I never believed in love at first sight—until I met Amara.
It was July 2019. NYSC orientation camp in Obubra, Cross River State. I arrived late, drenched in sweat, my travel bag torn at the side. The sun was brutal, the registration queue worse. I had just managed to get my mattress when I first saw her. She wasn’t the loud type. She had this calmness, this quiet confidence that made you notice her without her trying.
We met properly during the second week. She was in Platoon 3. I was in 7. We had both been picked for OBS—Orientation Broadcasting Service. I wrote skits. She edited. That’s how it started: sitting side by side in a hot, cramped radio room, laughing about corny announcements and terrible sound systems.
By the end of camp, we had shared more than just jokes. We shared dreams. I told her how I wanted to break into tech—maybe web development or UI/UX. She wanted to teach—said the future of Nigeria depended on well-trained minds. She wasn’t wrong.
She was Igbo, from Imo State. I was Yoruba, from Osun. We joked about our parents throwing a fit. She said, “If it’s real love, they’ll adjust.” That night, we took a walk around the parade ground. I still remember the sky—it was full of stars, and I said something stupid like, “I wish we had met earlier.” She laughed. Her laughter always made things feel lighter.
When camp ended, we exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch. That promise held, even when we returned to different states—me to Lagos, her to Owerri. It wasn’t easy. But we made it work.
There were days the only thing that got me through the frustration of job hunting in Lagos was her voice note telling me, “Baby, don’t give up. You’re smart. I believe in you.”
I believed in us too.
When my parents asked about girls, I smiled and said I had someone. Amara wasn’t just a girlfriend. She was a plan. A person I saw in my future. She made it okay to dream again, even when Lagos had other plans.
The turning point came in early 2020. My savings had run out. No job. The little freelance writing gigs I picked up online barely covered data and transportation. I’d leave home wearing corporate clothes for interviews that never led anywhere. I couldn’t tell Amara everything. How could I? I was supposed to be the man. Her man.
But even in those moments, she was there.
She’d ask if I had eaten. Sometimes she’d send me N2,000 just to buy food or “relax my head.” One time she sent me a small cake on my birthday—delivered through a friend of hers in Lagos. I was so touched, I cried that night. Not because of the cake, but because I knew I couldn’t do the same for her.
Still, she never complained.
We talked about the future like it was already waiting for us. “By 2022, we’ll be married,” she said once. I laughed and said, “Maybe 2023, with this economy.” We laughed then. We didn’t know that even 2025 would come—and she still wouldn’t be mine.
If love was enough, I would have married Amara that year. But love doesn’t pay rent. Love doesn’t buy fuel. Love doesn’t give you a job when your account balance is N800 and your landlord is calling.
By the end of 2020, my optimism began to fade. Slowly. Quietly. Like a candle burning in a wind-filled room. I didn’t tell Amara. I didn’t want her to carry my shame.
Instead, I kept showing up. For her. For the illusion of a future I wasn’t sure I could afford.
And deep down, I prayed something would change.
But nothing did.
