The moment Adaobi first locked eyes with Chuka, it felt as if fate had finally exhaled. It was at her cousin’s wedding in Enugu. Chuka, with his confident Igbo accent and carefully tailored kaftan, looked like he belonged in a Nollywood movie—except this wasn’t a movie. It was real life, and for once, it felt perfect.
Adaobi had been the Lagos girl with ambitions sharper than razors, working as a marketing executive in a tech startup. She believed in hard work, Sunday services, and the power of silence over unnecessary drama. Chuka was a civil engineer who had just returned from Port Harcourt, where he worked on oil site projects. They bonded over suya and palm wine, but what truly connected them was trust.
Chuka had a calming presence. He listened. He cared. In a world that always demanded more from Adaobi, Chuka felt at home. Six months later, their introduction was done traditionally, the bride price paid, and the wedding was set for December—“Ember weddings,” they laughed.
But Lagos had a way of testing love.
Adaobi started noticing changes in Chuka. Once open and chatty, he became quiet. He often claimed he was stressed from work or tired from travelling. His phone, once casually thrown on the bed, was now always in his pocket, locked with a new password. When she asked him about it, he smiled faintly. “It’s just for privacy. Work things. Nothing serious.”
Still, Adaobi trusted him. She had to.
But trust, as they say, is like glass. Once cracked, it might still hold, but it will never be the same.
One rainy Friday evening, she received a DM on Instagram from a girl named Ijeoma. The message read: “Sis, I don’t mean to disrespect, but are you the one engaged to Chuka? Because I’ve been dating him for over a year, and I’m tired of the lies.”
Adaobi's heart went numb. At first, she thought it was a prank. Then came the screenshots—chats, photos, and voice notes. One was a video of Chuka calling Ijeoma “my wife-to-be.”
Everything froze.
Adaobi didn’t reply. That night, she took a cab to Chuka’s apartment in Ikeja, her heart thumping louder than the thunder outside. He was home, and when she showed him the messages, he didn’t deny them. He simply sighed and said, “It was a mistake. I met her before you, but I chose you. I just didn’t know how to end it.”
“Choose you? Like an option?” Adaobi felt the betrayal sting her like pepper in a wound. The wedding plans, the prayers, the dreams—they were all built on a shaky foundation that had now cracked open. She walked out into the rain that night, her engagement ring slipping from her finger into the gutter, a symbol of her broken trust.
But it didn’t end there.
Two weeks later, Chuka showed up at her office with his mother.
An elderly Igbo woman with tribal marks and pleading eyes sat across from Adaobi and begged, “Nwa m, don’t destroy this. My son was foolish, but his heart is with you. Ijeoma is nothing. You are the one I’ve prayed for.”
Adaobi looked at the woman, then at Chuka. She saw fear in his eyes—not fear of losing her love, but fear of losing a good image.
It hit her.
Chuka didn’t fear losing her love; he feared losing her loyalty. He feared scandal. He feared disgrace. It wasn’t love; it was ego.
She stood up slowly, her voice calm but fierce. “Mama, I respect you. But I will not build my home on deception. Let your son go and fix the mess he created.”
The wedding was cancelled.
Months passed, and the gossip mill churned. Some blamed her—“She should have forgiven him; men will always be men.” Others praised her strength.
Adaobi focused on herself. Therapy. God. Friends. And one day, unexpectedly, healing began.
Then came Tolu—a Yoruba man who had been her secondary school classmate and was now a UX designer. He didn’t come with grand promises, just honesty and a steady, patient love. The kind that didn’t need to be loud because it was already real.
They started again, slowly.
This time, when she trusted, it wasn’t blind.
It was earned.
Because trust may fall apart, but when love is built right, it doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be true.
