BLURB

Ijeañuli’s life is anything but ordinary. Every time she gets close to achieving happiness, she is pulled back by a strangely familiar man who is always assaulting her subconsciousness with whispers of a past she can’t quite recall. But when a chance encounter brings her face-to-face with Ifeanyi, a man who insists they once shared a bond, her world is turned upside down.

Ifeanyi has spent years searching for the girl who helped him piece his world back together, made him fall deeply in love, and then vanished before he could even say her name. When fate brings them together again, she’s changed—no memory of their shared past, no recognition in her eyes. But Ifeanyi is certain it’s her. As he tries to rekindle the connection they once had, he’s left questioning if this is a cruel trick of fate or the beginning of a second chance.

ONE

The Hunger Games: Destiny Edition

Ije

Meeting someone who ticked all your boxes like no other, a man who made you feel like you’d finally found your God-given Obiajulu—peace of mind—was a feeling of unparalleled joy until the moment you were ready to give him your response, only to discover that he had moved on with another girl because he couldn’t wait for you to finish doing shakara. That was a whole new level of pain.

My situation was even worse because Jamike was rich, handsome, and had a good character. He had asked me to marry him, and like the good girl I was, I had requested some time to think about his proposal. 

“Okay, just don’t take long in giving me a response. I want to get married before I clock thirty-one. It’s my mother’s wish,” he had said.

I shouldn’t have requested time. Who has time ever helped?

Mtchew. I knew it! One apprentice demon from my village was using me for practice. Or perhaps this was the handiwork of Mama Nkoli, my stepmother. That woman had hated me from the day my father drove my mother, my brother, Chiemela, and I to Agbani, to a big house that we later learned belonged to him, and introduced us to his family. Apparently, we were his mistake, his illegitimate family. My mother was the side piece.

I couldn’t tell if it was the shock of my father suddenly hitting his first wife with the news of our existence, like the abrupt declaration of a civil war, or the fact that he insisted we move into the big house because he had reconciled with himself and wanted his family to be together. Either way, Mama Nkoli’s hatred for us was palpable. But we didn’t care. At least we were out of that shabby face-me-I-spit-on-you house where everybody knew what everybody was doing at any given time, even when Nnamani and his wife were having sex in their one-room apartment, separated by a curtain that divided the sleeping space from the rest of the room. I guessed their five children would stay in that remaining space while their mother screamed like a she-goat as their father humped her.

Auntie Kattie, aka Mama Nkoli, was subtle with her hatred at first, fearing my father who, despite our dysfunctional situation, made it clear that he wouldn’t tolerate her mistreating any of us. But everything changed the day I caught her making out with Nkenke, my father’s friend. I told my father as my mother had instructed, thinking we would score a huge point, that Papa would throw Auntie Kattie and her itimpataka, a total dunce of a daughter, Nkoli, out so we could have the house to ourselves. But that didn’t happen. Instead, Papa invited her into his room, where they stayed for a long time. When she finally emerged, she had a wicked grin on her face and burst into a malicious song the moment she saw us sitting in the living room.

From that point on, her hatred became blatant, and it followed me into adulthood, sending my life into a downward spiral. Everything became a struggle; getting admitted into university, graduating, and recovering from a terrible motor accident that left me with a form of amnesia. I was lucky to retain most of my memories and still recall new ones, but the doctor disclosed that I might never recall specific events and time periods. He called it dissociative amnesia.

It felt like my blessings were hanging on top of Udi Hill, and I had to make a treacherous journey to retrieve them, one at a time.

Achieving anything good became so tough that I ran into the church and joined the prayer ministry. Like my mother always said, “No be clear eye person dey use enter white garment church.” 

It worked. Life became a little easier, though some challenges persisted. For instance, finding another job that paid more for doing practically nothing seemed elusive. I wasn’t lazy; I just deserved a break from toiling for the female version of Dracula—a boss who was like an angry bird in human form. Whoever wrote that “What is it… haven’t you done enough…” line, that content creators now use on TikTok, perfectly mirrored my daily sufferings working for this woman. I feared that the pain, torment, and torture would give me a mental breakdown if I didn’t find a saner working environment, or a celebrity who wouldn’t keep taking out her frustrations on me simply because I agreed to be her personal assistant. 

Another unanswered prayer was the lingering gaps in my memory—like a specific, significant block of time that my mind couldn’t account for. It clung to my thoughts like frozen drops of water, unsettling me with the idea that I might be harboring a huge secret, one so deeply buried that even my memory refused to unearth it. At times, this notion terrified me. However, earlier this year, when I decided to return to Facebook after staying away for a long time, those lingering gaps began to excite me in a strange way. Every time I scrolled through old chats or viewed images of friends I could still remember and those I’d once had good conversations with but couldn’t recall, I felt a peculiar thrill.

One particular image always stood out, only to dissolve again as I strained to remember it while reading through some of our shared messages, trying to discover the depth of our forgotten relationship. I checked dates and times, desperately grabbing at anything; a word, a laugh emoji, a confession of feelings, a prayer, a request for a physical meeting, to salvage it from fading away completely. Each time I revisited that chat, it felt like I was edging closer to the blankness in my mind. 

Occasionally, a flash of color would strike out from some distant corner of my memory. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never quite grasp any of the slivers of memories that emerged. Then one day, I reached out, hoping to rekindle what we used to have and probably remember how it all started. But he never replied.

Another miracle that seemed far-fetched was finding a sane, rich, single guy in Lagos who would take care of me lavishly because, omor! my tiredness was equally tired of keeping up with this strong and independent girl’s thingy. I deserved the soft side of life, and with the kind of shege I had been seeing lately, I wouldn’t mind running after any nice-looking, money-oozing guy who would as little as smile at me. But the problem was, I had never been lucky with men. All the ones who came my way were principalities and powers sent to drain life out of me. So, while the fortunate girls bagged the best men in Lagos, here I was with no boyfriend, no spoiling money, just me and my big forehead, sitting in the middle of the night thinking rubbish. 

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room through the open window, letting in a cool breeze. Moments later, a deep rumble of thunder shook the air, followed by a jarring clap that plunged us into darkness. Before I could rise to see if the outage was just in our flat, heavy rain began to pour, drumming against the roof. 

I hissed in frustration. What was it with this relentless weather? I knew the forecast promised seven days of rain across the states, but I didn’t expect it to be so punishing. For days, the rain had poured without pause, and just when I hoped for a glimmer of sunlight to ease the flooding in our area, the skies chose to remain overcast, opening up once more tonight.

I walked to the window and peered outside, only to find darkness engulfing everything. Sighing, I closed the window and returned to the bed, adjusting my pillow before lying back down

For a moment, I gazed at my friend and roommate, Emelda, who lay peacefully asleep on her side of the bed, blissfully undisturbed by the relentless rain. A pang of envy tightened in my chest.

I hissed again. Obviously, when the Bible said that the battle wasn’t for the strong nor the race for the swift, it was talking about me and this twenty-five-year-old laid-back daughter of my mother’s younger sister. Emelda wasn’t a beauty, nor was she brainy. She was the kind of lady you could describe as… just… there. Yet, she seemed to have everything going for her; a stress-free job at a brewery, a family with less drama, and men pleading to pay her bills.

A sigh erupted from my mouth as I pulled myself up and leaned my back against the headboard. “Ijeañuli…” I bemoaned. Why couldn’t life treat me with fairness? Must I struggle every time I need to break into a new level? Getting a job after graduation was like cracking a hard nut. 

After I recovered from the accident, I spent years job-hunting, miserable years that earned me taunts from Mama Nkoli and her daughter until I couldn’t take it anymore. I moved in with an old schoolmate who was staying with her boyfriend, which wasn’t a good option. Those two, eh—horny dogs in heat. They wanted to use shagging to wound me, but I couldn’t complain because, according to my stepmother, ‘a squatter no get talking mouth.’

It was Emelda’s idea for me to come down to Lagos. She wanted someone to share a flat with on the mainland, not because she couldn’t afford the rent, but because she needed company.

That was how I left Enugu for Lagos, where I spent another year job-hunting while volunteering as a research assistant for a radio presenter.

Getting my current job had been a miracle back then, but not anymore. Anyway, I still had Emelda to thank and blame for it. She had seen this celebrity’s post on Instagram seeking a personal assistant, someone with good communication skills, who could manage appointments, send emails, answer phone calls, and was ready to travel.

I jumped at the offer without properly checking out the individual I would be working for. Why not? I was jobless and would have accepted any position offered to me.

There were aspects of the job that were appealing, though: getting free hand-me-down designer clothes and shoes from my boss who wore my exact size. Although, these perks didn’t come without her first cursing my entire generation. Still, those designer items made up for her verbal and emotional abuse. Then, there were the moments on movie sets, meeting stars who didn’t seem as formidable in real life as they did on screen. Only a few had truly taken my breath away in person.

The alone time in the lobbies of five-star hotels, where my job was to hold off her calls while she attended brand endorsement meetings, was another part I loved. In those few hours, when she wasn’t breathing down my neck and barking orders, I got to live for myself. I could scroll through my phone, take nice selfies for my WhatsApp status, and even order a special mocktail if I felt like treating myself.

One of those times, I strolled into the hotel’s restaurant and, in a moment of foolish bravery, pulled up a seat and sat down. Before I knew it, waiters were slamming thick-leaved food and drink menus on my table. 

I should have simply apologized, stood up, and walked away since my level wasn’t quite up to dining in a place like that. But there were other people there, ladies like myself, either eating or waiting for their meals. So why not?

With a nervous grin, I picked up the food menu and scanned the first page: Spaghetti Bolognese, Peking Roasted Duck, Kung Pao Chicken, Chow Mein. The second page offered continental options like Jollof rice. But the prices nearly brought tears to my eyes. 

Eighteen thousand naira for a plate of Jollof rice with peppered chicken? I wasn’t Linda Ikeji or madam Alakija. An incoming call on my madam’s phone saved me from further embarrassment, allowing me to excuse myself under the pretense of needing to take the call elsewhere, preserving my dignity.

I glanced at Emelda one last time and turned over to catch more sleep before dawn. I would be traveling to Abuja with my madam in the morning. 

She’d sent me a reminder that started with, ‘A gentle reminder…’ when there was nothing gentle about it. She had never been the least bit friendly in either words or actions. Whenever I saw words like ‘friendly,’ ‘gentle,’ or ‘polite’ in her messages, I knew she was about to go into full bitch mode.

I hadn’t closed my eyes for a minute when the recurring nightmare that woke me earlier resurfaced. For the past three months, I’d dreamt of walking down the aisle with a man, only to discover at the altar that I was in my underwear and my supposed husband was gone. Then, a man I didn’t know would always come along to lend me his coat.

“Chineke nna,” I murmured, sighing loudly enough to wake Emelda.

“Ah-ah!” she murmured, turning and lifting her head to prop it on her palm. “IJ, you no dey sleep?” 

When I didn’t respond, she pulled herself up and reached for her phone. “3:48 a.m. You should catch some sleep. Didn’t you say you’re traveling with your madam this morning?” 

She lay back down, pulled the duvet up to her neck, dragged the spare pillow on the bed to herself, and snuggled into it. “It’s going to be a busy day for you.” She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “You know how that woman is on set, you said so yourself. ‘Ije, get me this… get me that… take a video of me doing this… I need a change of clothes… No, no, no… only my PA touches my stuff! Ije, what are you doing? Get in here!’”

Both of us burst into laughter.

“Abeg, leave that woman. It’s not her matter that’s bothering me.” Honestly, my madam and her drama weren’t my concern at the moment. “I had that dream again,” I said. “The one where I’m always walking to the altar with a man—”

“And then you’re naked, and some strange man gives you his coat,” she finished, now fully awake. “IJ, I told you not to—”

Shaking my head, I interrupted. “Mm-mm. Melda, this has gone beyond ‘be careful.’ I’m beginning to think this is not ordinary. Someone is manipulating my destiny, and this is a sign.”

She yawned again. “Or your spirit is trying to tell you that the man you have your mind on isn’t yours. There is another man. You haven’t met him yet. You’re the prayer warrior, nau. You should know better. Okay, you can report to your prayer group members and have them interpret it for you.”

Who said I hadn’t done that? Their interpretation was similar to Emelda’s. They went further to declare a one-week fast for me, so I could get a clearer vision. The only thing that exercise did was stop the dream for a few months until it returned a few weeks ago.

Wait a minute. I knew exactly when that dream returned.

“Melda!”

“Ehn?”

“The man!”

“What man?”

“That man, nau…” I was becoming agitated, tapping her repeatedly on the arm. “In that restaurant.”

“Which man? And stop beating me, abeg.”

“That man I gave money to at the restaurant in Obalende.”

“That restaurant we went to eat at after Ikechi’s wedding, where food no reach us. Ehen, I remember. But I can’t remember you giving…”

“Come on, nau. The guy just walked in and sat down on the bench at the extreme. I told you he looked hungry, and you said he should buy his own food—”

“You said he looked familiar. And you later gave him two thousand naira.”

“Yes!”

“I remember now. Ehen? What about the man?”

I paused for a while, looking at her to see if she understood where I was heading with this whole thing, but she clearly didn’t. 

“He must be the one with my destiny,” I declared.

“What?”

“That day wasn’t ordinary. I think he was sent by my stepmother to get something that belongs to me so they can take it to their witches’ coven.”

Emelda stared at me like I had completely lost my mind.

TWO

“Lost Memory, Found a stranger”

Ije

The everyday experience of a Nigerian girl on the streets of Lagos:

Argue with an okada rider over change? Ashawo.

Live alone? Ashawo.

Get promoted at work? Ashawo.

Going for a night stroll alone? Ashawo.

Tell men in the market not to touch you? Ashawo.

A single mum? Ashawo.

An actual ashawo? Ashawo.

You, ashawo. Me, ashawo.

Everybody, ashawo!

A video of my boss throwing a bottle of water at a man who groped her this morning had gone viral, thanks to Gistlovers blog. 

The video already had countless views, and the comments were on fire. Predictably, she was being blamed for the groping because she was wearing a Lycra jumpsuit that accentuated her newly done butt lift and tiny waist. 

The word “ashawo” appeared more times than I could count.

But honestly, what was my business? I had my wet shoes still stuck on my feet, thanks to rising floodwaters in my area, to worry about. That, and nine pieces of her luggage to retrieve from baggage claim once we arrived in Abuja. I needed to set them neatly on the trolley and push them by myself to the waiting car because she never let anyone else handle her luggage at the airport, not even those guys who offered help for a small tip. And on top of all that, the fear that hadn’t left me after my conversation with Emelda about the supposedly helpless man I gave money to at the restaurant, whom I was now convinced wasn’t helpless, but a wizard sent to steal my destiny, was weighing on my mind.

My madam swore under her breath, and I quickly closed the Instagram app where I had stumbled upon the trending video. I glanced at her; she had her eyes on her phone too. She must have seen the video. 

Devil punish me if I dared to open my mouth and say one wrong word… I’d be singing ‘over the river Jordan’ after the response she’d give me. I swallowed hard and looked away. Though it was always more fun to choose violence and chaos over peace with my madam, I always chose not to trigger her.

Leaning back and closing my eyes, I thought of that stranger at the restaurant. Discomfort cloaked me again. When I moved closer to him that day, he didn’t strike me as a diabolic person. In fact, it seemed like I’d seen him before… I wasn’t sure. 

That evening, my memory left me in such a rude manner, gone wild and wary, swimming between events and time periods as if hidden under mental rocks or disappearing between weeds where I couldn’t fish for them. Or maybe he was really diabolic and had done a good job of hiding his evil while presenting the look he knew I would fall for: familiarity, helplessness. And I had given him my money without even covering it with the Blood of Jesus!

How could I be that careless, knowing where I came from and how much the enemies in my father’s house wanted me dead or useless? Now I had to suffer because of my good deed.

Household enemies: 1

Me: 0

But no problem. I would fix this, even though it wouldn’t be easy. It was nothing that many days of fasting accompanied by nights of prayers couldn’t solve. I just had to be more careful about whom I rendered help to next time.

My pastor often said that, even if we discovered we had helped the wrong person, it shouldn’t deter us from continuing to offer help, despite being deceived before. 

While this sentiment sounded virtuous—exactly the kind of teaching Jesus might have shared—I couldn’t help but feel wary. After all, people can take advantage of your generosity. 

For instance, the woman who used the money her daughter-in-law gave her to perform juju, ensuring the young woman would remain barren for life. Or consider Brother Igboanugo, who has struggled in business ever since he returned for Christmas three years ago and gave his uncle a loaf of bread. It was rumored that his uncle took the gift to a shrine and bound Brother Igboanugo’s luck.

Those instances and more had crept into my mind last night, and the more Emelda tried to convince me that the stranger could be innocent, the more everything seemed to solidify my conviction.

Everything that happened that day was orchestrated by the demons after my life.

Why weren’t we able to get food at that wedding, even though we were part of the bridal train? Why did we have to brave the thunderclaps announcing the imminent rainfall to find that local restaurant? And why did that man enter when he did, sit where he sat, and look at me the way he did? I had approached him because I thought he was homeless and hungry and couldn’t afford a plate of food.

He didn’t even respond when I asked if he needed help. He just sat there with his hands covering his face, not acknowledging me at all. Then, as I was about to leave him alone, he lifted his face and stared at me, his lips slightly parted. Yet, no words came out. But he nodded and grinned when I offered to pay for a plate of food, and because I didn’t know what he would prefer to eat, I handed him two thousand naira from the three thousand five hundred and twenty naira in my pocket and left.

The voice of the lady announcing boarding disrupted my thoughts. I sprang up immediately and saw my madam already on her feet, striding purposefully toward the gate’s exit to board the plane. Panic surged through me as I realized I needed to catch up quickly so I could hand over her handbag and second phone to her before she boarded. I began making my way through, muttering hurried apologies and “excuse me” as I went, feeling the disapproving stares of other passengers I bumped into in my rush.

“Sorry, excuse me,” I repeated, lowering myself to walk under the raised arm of a man who seemed to be beckoning someone. I must have miscalculated the timing because I straightened up just as he was bringing his hand down, and it landed on my head.

“Sorry—” we both said simultaneously.

Clutching two handbags—my madam’s and my own—and her second phone pressed to my chest, I hurried after her. I managed a quick glance over my shoulder and saw that the man had stopped, staring intently at me. 

There was something familiar about him, but the memory I searched for was buried deep within my fragmented mind. 

Our eyes met, his widening in recognition. I arched my brow, and he responded with a heart-stopping smile—a smirk, really—that instantly reminded me of that man at the restaurant. Unease gripped me, and I quickly looked away, rushing to catch up with my madam.

Breathlessly, I gave the bag and phone to her, receiving a nod that barely acknowledged my presence before she proceeded into the business-class cabin. And as I proceeded to locate my seat number in the economy-cabin, I couldn’t stop thinking about that familiar yet distant face, that grin I knew I’d seen before but couldn’t remember where or when.

THREE

Grounded Grief, Sky-High Hope

Ifeanyi

One Saturday evening, I met a woman. 

For reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt an instant connection with her, stronger than with anyone else in my life—even more so than with my family. It wasn’t the food she offered me; I could easily feed an entire village for a week without straining my finances. It was the way she looked at me and the kindness in her voice when she spoke to me.

That evening, I longed for a quiet place where I could escape the grief that had descended upon me some days ago, a pain that entered my home uninvited, demanded a seat, and when I refused to acknowledge it, settled on the floor, making itself at home until I wept for existing, for hoping, for knowing the man’s death had taken from me, and for realizing too late how much I had hurt him.

“You are his successor,” the bearer of the news had said. “You must come to Abuja for the necessary paperwork and to meet with the board members.”

At first, I remained stoic, just as I had done when my mother called to announce my father’s death, and my sister followed up a few days later, begging me to come home. 

I couldn’t allow myself to feel pain. After all, the only reason he tolerated me as long as he did was because of my mother and sister. We were always at each other’s throats, glaring, cursing, and hurting each other in countless ways. His weapons were his words and the constant cutting off of my privileges, while I retaliated with every disgraceful act I could muster until he could no longer stomach my behavior and pushed me away.

I was his only son, but he didn’t care. Neither did my mother plead on my behalf as she always had. She, too, was done with me.

When grief finally held me, it reminded me of the stimulants I had so madly indulged in, not for pleasure but in a desperate need for escape. The hope that my family would recognize their wrongs and call me back had turned to despair, offering me a heady dose of something I never dared to admit I wanted. When it was withheld because my friends grew scared of my excesses, I turned sick, crazy, depleted, and resentful of the dealer who had encouraged my addiction but now refused to provide the good stuff.

Grief reminded me of my friends’ abandonment when I became skinny and shaking in a corner, still willing to sell my soul or rob someone just to have ‘crystal meth’ one more time. It reminded me of how they became repulsed by me, looking at me like I was a stranger, and how quickly they called my mother, but my father showed up instead and bundled me off to a rehabilitation center where I spent eight months before he moved me to Amsterdam. There, I relapsed several times before finally pulling my life together under the watchful eyes of his younger sister—Auntie Ihuoma, and the encouraging messages of a Facebook friend—a young lady I met online and built a friendship that grew so much that we shared secrets, dreams, regrets, hopes, and the progress we made in healing.

I returned to Nigeria three years later, to a job I hadn’t applied for. I knew my father was behind it all; my return, the job, and later a promotion to the position of a regional manager in the same company where I was employed. When I refused the promotion, the company’s CEO called me ungrateful.

“You should be glad you have him as your father. After all he said you did, he still has faith in you. He wasn’t wrong. You are a nice young man.”

Those words had changed my mind. Yet, in all those years, my father never spoke to me. I tried reaching out, asking my mother about him, hoping he would reconsider his anger, but I wasn’t worth a minute of his time, even in his death. It was his lawyer who informed me of his wish for me to take over as chairman of the Edochie Group of Companies. I had one opportunity to accept or reject the offer; if I declined, my twin sister would step in.

I wanted to tell the lawyer to go to hell, but grief made me rethink the fights, the rebelliousness, the damage we inflicted on each other, and the tears we brought to each other’s hearts. It was as if my father’s unspoken words echoed in my mind: “Go. Quit. Give up. Get your act together, clean up, go back to school, and make something of yourself! Motherfucker.” 

For the first time, I looked beyond my selfishness and saw the love I had refused to accept because grief gripped me like fear, rising to my stomach like a thousand flutters, causing restlessness and yawning that propelled me out of the house that Saturday and led me into that restaurant.

I didn’t notice the lady at first. Not until I felt the weight of someone’s gaze on me, waiting for me to look up. When I finally did, something inside me stirred, like a door creaking open. I had always believed that grief had no room for any other emotion, but there was something about her presence that was undeniably real and impossible to look away from.

She looked startled, as if she recognized me but couldn’t place where or when we might have met. The same feeling grew stronger in me as I kept staring at her. When she spoke, a calmness washed over me, like gentle strokes soothing my soul. I had met her before. Maybe it wasn’t her but someone with a striking resemblance, who carried the same angelic presence, as if she were sent to bring me peace, to coax a smile from me while I walked hand in hand with pain.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her after that meeting. The sound of her voice, the concern in her eyes, the gentleness in her touch when she took my hand and placed money in my palm before leaving with her friend—it all lingered in my mind, awakening a longing I hadn’t realized was there. Something I’d been searching for without knowing: closeness, connection, and perhaps something even deeper. Someone I used to know years ago. A Facebook friend who became my lifeline during my time of reformation. Her name was Ijeañuli. A girl who showed me that life was more than what we could see, hear, or touch, helped me embrace the things that led to my redemption: love that conquered hate and peace that triumphed over chaos.

Our first interaction was unexpected. I had stumbled into her Facebook DM, thinking she was an old friend from secondary school, as they shared the same name— ‘Ije.’ With no profile picture, just an avatar, I assumed it was her. But she wasn’t. Despite my mistake, she was sweet and polite, gently telling me she wasn’t the person I thought she was. I apologized, and she brushed it off.

To my surprise, the next day, she reached out. “Hello, stranger. I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about you. I feel like something is bothering you. Wanna talk?” she wrote.

I had ignored the message at first, thinking, how could she tell I wasn’t okay just from a brief chat? Why would she want to talk to a complete stranger who had mistakenly messaged her? These questions bothered me throughout the day, at school, and even at dinner with Auntie Ihuoma. That night, before bed, I found myself replying, “Hello Stranger. I’m fine. How are you?”

Her response was instantaneous, as if she’d been waiting for me. Soon, we were talking about everything, except the burden we both knew was there. I wanted to tell her about my struggles, but I held back. I was afraid that once she knew about my addiction, even though I was on the path to recovery, she wouldn’t want anything to do with me.

She became the first person I talked to in the morning and the last person at night. Soon, chatting wasn’t enough anymore; we moved to voice and video calls, and sharing photos. Eventually, I gathered the courage to tell her about my family, my mistakes, my addiction, and my journey through rehab. She listened, encouraged me, and somehow always managed to make a joke out of it all.

I told her I wanted to meet her in person. She laughed and said she wanted that too but doubted it would ever happen, as I had no plans to return to Nigeria, and she had never considered leaving the country.

I was determined to find a way, anything to bring us together physically, because I longed for her in a way that words alone couldn’t express.

But hidden within that longing was a fear that I had become so attached to the sanity she brought me that I had forgotten she might not be mine to keep. Perhaps her purpose wasn’t to stay and save me, but to show me how to save myself. Once that mission was fulfilled, the halo would lift, and the angel would depart, leaving her body as she exited my life, becoming a stranger once more.

My intuition was right. As abruptly as she started, she stopped replying to my messages and answering my calls. It was as if she had never been there, as if we had never met at all.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years that were filled with anxiety, worry, and a gnawing fear that lingered in the deepest corners of my heart. Nights blurred by like cobwebs brushed aside, and I finally had to accept the painful truth: she was gone.

Then one evening, after three long years, I saw her—or someone who triggered the same emotions within me, flicking all the right switches just the way she used to. Every feeling I thought I had buried came rushing back in an overwhelming flood.

It wasn’t easy to block out the memory of that evening or the image of the woman I saw, especially when the money she had given me still lay carefully placed on my nightstand, held in place by my reading lamp. It was the last thing I saw before closing my eyes at night, and the first thing I noticed each morning. I couldn’t stop wondering why she seemed so familiar, or why it felt like that Saturday wasn’t the first time we met. 

As the days went by, it felt more like I was remembering who she was. Each vision of her brought me closer to the impossible conclusion that I had known her before, that I had loved her before—in another time, in a different place.

And today, I saw her again. While I stood frozen, trying to figure out if she was real or an illusion, she glanced over her shoulder and raised her eyebrows at me. The message was clear: ‘Have we met before?’

But before my eyebrows could give their own response, she looked away and hurried into the aircraft, turning towards the business-class cabin.

Great. Now I couldn’t wait to get in too. I wondered what her seat number would be. Was she traveling alone? Would she be sitting beside me? I would’ve given anything to have her sit next to me. Then I would allow her to recall, or remind her myself if she was finding it difficult. God, the anticipation—it was as if I had stepped off the edge of a cliff, and even though my heart was in my mouth and my stomach in knots, I was the most excited I had ever been in my life. 

As I entered the business-class cabin, my eyes darted around, searching for her, my anticipation building until I was nearly breathless. Where was she?

“Excuse me,” a female voice said behind me, and I felt a jolt of excitement surge through me. Finally… I turned, only to be met with disappointment. It wasn’t her.

“Excuse me?” the fair-skinned, middle-aged woman repeated, her voice laced with discomfort. I realized I’d been blocking her path, staring for an uncomfortably long time.

“Oh, sorry,” I mumbled, stepping aside so she could pass and find her seat. She wasn’t here. My heart sank as I glanced down at my phone, which had just chimed with an incoming message from my mother about the family chauffeur that would be waiting for me at Abuja International Airport.

“Sir. Excuse me, sir,” another female voice called from behind, this time an attendant, just as the overhead speaker announced for everyone to take their seats and prepare for the flight.

“You can’t find your seat number?” she asked, her tone polite but curious.

Of course, I could find my seat, I just couldn’t find her. I was so sure it was her. That face, those eyes… I’d never forget them. She was there, and when she turned and saw me, I could almost feel her breath from across the space, the ground solid beneath us.

“Sir?” the attendant repeated, pulling me out of my reverie.

“Huh?” I replied, disoriented.

“Your seat number… Can I see your ticket?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, frowning as I handed her my boarding pass. Maybe I had imagined it. I’d been imagining countless scenarios of meeting her again. Just yesterday, I’d let my mind wander, fantasizing about the first words I’d say to her, and what her reply might be.

“Seat number four…” the attendant read, handing my boarding pass back. “There,” she pointed to an empty window seat beside a woman in a screaming pink jumpsuit, her face lowered to her phone.

“Thanks,” I muttered and headed toward the seat. 

The woman, a Nollywood actress, moved her legs to allow me passage. But just as I was about to sit down, something caught my eye, a figure through the parted curtain where another attendant had just entered.

It was her! She was in the first seat in the third row on the left wing of the economy cabin. 

My anticipation soared again. Should I go to her now or wait until we landed? What if she disappeared again? What if it wasn’t really her, just my imagination playing tricks on me?

But this wasn’t my imagination. I was sure I’d seen her through the parted curtains. It was her.

I sat in disbelief as the overhead speaker instructed passengers to fasten their seat belts and prepare for takeoff. The woman beside me was making an angry phone call, her voice rising and falling with frustration. I checked my watch—8:53 a.m. The flight was scheduled for 9:00. I pulled out my AirPods, plugged one into my ear, took one last glance toward the parted curtain, and finally leaned back. Ready or not, it was time to go home.

Home. King’s Castle Manor. I hadn’t been there since my father threw me out. The thought of returning now, at his death, left a bitter taste in my mouth. I didn’t want to dwell on it. Instead, I steered my thoughts toward her.

Hers was a face I could never forget. Or was it the emotions her image conjured? Hope, excitement, and fear, all tightly woven together, creating something new, something indescribable. Knowing she was on this plane with me, heading to the same destination, stirred something deep inside me, a sensation like swallowing fifty fuzzy caterpillars.

As the plane leveled out and the overhead speaker alerted us to the cloudy weather—it might likely rain again today; it had been raining for days now—I pictured our reunion over and over, playing it out in my mind until it was the only thing I could think of. 

Perhaps there was no greater gift than anticipation, for it was hope in its purest form.

FOUR

Lost and Lovin’ It

Ije

Someone once said that preparing for an impending embarrassment often ends up being the very thing that causes it. I would argue it was the lack of preparation that made it even worse. Like that moment at Abuja airport when I had to explain the awful smell in the toilet to someone who thought I was responsible for it. It was one of those terrible, awkward moments I’d want to forget.

It was drizzling, and I had rushed toward the building a security guard pointed out to me, desperation making me forget all about knocking as I pushed the door open, instantly regretting it. The stench inside was unbearable, making my stomach churn. I quickly took care of my business and bolted out to get some fresh air, feeling like I’d narrowly avoided passing out. But then I saw a woman waiting for her turn. I knew I should have just walked away, but instead, I blurted out, “There’s an odor in there. It’s bad.”

Thinking I had finally escaped that mortifying situation, I tried to pull myself together. I had noticed a guy had been giving me ‘the eye’ since we boarded in Lagos. He was fine, and I could tell he wanted to approach me but hadn’t had the chance yet.

Just as I was starting to feel like myself again, I heard my madam’s voice echo across the luggage claim area.

“Come! What’s that your name again…?” she shouted.

She always pretended not to remember my name.

“Ijeañuli!” she finally called, standing there with her hands on her hips, stomping her feet.

I knew what was coming next and hastened my steps, silently praying she wouldn’t say anything more because I had just spotted the fine guy. But of course, she did, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Are you not supposed to be waiting for my bags? You want me to teach you your job? Will you stop being useless and go get my things!”

I glanced at the fine guy, who had slowed his pace. On his face was a mixture of confusion and disappointment as he looked from my madam to me, then turned around and walked away.

It was official.

This was shaping up to be the Most. Embarrassing. Day. Ever.

Finally, the luggage began to roll past, and I managed to secure all nine bags. 

Thank goodness, my madam was too busy posing for selfies with passersby to notice that a kind stranger had helped me lift the extra-large bags onto the trolley. But there was one major problem: he’d left with his family, and when I tried pushing the trolley, it wouldn’t budge. I tried again; it pushed back. On the third attempt, my legs moved as if I were running on a treadmill.

Ha. Nsogbu.

The way my madam glanced at me when a guard approached to offer help made it clear that I’d lose my job in a minute if I accepted. But honestly, I wished she would just walk out so I could let the guard handle it, at least up to the exit. I’d even tip him nicely.

Summoning every ounce of strength, I tried again. Instead of the wheels moving, three suitcases on top slipped off, crashing to the ground from different angles. 

I could feel my madam’s burning stare piercing through me even before I looked up and met her gaze. I mumbled an apology she probably didn’t hear, refused the hands that offered to help, and picked up one case, placing it back on the trolley. Then another. The third one was the heaviest of the lot. Lifting it nearly knocked the wind out of me. Trying to stack it on top of the already towering pile—someone, please, just kill me now.

By the time I attempted the third lift, murmurs and laughter had erupted around me. I could imagine the onlookers thinking I was one of those angry women on X who would be more willing to break their back than accept help. 

As my madam stole glances at me from a distance where she was engrossed in conversation with someone who looked like a friend or colleague, I thought, “God, I swear I’ll take a vow of silence and move to a monastery to worship you for all my days if you could just, this once provide me with an invisibility cloak. Please, please, invisibility cloak now, before the daughter of Zion is disgraced.”

That desperate prayer was still echoing in my mind when I felt a presence beside me. I turned, and there he was, not the fine guy from earlier, but the same man who had dropped his arm on my head when I was rushing to reach my madam before she boarded. The one who looked at me like I reminded him of a long-lost lover.

“Let me help,” he said.

His voice was confident, commanding, like an unstoppable current of water, flowing past my ears, down my throat, saturating every part of me. He lifted the bag as if it weighed nothing and placed it neatly on the cart. Before I could object, he’d added his own small luggage on top of the bags, to my horror, and began pushing the trolley.

I trailed behind him, half-expecting to hear my madam’s voice screaming her displeasure. But she was still deep in conversation with the man who had captured her attention for so long. 

Hey, God… Please, God. Let her not look my way. Jesus, please, Lord. Too late. She did, and the storm cloud that settled over her face made me certain that by noon, she’d have me plastered on a wanted poster:

“Warning: This girl is a goat o. She is not suitable to work for anybody. Do not allow near you and your establishment.”

“Ehm… sorry… sir, I—” I began, reaching for the trolley’s handle, trying to pull it away from him.

“Ije,” he called, freezing me in my tracks.

How in the world did he know my name? Maybe he guessed, but how did he get it right on the first try?

There was something about him that felt familiar, like I should know him beyond the vague resemblance to the man from that evening in the restaurant, but I couldn’t place it…

“Ije,” he said again, his voice softer, yet just as demanding. “Ijeañuli?”

Who was this dangerously attractive man in black denim pants and a sleeveless sweatshirt that revealed a bold crowned lion head tattoo on one arm and an arrow on the other, moving with a gentleman’s manners, yet with an air of barely suppressed danger about him? He looked like every good girl’s secret dream—refined with just the right touch of wildness.

“Ije, it’s me! The guy at the restaurant… some months ago, you walked into the restaurant and…” 

I looked him over. Wow! He looked different now—more alive. “It’s you,” I said, a nervous grin spreading across my face as I stole a glance at my madam. She was still engrossed in her conversation.

“Yes,” he replied, his face a blend of hope and disappointment, as if I should have recognized him long before that day. 

There was something familiar about him, something that tugged at the edges of my memory. “We’ve met before,” I murmured, my gaze dropping to my shoes, then I glanced quickly at the spot where my madam had been standing just moments ago. She must have left with the man she was talking to because they were nowhere to be seen. This meant I had to go find her before she went full Jezebelia on me. However, at that moment, I was caught in this puzzle, and if I walked away from it earlier than I should, I might lose something precious.

“I think I know you from…not just the restaurant but—” My memory was playing a cruel game on me again, teasing me with glimpses of recognition before slipping away.

“It’s been years,” he said with a sigh, and then came that heart-stopping grin. “Can I hug you?” He placed a hand on my shoulder, drawing me close, and before I could process what was happening, my head was bobbing in affirmation, and he pulled me into his arms. “You just disappeared. You stopped replying to my messages.”

As he held me, I felt like I’d finally come home, like all the layers around my head were disintegrating away like paint chips falling into oblivion and the only sounds were those of my heart and his. Thump. Thump. Thump. Even the coldness in my feet from the wet shoes had all but vanished. I couldn’t quite understand what had come over me. Maybe the intense shock and confusion of everything all coagulated into one spot to form an abscess on top of everything that had happened in these few hours of meeting him at the Lagos airport and now. I shivered in his arms. He didn’t let go. Instead, he held me tighter, his hands gently stroking my back and the nape of my neck, as if coaxing my disoriented and scared mind to catch up. Gradually, as the shock began to wear off, my body started to understand what was happening. It was incredible. No man had ever held me like this before. 

Against my better judgment, I wrapped my arms around him, my heart pounding so hard I knew he must have felt it. He smelled of warmth, excitement, and a distant, elusive love. The ocean of exhilaration that swept over me was overwhelming—a particular kind of horror, feeling such powerful emotions without the memories to anchor them.

I still couldn’t fully remember who he was, but I knew who he wasn’t—a wizard sent by my stepmother to steal my destiny. 

In his arms, I felt special, as if we were old lovers cruelly separated by jealous forces, now reunited after many years.

“Wait—” I pulled back slightly, looking up into his face… that jawline and cheekbones and skin a rich, deep shade of brown. And his eyes set beneath well-defined brows that arched with a natural grace. And then it hit me. I knew this man. From Facebook. The profile picture, the intimate chats. We had stopped communicating. I didn’t know why. But I remembered the day I stumbled upon those old messages earlier this year and reached out. He never replied.

What happened? Where did we start? And when did we end?

His name was Ifeanyi. I remembered that from his Facebook profile. “I remember you,” I murmured, and his smile widened. “I read some of our chats.” 

The emotions in every word we wrote to each other came flooding back. Each time I reread those chats, especially the last ones he sent—the ones I ignored for a very long time—I felt both honored and loved, but mostly confused because my memory held only a few broken fragments of the feelings and longings he wrote about. 

There had been something beautiful and heart-thumping about the way we addressed each other as ‘strangers,’ even though our conversations were a little intimate. 

As I stared into his handsome face, overwhelmed by the same glorious hit of ecstasy, like the opposite of being struck by a frying pan, I felt a profound sense of familiarity wash over me.

Something intimate must have happened between us, and though we stopped communicating at one point, what we had was never truly severed. “Were we… in a relationship?” 

Did we have a fight and ghost each other? Did he leave me for another girl, and I found out and got mad? 

There was nothing in our Facebook chat that indicated a heartbreaking fallout. I simply just… stopped talking to him. “Did we… What was it that we shared?”

His brows furrowed in confusion, and his mouth struggled to form words that wouldn’t come. 

It was as if I had just shattered a carefully constructed reality he had held onto for years. He blinked a few times, trying to process the questions, his gaze searching my face for any sign that I was joking or teasing him. But when he found only sincerity, his shock deepened, and a flicker of hurt crossed his eyes.

It was now painfully clear to him that I didn’t remember him, didn’t remember us—beyond the fragments of our chat and that fleeting encounter in the restaurant. 

His confusion deepened into something more heartbreaking, and I cursed the accident that shattered this part of my memory, leaving behind pieces rolling around in the empty chambers of my mind, shedding fleeting bits of color, a sentence, a fragrance, something that emerged briefly, only to vanish into the void.

I looked into his confused eyes and inwardly wept. 

He didn’t know that I was standing before him, a stranger to the blissful past we seemed to have shared. And yet, when he held me, I felt a connection so strong it was as if the remnants of our past were reaching out, trying to bridge the chasm my memory loss had created. I needed to know what we were before it all happened, and the weight of that question hung heavily between us.

“Ije!” he called my name, his voice a firm breath, like a touch that didn’t just want to feel but needed to dig into this moment, to see if it was real. “What is going on? What happened to you?”

I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored exit door a distance away, and I saw a woman disappearing. It would have been easier if I simply vanished at that moment because the longer I stood there, feeling so deeply connected to this man yet uncertain of our past, the more transparent I became—until, eventually, I feared I’d be nothing more than a wisp of a ghost. How much more convenient it would be, how much easier for both of us, if my body just melted away along with my mind. Then, maybe I’d know where we started, both literally and metaphysically.

“Ije, what happened?” he asked again, just as my madam burst through the exit, fury blazing across her face.

“What the hell! Are you planning to disappear with my luggage or something? And who the fuck is this man?” she demanded, marching forward.

“Sorry, ma’am,” I muttered, reaching to take control of the trolley handle, but Ifeanyi held on, refusing to let go. 

Surprisingly, my madam didn’t object. She simply gave him a sharp once-over, acknowledged his courteous nod, and turned away, walking briskly toward the exit.

“I have a ride waiting for me,” he said as we stepped outside, heading toward the parking lot. It was still drizzling. “Ride with me. We have so much to talk about.”

I shook my head, torn. “I—my madam,” I murmured, glancing at my boss who had already slid into a waiting black Toyota Prado, a rental I guessed, since I hadn’t seen it before. “I’m her PA.”

The trunk of the SUV was already open as we approached, and I watched in silence as he carefully loaded the luggage inside. “Thank you,” I said softly when he finished, but he didn’t let go of my hand.

“I have been searching for you. We need to talk. Please,” he urged.

I nodded, knowing there was so much left unsaid, so much I wanted to know. “How do I find you? Tell me where you’re staying.”

Before he could answer, my madam’s impatient voice cut through the moment.

Realizing we wouldn’t achieve anything in the short time we had, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek card case, flipping it open to retrieve a card. He handed it to me, his eyes pleading. “Call me. Please.”

I nodded again and turned to enter the car, but stopped, and walked back to him. “I—I lost part of my memory in an accident,” I whispered, my voice trembling with the weight of the confession. I didn’t wait for him to recover from the shock of what he just heard, I walked back to the car and slid in.

FIVE

Lost and Found: A Journey Back to You

Ifeanyi

I rode home in the family’s SUV that my mother and sister insisted on waiting for me at the airport, wondering why this journey, this path I was on, had also led me back to her, hoping this decision—to do the right thing by my family, to prove myself to my father, whose soul I knew was watching—would somehow bring me back to the place where I truly belonged. Because that was what I realized after our brief but intense encounter: I belonged with her.

Just the slightest bit of her attention, after all these years, sent liquid fire through my veins. I couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to kiss her, to finally place my hands on her the way I had teased her about. She had laughed and warned me to be careful of what I wished for. But now, the thought of it made my skin buzz violently.

Since that first “Hello, stranger” she sent after I mistook her for someone else, I had been haunted by my fierce attraction to her. She had gotten into my blood, into the very depths of me. This girl, who, when we video-called, would stare at me so candidly, smile so beautifully, her voice like a soothing lullaby, making me yearn for the slide of her fingers over my skin. And yet, I knew it wasn’t right to think that way as I felt she might have been mercy sent, a glimpse of a new life and hope, only to leave me after. 

This gentle young woman, who, when I lamented about my dark past and how no woman who knew where I’d been or what I’d done would risk dating me, told me so guilelessly that if we were physically close, she would have shown me how foolish my fears were because she already had given me her heart. All that was left, she said with a smile, was for me to physically claim her.

She had wanted me to take the “physically claiming” part as a joke, but I couldn’t even when she stopped responding, and I waited and waited, until I finally stopped opening the Facebook app when it became clear she’d disappeared from my life. I couldn’t find joy in that space anymore. And years later, I haven’t been able to go back.

“I lost a part of my memory in an accident,” she confessed to me.

Her words were startling. But they brought answers and relief. She hadn’t just walked away and forgotten us. Something cruel had torn us apart. Such wickedness.

I wasn’t sure if she remembered how we began, how we moved from being strangers to lovers who danced around their feelings, joking about them but never quite admitting the truth. But I knew one thing: she understood that I was the one person she had always loved. Her body told me that when I held her. I lost myself in the instant connection we shared, making me realize how deeply my longing for her ran.

My Ije. The ship destined to both save and wreck me.

She kept me worried for days after I pleaded that she should call me. But when she finally reached out, one night after I just ended a meeting with my father’s lawyer, and was weighed down by the responsibility I now faced and the fear of failing, her voice was like a balm, the perfect distraction. It felt as if she were right there with me on the balcony, sitting on my lap, her scent filling the air, dissolving all my worries in the comfort of her presence.

“I reached out to you,” she said, after explaining the accident that had taken her memory, and we spoke about us, about our relationship. “I feel like I was in love with you,” she confessed, surprising me with the unexpected honesty.

I wanted to respond immediately, but the words caught in my throat. Finally, I whispered, “You are my world.”

She was like a child, curious but with a hazy, half-formed understanding, eager to know more about the things she had read in our old chats—if I ever came for her like I said I would. That last message I sent, the one she never responded to…she had read it more times than she could count and had responded.

I didn’t know that. I hadn’t opened Facebook in years.

“I’ll make it up to you,” I promised, wishing I could hold her delicate hands in mine. “I swear, I’ll make sure you remember every day how much I love you, how humbled I am by your angelic touch. You saved me from myself, Ije. I was drowning, getting clean, and relapsing—”

“Getting clean from what?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.

I was momentarily confused. How much of our chats had she read? Did she know nothing about the man I used to be? She had no idea I was once an addict, a rebel who stole money to feed my habits, the spoiled brat who plotted his own sister’s kidnapping to squeeze money from his father. She didn’t know about the depressed man who attempted suicide twice. To her, I was new, untouched by my past. And strangely, that felt like a gift. But it also felt like a curse. I wanted her to know everything, to remember everything about me, so she could choose me again, as she did before, when I was trying to be a better man.

So, I told her everything—the addict who would steal from anyone to blow drugs, the entitled fool who caused his family so much pain, the rebel who was thrown out of boarding school and later beat up two caregivers in Amsterdam. I told her about the broken man who reached out to an old classmate on Facebook, only to find her instead.

She was silent for a while. My heart pounded, the world spinning around me, beneath me, inside me. The only thing that kept me from falling apart was the soft sound of her breathing on the other end of the line, connecting us in a way that felt almost physical.

Finally, she spoke, her voice tentative. “It’s such a long chat. I hadn’t been able to read all the way to the top. You said I reached out to you first?”

“Yes,” I replied.

Another pause.

“You healed,” she said, as if recalling it slowly. “You got better. You were in school at some point… I read that in our chat. And you wanted to come to Nigeria…”

“To see you,” I interrupted, my voice thick with emotion. “Because I was in love with you. I still am. You taught me how to love without fear, how to feel loved without torment. Because of you, I found a sense of responsibility. I’m better now. I’m good.”

I told her about the job that brought me back to Nigeria, how I had kept her pictures—those she had sent me—close, and how I looked for her everywhere I went. I told her I dialed the number she had given me, the one that stopped connecting the same time she stopped replying to my messages. I told her about my father’s death and the legacy he left for me, the hope he had in me, the love he had for me even when I couldn’t see it.

I told her how much I needed her. Not because I was dependent on her strength, I had finally found mine, but because I didn’t want to do life without her. Now that I had found her, I was completely enthralled by her. I wanted every part of her, and I desperately hoped she felt the same way.

“What do you say?” I asked, my voice trembling with anticipation when she remained silent.

“W-what? Oh. Can I come and see you? I mean, not at your house if that would be—” she chuckled nervously, “—but somewhere. I need to, I want to. I feel like we should—”

“Yes!” I interrupted, my heart pounding with excitement. “Tell me where you are, and I’ll come pick you up myself.

SIX

The story of us rewritten

Ifeanyi

What was this intangible force that could wreak such havoc on our lives? This fragile thread that connected heart and mind, and at the slightest tremor, could take hold of my sanity, dragging the afflicted into the depths of despair or hurling them to euphoric heights? What was this magic we called imagination, this fantasy that effortlessly controlled us, awakening desires in an instant, ignited by a single word after years apart? A force that could rekindle a thousand memories with just one or two accidental meetings after endless lonely nights. 

To resist it was futile.

To suppress it was unthinkable.

To master it? Impossible, and pretentious, to even consider.

What was this invisible hand that blinded our eyes and reigned over our hearts with an unbreakable string? Nature’s most potent drug and poison, the essence of emotion.

“Hello, stranger,” I breathed as she walked out of the gate to meet me outside the hotel, where she insisted that I wait for reasons best known to her. For a moment, I was grateful for the darkness which hid the trembling excitement that coursed through me.

“Hello, stranger,” she replied, stopping in front of me. She was dressed carefully, as if she wanted to be perfect for me. But it wasn’t the dress that made me exhale a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl, it was her. She was beautiful in every way. I was sure she would always be attractive to me, whether she dressed up, dressed down, or not dressed at all.

“Hey, where your mind dey?” she called, her grin widening, pulling my attention back to her.

I drew her into a hug, and she melted into my arms. There was this strange feeling that we were stealing this moment, and no matter how tightly I held her, I wouldn’t get enough. Her next words were soft, almost a whisper.

“Do you think we can get back what we lost?”

“Ije, we only lost years, but I never stopped loving you,” I murmured against her hair. “You’ve been in my mind, my blood, my very soul…so alive in my thoughts, so beautiful to me. Please, let me finish,” I added, placing a finger across her lips when she tried to interrupt. She nodded, her eyes locked on mine, my arm still firmly around her waist. “Every time I think of you, or look at your pictures on my phone, it wrecks me. Our conversations, the way you were with me…you were just so real, and you teased me in the sweetest way. There was not enough time on any day to think about you as much as I wanted to. I was crazy about you. I still am. You have no idea what these years without you were like for me—the torture. When I met you at the airport and learned about your memory loss, I—I somehow became jealous because you weren’t suffering the way I was. You weren’t thinking about me, wondering if I’d left you for someone else, if I’d stopped loving you because I realized you weren’t worth it…”

“You’re wrong,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “I suffered more. Even now, I’m still there. With you here, saying these things to me, stirring this fire inside me…do you know what I spent all the time I didn’t call you doing?”

“No,” I whispered, desperate to know.

“I was wondering if I was imagining these feelings, this overwhelming sensation that seeing you, hearing you, being in your arms evoked in me. Did we really have what you said we had, or was it all a creation of my mind, pieced together from fragments of other memories, remnants that survived the destruction of everything else?” Her eyes searched mine, seeking confirmation or denial, then continued. “In the end, I rejected the idea.”

“Why?” I asked.

“The memories you painted were too perfect. Take away just one detail, and they collapse into chaos.”

“Ije, my Ije—”

She placed her hand on my chest, stroking it softly. “Let’s leave here. I don’t want my madam to find out I’m leaving the hotel tonight. I’ve switched off my phone. I’ll turn it back on once you drive away,” she muttered, moving past me toward the car.

But I couldn’t let her go just yet. I grabbed her hand and gently swung her back towards me, guiding her to lean against the car. Then, without hesitation, I kissed her slowly, with all the intensity that had been building up inside me. My thumb traced the line of her jaw, down her throat, while my hips pressed her against the car. It was too soon, I knew that. I should have been helping her remember us, not assaulting her mouth with my desperate need. But I kissed her because, after all these years apart, it was all I had thought about. The moment our lips met, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.

She didn’t resist. Instead, a soft moan escaped her lips, and I seized the moment, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her head back, deepening the kiss. Her hands found their way to my head, holding me in place as she kissed me back with equal hunger, equal desperation. Every touch, every sigh, every movement was filled with a need to remember who we were, to reclaim what we had lost. I kissed her with a longing to be remembered, to be wanted, to be worthy of her. It was an all-consuming fire, devouring everything—worry, loneliness, fear, time, even thought itself.

When I finally pulled back, breathless, I gazed into her eyes. “Ije, I love you. Do you see that now? Do you?”

She didn’t answer immediately, but the way she held my gaze spoke volumes. Finally, she nodded, then collapsed into my arms. “I may not remember everything, but I can feel it, Ifeanyi. I think I love you too. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Yes, my love. I’ll help you,” I promised. Even if she couldn’t remember, I would spend my life making her fall in love with me all over again.

We kissed again, our hearts soaring to a place where there was no pain, no fear, just warmth and acceptance.

This time, she was the one who pulled away, touching her lips as she glanced over her shoulder. “We have to go now,” she said. “My madam—”

“Leave her,” I interrupted.

“What?” she asked, surprised.

“Work for me. My father’s companies…you can choose any branch, any position you want, in any state—Abuja, Port Harcourt, Lagos, Enugu.”

“You don’t mean that,” she said with a playful grin.

“I mean every word. Work for me. Be my PA, or whatever you want…just stay close to me.”

She wrapped her arms around me, her excitement bubbling over like a child. “This is so sweet! Wait until I tell Emelda.”

“Who’s Emelda?” I asked.

“My roommate! We’re like sisters. She’ll be so thrilled.”

I smiled against her hair, and she playfully bit down on my shoulder, sending shivers through me.

“Hey…why did you do that?”

“Just a few days ago, I was afraid you were an evil spirit sent to steal my destiny,” she said with a mischievous smile. 

“Jesus! W-why. What did I do?”

“I gave you 2k, and since then, I’ve been having this dream.” She brushed past me and opened the car door. “Abeg, I’ll tell you about the dream later. Not now. I have a feeling this night will be one of my best nights. It will be an unforgettable one for me.”

For us. It will be unforgettable for us, I silently vowed, knowing I would make sure of it.

Rosemary Okafor’s Bio:

Once a journalist and an academia before venturing into writing because she simply loves telling stories, Rosemary Okafor began writing short romance stories just for the fun of it. Now she is identified as a Nigerian provocative romance storyteller whose works are colored with generous doses of thriller, suspense, steam and humor because, hey, we all need to smile.

When she is not writing, she is busy gardening and managing her family’s business.

If you have enjoyed this story, then check out this author’s other books:

Paradise: A Twin Bliss Resort Novel

Many Waters: The Soldier Story Book 1

God, Michael and Me 

Akwaugo 

Amongst A Thousand Stars 

One More Night

Black White Blur: A romantic psychological thriller.