This is a Nigerian story, a must-read love story with themes of trust, betrayal, and an unexpected twist ….. all deeply relatable.
You know the way they always say, Love is sweet when you are with the one? That was exactly how it was with Akin.
I met him in the most Nigerian way possible at a wedding where my gele was threatening to cut off my circulation, and his agbada appeared rented. He was the best man; I was the bride’s cousin. I didn’t see him because he was the best man there, he was pleasant. After all, he got up to help an elderly woman carry food when the caterers were overwhelmed. Such acts of generosity are not common in Lagos.
We took each other’s number at the end of the wedding, the beginning of many “Have you eaten?” and “May I call you back? I’m in traffic” calls.
Within six months, we were inseparable. Akin wasn’t wealthy, but he was consistent. He called when he said he would call. Showed up at the moment it mattered. I’d had boys who would say “I miss you” beside another girl in bed. But Akin was home. So when Akin got an offer in Abuja, we both cried, embraced, and promised to make it work.
Long-distance relationships are no joke in Nigeria — with poor network and even poorer transport infrastructure, love starts feeling more like a headache. But we survived alright. Late-night phone calls, random shawarma and zobo delivery, trivial fights about “Who’s that girl who liked your post?” and egregious ones like “Are you even making an effort anymore?” But we stayed at it.
Until that Sunday afternoon.
I was at home in Surulere when I got a message from a random Instagram handle: “Sis, I don’t know you, but I think it’s only fair you know. Check this.”
There was an attached picture. Of Akin… holding hands with another woman. Not just holding hands. They were in church. Matching Ankara. Smiling like a pre-wedding shoot.
My heart fell.
You get that slashing pain starting from your chest and traveling to your stomach as if you ate cold eba? That was I.
I called him. He did not pick up.
I texted. He blue-ticked me.
I walked the house like a madwoman, refilling Instagram, re-reading the message. My best friend, Ijeoma, stopped by and tried to convince me to “take it easy” a classic Nigerian response. Not me. My spirit no gree.
The next day, I requested leave from work and bought a flight to Abuja.
Yes. Me. Flight. N60k. Just to legitimize heartbreak.
When I got to his place, I used the spare key he had given me — the one he said was “proof of trust.” The house was too tidy. Too suspiciously neat. That’s when I saw the present bag on the table. It read: “To my future Mrs., thanks for saying yes.”
I couldn’t breathe.
I left before falling. Slept over at a friend’s place, crying into a pillow and hating myself for loving so blindly. So loudly.
Days passed. He called none. Texted none.
Until one day — two weeks later — he showed up at my gate in Lagos with a bottle of zobo.
The very same one he used to surprise me with.
I should have slammed the gate shut. But curiosity and pain make you mad. I opened the gate for him.
He sat down, held the bottle of zobo like some ancestral offering, and said:
“Zainab, let me explain, please.”
He explained the woman was his cousin.
It was a family Thanksgiving.
That the person who messaged me must have detested him.
And the bag?
Oh, that was for her bridal shower. She’s marrying next month.”
I wanted to believe him. He told it so matter-of-factly, so forcefully. That’s what liars do — they rehearse their shame until it’s scripture.
So, I forgave him.
We reconciled. Slowly. Gingerly. I didn’t trust so easily, but I loved him enough to attempt.
Two months later, his birthday was around the corner. I resolved to surprise him — reserve a restaurant, order a cake with “To the man who held my heart and never let go” written in icing.
I used the service of his friend, Demola.
And that’s where the twist of fate comes in.
Demola was confused on the phone.
“Wait, you and Akin are still together?”
“Yes,” I replied, heart already racing.
“Zee… Akin got married last month. You didn’t know?”
Time froze.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because my head could not understand the betrayal.
Demola sent me a link to wedding photos taken by the same woman from that “cousin” photo. My Akin. In a white agbada. Encircling the same woman as if she were air and he were lungs.
I could not even cry.
I sat on the kitchen floor, staring at my birthday surprise budget, my heart, and the bottle of zobo in the fridge.
One night, I posted a thread on Twitter titled “How I almost married a man who married someone else.” It went viral. Scores of Nigerian women messaged me with similar stories.
It hurt, yes. But somehow, I healed.
I started writing again. Talk to women. Laugh again. Slowly. Honestly.
Now, when people ask me why I never joke with trust, I say to them: because I once dated a man who offered me zobo — and gave another woman jollof using the same spoon.
Moral of the Story:
This might sound cliche- This is not just a Nigerian story, it is a reminder to beware of the filtered photos, sweet talkers, and romantic gestures…trust actions, not zobo. Love can be real but don’t abandon your sense for the sake of someone’s attention. If you’re going to fall in love, carry sense along. Nigerian sense.
