the flat whenever his friends came over, about the way you drove the car recklessly and were making him spend too much money at the mechanic’s? Were those what drove him away? Or was it your neediness, your lack of self-worth, your telling him too frequently that if he ever left, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself? Was it your depression? Did he feel trapped with you? Did he feel suffocated and tired?

You get a whiff of a fragrance you know. Musky and imposing. Extreme by Hugo Boss. You look up and there is Lanre, towering over you, a gentle smile in his eyes.

“Hi,” you say.


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Lanre. II.