Episode 4: A Soft Rebellion
The days after the revelation were slower, softer — like the calm after a thunderstorm. Ifeoma no longer cried. Not because she wasn’t hurting, but because her tears had dried into quiet resolve.
She started showing up for herself.
Morning jogs around Lekki’s quieter corners.
Homemade smoothies and sticky notes with affirmations stuck to her fridge.
“You are enough.”
“You are not what he did.”
“Your story continues.”
They weren’t magic, but they helped.
A week later, Zinny came over unannounced.
“Girl, your skin is glowing but your eyes are tired. Spill.”
And so Ifeoma did. Every detail.
From the cheating, to the message from Ama, to the realization that she had been only one star in Tunde’s constellation of lies.
Zinny didn’t interrupt. She listened the way only best friends can — with her heart open and her judgment packed away.
“You know what hurts the most?” Ife said after a long silence.
“It’s not the betrayal. It’s that I was ready to give him everything — my peace, my body, my future. I made room for him in places I hadn’t even built for myself.”
Zinny took her hand.
“Then maybe it’s time to build those places… just for you.”
The next few days were a blur of rediscovery.
She joined a photography class.
Started volunteering at a literacy foundation in Ajah.
Even flirted — shyly — with a guy named Nosa who owned a car dealership in Victoria Island.
But she wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
And to his credit, Nosa didn’t rush her.
“Take your time,” he had said. “I’m not here to fix you. I just want to know you.”
It was refreshing.
But terrifying.
One night, as the Harmattan winds brushed against her curtains, Ifeoma sat in bed scrolling through old messages she had archived — not to torture herself, but to understand.
To see how the gaslighting began.
To note the red flags she painted green.
To forgive herself.
She found a voice note Tunde had sent six months ago. In it, he’d said:
“I love how you see the world, Ife. Being with you feels like coming home.”
She didn’t cry.
Instead, she whispered to her empty room,
“I made that home warm. You chose to leave.”
The next morning, a message came in.
From Tunde.
Not a call. Just a paragraph.
“I messed up. I know. But I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I miss what we had, Ife. Can we talk?”
She stared at it for a long time.
Then typed:
“There’s nothing left to talk about. Go love the people you chose. I’m not a backup plan.”
And she hit send.
No hesitation.
The reply came ten minutes later. Just one word:
“Wow.”
She smiled. For the first time in weeks, it reached her eyes.
“Yes. Wow,” she whispered.
“I finally chose me.”
That night, that once bore witness to stolen kisses, Ifeoma sat on her balcony, sipping warm zobo and journaling.
And for the first time since Tunde left, the silence wasn’t heavy.
It was peaceful.
She didn’t know what the future held.
But she knew this:
She would never again shrink herself for someone who couldn’t hold space for her light.
