I married him without knowing the sound of his laugh.
I didn’t know if he liked his tea hot or iced.
Didn’t know if he slept with the lights on.
Didn’t even know if his smile curved to the left or right.
But I knew this — his silence was louder than thunder.
The Day My Dreams Died and Duty Took Their Place
I wanted to be a fashion entrepreneur.
Not the Instagram-influencer type that posted “soft life” captions with champagne flutes. No. I wanted to build something. Real. Raw. Beautiful. My fingers itched to create. My heart raced every time I imagined my own fashion house in Lagos — a place where Ankara met art, where headwraps told stories, where bold women wore their scars like highlighter.
But dreams don’t always scream loud enough to silence dying fathers.
And my father — oh, my sweet Papa — had that hospital smell clinging to his skin the day he held my hand and said, “Adanna, marry Damilare. I want to see you settled before I go.”
His voice cracked like brittle wood.
His eyes didn’t meet mine.
He wasn’t asking. He was begging.
And sometimes, love looks like betrayal of self.
So I said yes.
I Met My Husband the Day I Became His Wife
The compound was full of music, but my heart beat off rhythm.
Women ululated. Aunties danced. Jollof bubbled in giant pots.
But my stomach was a knot of rebellion.
Because I hadn’t even seen his face.
And then he walked in.
Damilare.
Black kaftan, gold embroidery. Beard trimmed. Eyes like shut doors.
Not cold. Just… locked.
He looked at me like I was a task to complete.
Like this whole wedding was a tax he had to pay for something he’d done wrong.
He said, “Hello,” with a British accent that felt too formal.
I said, “Hi,” like I was trying on a shoe I didn’t like.
We said “I do” like we didn’t.
Marriage Isn’t Just Vows — It’s the Silence That Comes After
The next morning, I woke up in our new apartment in Lekki, lying next to a man who hadn’t even touched my hand since the ceremony.
He was already dressed. Already leaving.
“Early meeting,” he mumbled.
“Okay,” I whispered, wrapping the duvet tighter, like it could protect me from the weight of being unwanted.
Days turned into a routine of avoiding each other politely.
We ate separately.
Laughed at different shows.
Slept with a canyon of space between us.
I started building my fashion sketches again, pinning hope on paper like it was armor.
He buried himself in work — or maybe in escape. I couldn’t tell.
But every night, I stared at his back and wondered what broke him so badly that he didn’t even flinch when I cried.
He Had a Woman’s Name Tattooed on His Wrist
I saw it by accident — a fading ink just under his watch.
“Zara.”
When I asked, his face darkened.
“She’s gone,” he said.
Gone?
Like dead?
Like left?
I didn’t ask.
I didn’t want to become a ghost too.
But Love Has a Way of Creeping In Through Cracks
It started with tea.
He made me a cup without asking how I liked it.
I didn’t correct him — but it was perfect. Three sugars, one bag. Just like Mama made.
Then one night, I had a breakdown over a rejected business pitch.
He didn’t say anything.
But he sat beside me on the floor and passed me tissues until I was empty.
We didn’t kiss.
We didn’t touch.
But something shifted.
Maybe pain recognizes itself in another person’s eyes.
Maybe loneliness becomes less sharp when it’s shared.
The First Time He Held Me, It Wasn’t for Lust — It Was for Survival
It rained.
Thunder howled.
NEPA took light.
I was pacing, crying over my dad’s latest hospital call.
And then Damilare came into the room and pulled me into his chest.
He didn’t ask.
He just held me — tightly, silently, like if he let go, we’d both vanish.
That night, I slept on his chest.
And for the first time, I felt married.
But Love Is Never That Simple
The next morning, I made pancakes. He smiled.
He actually smiled. A small, quiet curve that made my chest ache.
And just as I was about to say something stupid like “Maybe we can try?”
The doorbell rang.
And she walked in.
Zara.
Not dead.
Not gone.
Very much alive — and pregnant.
The Truth Came Like a Tsunami
They weren’t over.
He never told her about me.
She moved back from the UK to rekindle what they had.
She stood there, hand on belly, wearing confidence like red lipstick.
And I stood in the kitchen — in my wrapper, holding a spatula, wondering how stupid I must look.
“I didn’t know she was coming,” he said.
“I didn’t know I was starting to love you,” he added.
But words are weak currency when your heart has already been overdrawn.
I Left Before I Could Be Left
I packed my sketchbooks, my dignity, and my half-formed love and moved into a friend’s place in Surulere.
He called.
I didn’t pick.
He texted: “Can we fix this?”
And I replied:
“I’m not something to fix.”
But Here’s the Thing About Real Love…
It doesn’t knock.
It breaks the door down.
He came to my dad’s bedside.
He told him everything.
Told him he failed me.
Told him he wanted to earn me — not own me.
And my father, fragile and fading, said,
“Then fight. But not for her hand — for her heart.”
I Still Don’t Know How This Story Ends
We’re not back together.
We’re learning each other now — the way we should’ve before vows.
He attends my fashion shows.
I meet him for tea.
Sometimes we walk. Sometimes we argue.
Sometimes we hold hands.
We’re not perfect — but we’re honest now.
And maybe that’s a better place to begin.
Here’s What I Know:
Love isn’t fireworks. It’s firewood — slow-burning, quiet, and warm if you tend to it.
You just have to decide who’s worth building the fire with.
And sometimes… that person is the stranger you once married.
🔥 Bold Takeaway:
The real scandal isn’t marrying a stranger.
It’s staying strangers after you marry.
John Emmanuel is a results-obsessed relationship blogger and founder of Top Love Hacks, dedicated to helping you level up your dating and relationship game by motivating you to be in control of your love life.
