Episode 2: Love vs Lack
In early 2021, something in me started to shift.
The days felt heavier. The Lagos sun burned hotter. And my dreams began to feel like burdens instead of goals. I was 27, living in a shared apartment with two other guys in Ajegunle. We had no proper plumbing, the landlord was always angry, and the rent was due in two months. I hadn’t contributed a single kobo.
Every day, I woke up with panic. I’d check my phone, pray for a credit alert, open my email for any new job offer, and end up scrolling through Twitter like the rest of us. I hated how time was moving and my life wasn’t.
Amara, on the other hand, was doing okay. She had gotten a better teaching job in Owerri. Her salary had increased to N65,000, and she was even taking online classes to upskill. She’d call me after work, excited about what she taught the kids, or how a parent had given her a small gift. I was genuinely happy for her, but deep down, I felt like she was pulling ahead and I was stuck.
Worse still, she never made me feel small. That was what broke me. She kept believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. She never asked for too much. She never pressured me. But her consistency became unbearable. I felt like I was dragging her down.
There was a night in March I’ll never forget.
I had just gotten into a heated argument with my roommate over unpaid rent. He said, “Guy, na love go pay landlord?” I didn’t answer. I just walked out of the house and sat by a kiosk nearby. The night was loud—generators humming, dogs barking, someone shouting over football. I just sat there, staring at the dust-covered ground and wondering how I ended up here.
Then Amara called.
She wanted to talk about our future—about planning an introduction. One of her uncles was offering to help with the wedding. She said she didn’t mind if we started small. She just wanted to be with me.
I couldn’t breathe.
I listened to her voice, soft and certain, and my chest tightened. I wanted that life so badly. But at that moment, I didn’t even have enough money to buy bread and eggs for dinner. How could I marry someone when I couldn’t feed myself?
I didn’t tell her that. I just mumbled something about not being ready and needing time. She paused and asked, “Kunle, are you okay?”
I lied. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She told me to get some rest. I said I would. We ended the call. I sat there for almost an hour after that, with my phone in my hand, screen off, replaying her words. My eyes burned with tears. It wasn’t her fault. It was never her fault. I just hated how love was becoming something I couldn’t afford.
The next week, my worst fear happened.
My roommates gave me an ultimatum—pay your rent share or leave. I begged for one more week. They refused. I called a friend who allowed me to crash at his place temporarily. I moved out in silence. No goodbyes. Just shame.
That night, lying on a thin mattress in my friend’s one-room, surrounded by mosquitoes and heat, I made a decision—I had to let her go.
Not because I stopped loving her, but because I did. I loved her enough to not want her to suffer because of me.
The following weeks were tough.
I started replying her messages slower. I’d miss her calls and pretend I was busy. When we finally spoke, I was cold. Distant. She sensed it.
“Kunle,” she asked one day, “Are you trying to push me away?”
I stayed silent.
“Is it money? Your situation? Talk to me.”
But I couldn’t. How do you explain to someone that you’re doing this because you care? That every missed call, every ignored message, is a sacrifice?
I told her I needed space. That I was going through something spiritual. A lie, but cleaner than the truth.
She cried. I heard it in her voice.
She said she’d wait. I said she shouldn’t.
And that was how it ended.
Not with a fight. Not with cheating. But with quiet heartbreak born out of lack. The kind of heartbreak only poverty understands.
