The Path Back to You

Ibukun didn’t believe in fate anymore—not since Tayo left.

Three years had passed since their abrupt breakup, yet she was reminded of him every time she heard the sound of Fuji music drifting from an okada rider's speaker or caught the scent of roasted boli on a bustling Lagos street.

He was her chaos and her calm.

The man who held her like she was a prayer.

And the one who walked away without explanation.

Ibukun had moved on, or so she told herself. She had grown into a fierce, successful woman, hosting her own radio show on Cool FM and inspiring thousands of women with her voice. But in the quiet, in the space between songs and studio laughter, her heart still whispered his name.

Tayo had been her first everything—her first love, her first heartbreak, and the only man who knew that when she cried, she laughed right after, just to stop herself from breaking.

He vanished after a phone call that changed everything.

She remembered the night.

The rain.

The way he held her face like he was memorizing it.

The tremble in his voice when he said, “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

No explanation. No closure.

She hated him for that.

But fate, no matter how stubborn, has a sense of humour.

It was a Saturday morning when Ibukun walked into Bukas & Beans Café on the Island. She just wanted her usual—mocha latte, warm puff-puff, and silence. Instead, she got Tayo.

He was seated at the far corner, looking exactly like the last time she saw him—only heavier with time, eyes darker, beard fuller. He froze when he saw her. The air shifted.

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“Ibukun, please.”

Just her name.

Soft. Shaky. Full of memories.

Against her better judgment, she sat.

He looked at her like a man who’d seen a ghost and hoped it was real. Then, slowly, he told her the truth.

Three years ago, his father was arrested for a crime he didn’t commit. A setup. A powerful man’s way of silencing a whistleblower. His family’s name was dragged through the mud. His younger brother almost died in prison. Tayo had to leave everything—including Ibukun—to protect them. He couldn’t risk bringing her into it.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, voice breaking. “But the threats… they weren’t just legal. They were dangerous. You were the only good thing I had. I thought leaving would keep you safe.”

Her heart ached in places she thought were healed. The pain wasn’t just from what he did—it was from realizing he still loved her. And she still loved him.

But love, no matter how deep, doesn’t erase scars.

“I can’t just forget everything,” she said.

“I’m not asking you to,” he replied. “I’m asking for a chance to earn my way back. Even if the path is long. Even if it means walking it alone.”

Ibukun didn’t give him an answer that day. But she didn’t walk away either.

Over the weeks that followed, he showed up—not with flowers, but with consistency. He called. He listened to her show every day and sent anonymous notes afterwards about her quotes, her laughter, her growth. He sent breakfast on days he knew she’d be tired, books she once mentioned loving, and a single sunflower—the one flower she said reminded her of joy.

Little by little, the cracks softened. The ice melted.

And one evening, as the sun set over Third Mainland Bridge and Lagos glowed like a city reborn, Ibukun sent him a voice note:

“The path back to me isn’t straight. It’s full of twists. But… I think I’m ready to see where it leads.”

And just like that, love—bruised but breathing—found its way home.