Episode 5: When Healing Looks Like Goodbye
There’s something poetic about Lagos at 9 p.m.
The chaos begins to quiet.
The breeze carries the scent of roasted corn and grilled suya.
Laughter rises from street corners where children play and women share stories over steaming bowls of food.
Ifeoma stood in the middle of it one evening, no longer running from the past, just… existing.
Not healed.
But healing.
And there’s a difference.
She’d seen Tunde’s name again — this time on a friend’s Instagram story.
He was in Cape Town, smiling beside a new woman. Curled lips. Matching outfits. Captioned with a heart emoji.
Ifeoma stared at it longer than she should have.
But the twist?
She didn’t feel broken.
Just… tired.
Tired of building futures in her head with people who were never brave enough to stay.
Tired of calling something love just because it had butterflies and bedtime calls.
She was learning that real love doesn’t confuse you.
It comforts you.
That weekend, she traveled.
Not to run away — but to remember who she was before heartbreak became her address.
She took a solo trip to Olumo Rock in Abeokuta.
Climbed its ancient steps with sore calves and a stubborn spirit.
Stood at the top and screamed.
“I survived you, Tunde!”
Tourists stared. A guide chuckled. A woman smiled softly and nodded at her,
“Good for you, my sister.”
That night, under the sky blanketed with stars, Ifeoma journaled:
“I thought love had to be loud and burning. But now I know… it can be soft. Gentle. Quiet. And it doesn’t have to hurt.”
When she returned to Lagos, Nosa was waiting.
He didn’t bring flowers.
He brought plantain chips and a new book: “Things Fall Together” by a South African poet.
“You’ve been on my mind,” he said.
Ifeoma smiled.
“I needed time to figure things out.”
“And now?”
“Now I know that I can’t love anyone until I’ve loved myself fully.”
He nodded. No pressure. No agenda.
Just presence.
And that — she realized — was what she’d always needed.
But healing isn’t a straight line.
Some nights, she still missed Tunde. Not the man — but the version of herself she was when she believed their love was real. The silly girl who dreamt of naming their daughter Zara, and buying land in Epe, and growing old together.
She missed her.
So, she started finding her again.
In books.
In music.
In new friendships.
In morning sunlight that touched her face like a lover who’d never lie.
By the end of the month, Ifeoma wrote a facebook post:
“To the Man Who Almost Had Me”
It wasn’t about revenge.
It wasn’t even about him.
It was about choosing peace over pain.
About reclaiming herself.
The post went viral.
Thousands of Nigerian women commented.
“This is my story too.”
“Thank you for putting it into words.”
“I felt every line.”
And for the first time in years, she felt seen… not as someone’s girlfriend or ex-lover — but as a woman with her own voice.
Her own power.
Her own story.
© A Coolvalstories Production
Valentine Nkemjika
