On my wedding day, a black bat flew into the church and hovered around the ceiling for a few minutes. The ushers ran around trying to get it out of the church to no avail. People observed the drama and forgot about the ongoing vows for a moment. Immediately, Kola slipped the ring on my finger, and the bat flew into one of the rolling fans and was tossed to the ground. Some of its blood splashed on the train of my wedding dress.

I chuckled, and from the corner of my eyes, I saw my mother recoil and mutter a prayer. On the day Kola and I were supposed to leave for our honeymoon, she dragged us to a prayer house. The prophet drew the sign of the cross on our foreheads and rang his bell seven times.

Then he stopped.

He tightened the rope around his waist, stared straight into my eyes, and whispered:

‘Confess.’

I smirked.

‘Repent!’ he roared.

I looked back at my mother and it was just as I had expected. She clutched her Bible and gulped whilst keeping a reasonable distance from me.

Mama had always been suspicious of me. From the day she found a feral cat in my wardrobe, to the day she caught me reading The Addams Family by Jack Sharkey. She'd arrange spontaneous prayer vigils and cast out demons from her children with one eye open, looking at me. By the time I was twenty-four, I had established a rehabilitation centre for women who were victims of domestic abuse. My name found a place in newspapers and headlines. And for each interview I attended, I wore my best colour. Black. Inspired by my favourite book character. Apart from that, I believed black was a regal colour that embodied class.

‘Black is a bad colour; it's for mourning.’ She'd say.

‘Are we not black people? Does that make us bad?’

She'd kiss her teeth and storm out of the room.

My twenty-sixth birthday was fast approaching. She called me and asked me when I would introduce the man in my life to them. I burst into laughter and almost choked.

‘I'm never getting married.’

She sprawled on the floor and placed her two hands on her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks as if I had just plunged a dagger through her heart.

‘I didn't kill my mother, so you won't kill me!’ she cried.

I rolled my eyes and continued painting my nails. I had already told her the same when I was twelve. Since the day Papa came with another woman and made my mother serve them pepper soup. Since the day he left her face swollen and blamed her for not being a good and pleasurable wife when she called a family meeting. Both families supported Papa. Grandma dragged her to the kitchen and told her, ‘That's how marriage is. You have to endure to be a good wife.’

And that was what she did.

Yet, Mama smiled the widest after Papa died.

I met Kola when he made a huge donation to my foundation. One of the first things he said to me when we met was:

‘Kola, Lola. Our names rhyme.’

He attended our various programmes, and when called to speak, he spoke with so much depth and empathy. I knew he was the one, so I asked him out for dinner.

‘Does this mean we're official now?’ he asked, wiping his lips.

‘Friends go out for dinners. Going out doesn't mean we're dating.’ I replied.

‘So we're friends now, right?’ he quizzed.

I replied with a smile.

Our friendship ended when he finally confessed his feelings. I wasn't the type to play hard to get, so I introduced him to my family during my cousin's traditional wedding a month later. I could see Mama heave a sigh of relief when she saw him. Our wedding was scheduled for the next three months.

After the prayer house saga, we dashed to the airport. We'd have missed our flight if we hadn't. Mama tried to convince us to stay, but I wasn't ready to be a part of any spontaneous prayer vigil that night. I knew my mother too well. The past few days had been stressful; all I wished for was some peace of mind. When we returned from our trip three weeks later, I was pregnant. Mama didn't say it, but I knew she suspected that I was pregnant before the wedding. To her, that was the worst thing a woman could do and she always expected the worst from me.

Within the next five years, we had three new additions to our family. However, fire could turn the reddest rose black.

After the birth of our last child and first daughter, Princess, Mama came to take care of me. According to tradition, mothers would massage the belly of their daughters to prevent sagging. Mama's eyes widened when she saw bruises on my back.

‘What is this!’ she screamed.

‘What does it look like?’ I asked, scowling.

Something strolled past her eyes and I could recognise it. I took a deep breath and placed my hands on her shoulder.

‘I'll take care of this,’ I said, covering myself with a bathrobe.

‘I hope you do not want to divorce him? It doesn't benefit women at all. At least endure for the sake of your children,’ she said.

‘Like the way you endured for us?’

Her shoulders dropped.

‘Yes.’

At that moment, I knew life had its own special way of breaking wings.

‘Okay, mummy.’

Today, Princess turned two and I'd just sent Kola on a long vacation to Kuje Prison. Not without full custody of my children though. During the court session, my mother's eyes were filled with tears.

‘Why didn't you listen to me?’ she asked.

‘So my children won't end up like me.’

She refused to speak to me ever since.

My own mother thought I was a monster; she was right, of course.

I met Kayode exactly two years ago at a church conference. That was where we met but not when we started speaking, so maybe the correct term is, ‘I saw Kayode’. I had told myself it was a coincidence, so when Kayode wouldn’t stop staring after the conference had ended and everyone was networking, I decided to take a bold step and walk towards him. The funny thing was, I didn’t plan on stopping to speak to him; please, I wasn’t that bold, at least not then. Plus, he was having a conversation with someone, so it would have been rude to interrupt. This was my genius plan: walk towards him while I hold his stare, smile, and then walk right past him, giving him a chance to take in the floral scent I was wearing.

What I didn’t expect as I walked past, almost at the completion of my mission, was that I'd get startled by the most handsome voice I had ever heard, that it would distract me, and that I’d bump into someone and cause a mini scene. Thankfully, no one was hurt and when the people around us gave their choreography of sorries, the only voice I heard was that of Kayode.

Now, it's up to you to decide for yourself whether it’s ‘met’ or ‘saw’, but that was our first encounter. I didn’t see Kayode until two months later. I should have mentioned that the conference was held in Abuja where different branches came together. I live in Lagos and at that time I guessed Kayode stayed in Abuja because I had never seen him at the branch in Lagos.

Two months later, After service, on a Sunday afternoon, I made the wrong decision of joining the cluster of people rushing out to get to their sunned-up cars. On that particular day, Joyce, my church best friend, had told me that she was ill and wasn’t coming to church, which meant I had to sit alone and I had to waltz out alone or join the cluster and be gone as fast as I could after church. I chose the latter, which reminded me of the reason Joyce and I always stayed behind and waited. You probably have it figured out, so, yes, I got pushed by this woman trying to get her child to pass through the forest of people. This caused me to bump into the person by my side. I gave myself a solemn promise never to take this decision again, and when I looked beside me to apologize, behold, I saw Kayode, and, of course, being a man of cliche lines as I now know him to be, Kayode’s first words to me were, ‘Always clumsy, I see.’ It was definitely his voice and his smile that made the irritation from the incident that had occurred disappear because I looked at him and smiled. Kayode, always the gentleman, walked me outside, and after a brief conversation, we parted ways. Two more things I should spill before I go further. That year, I was on a journey of singleness, finding myself, loving me as God wants me to be loved, and growing my relationship with God. Second, I friend-zoned most of the men in my life, and Kayode was no exception.

My parents had the most beautiful love I had ever seen and they started as friends. I knew right from when I turned twenty and had ended my fifth relationship that if I wanted what my parents had, the man in question needed to be my friend first. And so months later, after Kayode and I spoke about life and values and everything we wanted aligned, I did what I would normally do: I made Kayode my best friend, which made him the head of my friendzone group.

People being typical, they paired us together. His mom who later became my darling friend would give us the eyes of ‘you people should be together already’. As each month passed, the deeper into my friend zone Kayode got, and the less I forgot that I had a huge crush on this man. We never spoke about feelings, and on some days, I got confused if Kayode liked me or not.

The confusion ended when Kayode met this girl, Jessica, from our church. I'd mock Kayode about her and he would assure me it was nothing serious. Meanwhile, I was getting therapy. Here’s the reason why: I later came to realize that though part of the reason I friend-zoned these men was because I wanted my parents’ story, and the other reason was that I had been hurt in my last relationship, hurt so bad that I cut out the emotions that were tied to feelings. My therapist said it was the fear of getting hurt.

Weeks passed and Kayode’s face showed up less at my house, our conversations got less frequent too, and I found out from Joyce that there was a rumor about Kayode and Jessica dating. I never asked Kayode to clarify, and I also did the opposite of what my therapist said. I stepped away and convinced myself that I was happy for Kayode.

Kayode and I didn’t speak for months. One day I saw Kayode at a work dinner. I was dolled up in a white dress, and I heard Kayode's soothing voice at my back as he called my name, ‘Alex,’ and threw a compliment. I realized then that I had missed this man. We spoke. He made no mention of Jessica. I summoned the courage and I asked him. He told me that they were never together because he was in love with someone else but that someone didn’t want him back. I was usually quick, but it took me a while to realize that he was speaking about me. In that moment all I could think to myself was ‘why did it take this long to realize that I’m in love with this man?’

‘I’m in love with you too,' knowing I meant it.

Christmas Eve in the Okongwu family is a literal bloody mess. This year, you are both relieved and guilty that you are not going to be a part of it. That's what financial freedom can do for a person. You have only been a ‘salary earner’ for about eight months now, and no one in your family has called to ask if you would be back in time to help wash and roast the cow meat. You would miss it though; your father and his brothers bantering over the chaos of slaughtering the cow, your mother and her sister in-laws and their false display of love, your younger cousins running around people's legs and throwing sand in the air, trading tales with your cousins while stacking firewood. You would miss it, but you could live without it. That's why you didn't take the last bus back to Enugu yesterday. That's why you've timed your departure from Lagos, to the last second. Jesus was born to make life easier, please.

It's 5 am, but the park is already teeming with people: loaders pulling protesting passengers towards their buses, hawkers selling bread and tea, and akara, and rice. It's so early you wonder if these people slept at all. The air is thick with urine and stale sweat, and you can feel the dull throbs of a headache coming on. Your palms are aching from manoeuvring your two big traveling bags through the crowd. You already regret the Christmas gift shopping spree you went on. All you desperately want right now is to stretch your legs inside the bus and sleep through the journey.

You make it to your bus in time to pay for the last seat, the driver and his loaders are in so much haste they don't even remember to charge you for your load. You had been rehearsing your haggling tactics, but now you bite your tongue and thank your stars. You're thinking about how great the morning is going, when the bus groans to life and sputters to a halt the same instant. The driver turns the key again, this time it doesn't even budge. The throbbing in your head has become an ache, the commotion in the park that you've shut out is suddenly playing on max. The passengers groan in sync.

‘Oya, everybody come down, we are bringing another bus now now.’

The driver jumps down from the bus, he is a swift hustler. You're suddenly homesick. There is a sudden racket as everyone struggles to get down from the bus and protect their luggage.

You are sitting on the bag containing your clothes, talking to your mother on the phone, when a skinny ashy hand taps your laps. You are face-to-face with gangliest boy you've ever seen. His cheeks are sunken and under the first streaks of morning light; his eyes look empty and sallow. Afterwards, when you think of a deep, dark void, it's his eyes that come to mind. He allows you to finish your call before he squats besides you and circles his hands around your arm. You're dazed at first; he is strange yet familiar. When you get yourself, you try to shrug off his hands, but he grabs your arm even tighter. His grip is surprisingly strong. He looks like a mild wind can snap him into two. You think he is about to beg for money, so you reach into your purse and shove five hundred naira towards him. He has a stench on him, his sweater feels damp, and it feels like you might get scabies if he holds on to you much longer. He glances from the money in your hand back to you, and shakes his head.

‘Help me,’ he mouths, and the urgency in his eyes sets off an alarm in your head. ‘Please pretend you're my family, don't let them take me.’ He is pulling at your arm now. It might have been the icy harmattan cold, but you're rooted to a spot, and until he repeats himself in Igbo, do you feel yourself begin to thaw, your mind churning to action.

You believe he must have heard you talking to your mother in Igbo, and you feel a rush of protectiveness towards him; one lonely Igbo child, in a sea of Yoruba speakers.

‘Which people want to take you?’ you query him, and he points into the near distance. His finger drops dead on a heavy set woman clutching a purse under her armpit, and a stubby bald man next to her. They look like they're searching the crowd. For a moment you forgo your fear of scabies and grab onto the boy's arm. Your first thought is to march up to the couple, but you decide to ask the boy who the couple is to him when you stop short. He is pointing towards the couple, but his eyes are staring far off into the distance, and although the park is packed with people, you realize he isn't staring at anyone in particular. His eyes are glazed, his lips are parched. He looks like he has seen a ghost. Your heart tumbles into your stomach and jumps into your throat. You try to draw your hand away, but he is clinging tightly onto you.

‘Obara Jesus!’ You think hysterically, remembering all the times your mother had told you to pray every morning before stepping out of the house. Someone grabs your other arm and you look up to see one of the loaders pulling the boy away from you. That's when you realize you've been screaming ‘blood of Jesus’ out loud.

‘Ogbeni, you're still here? Your bus go soon comot.’ You point towards the boy in an attempt to explain. The loader scoffs, ‘don't mind him, mkpuru mmiri has collected his brain.’

You would be halfway into your journey before the dread will wear off, before you would allow yourself wonder why a boy his age takes crystal meth.