Chapter 1: THE PERFECT YES

The day he asked me to marry him, I felt love to my bones.

It was the kind of evening lI never wanted to end. Finally, my dream of forever was about to kick in, and nothing felt as great as this.

Somewhere nearby, a hawker’s voice floated above the hiss of the tide, calling out the price of fresh coconuts which she carried in a big basket on her head, her voice mingling with the laughter of children chasing waves they could never catch.

He had told me it would be a “simple evening.” No big surprises, no cameras hidden in bushes, no crowd waiting to cheer. Just us. That was what I loved or thought I loved about him. His ability to make moments feel complete without spectacle. I saw him as being real and direct.

We walked side by side along the damp stretch of sand in the beach, our shoes dangling from our hands. My feet sank slightly into the cool grit with every step, the grains clinging stubbornly to my skin. The sea was restless that night , not violent, just impatient, its foamy edges curling in and out.

He kept glancing at me. Not the kind of glances that check if your hair is in place or if you’re paying attention, but the kind that weighed or told something heavy. I thought it was love. I didn’t know it was also history.

I had met him at a friend’s wedding, months earlier, under the hum of ceiling fans and the scent of Nigerian jollof rice heavy in the air. He was the groom’s cousin, tall enough that I had to tilt my chin to meet his gaze. His suit was crisp, but it was the warmth in his eyes that caught me , that steady way, he looked at me as though I wasn’t just another face in the room.

We didn't get to talk that day as we were carried away by the overzealous MC, the bride’s perfect makeup, the way the amala line had disappeared before we could taste it. He’d laughed, leaning in slightly, like my voice was worth bending toward. That night, his message had popped onto my phone and I wondered how he got my number.

"I hope you got some amala before it finished. I’d hate for your first wedding experience this year to be ruined", he teased over the phone after he had introduced himself.

It was small. Silly, even. But it carved its place into me.

Now, months later, the wind pulled strands of hair across my face, and he reached up to tuck them behind my ear. His fingers were warm, his touch slow , as if stalling for something.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

I laughed. “Why?”

“Because I want to give you something… and you’ll ruin it if you see too soon.”

There was a playfulness in his tone, but also a tremor , like the faint vibration in a glass before a storm shook the windows. I closed my eyes anyway.

The air shifted. I heard the crunch of his knee meeting the sand, the sharp snap of a velvet box opening, and then the pause ,the kind that stretches until it almost becomes a sound itself.

“You can open them now.”

I opened my eyes to find him kneeling, the waves framing him in restless motion. The last rays of sunlight caught the gold band in the box, making it glow as if it carried its own light.

His voice came low, unhurried, carrying the kind of certainty you want to believe in.

“I don’t just want you in my life,” he said. “I want you to be my life.”

I felt my throat tighten, my pulse drumming in my ears. He spoke of building a home together, of laughter spilling into quiet nights, of sharing the small and the big, of never letting go. I was so glad to have finally meet someone who saw me in this light and wanted forever with me. He told me his mother had been praying for this day , praying for me to be his and I wondered what kind of a person she was.

I didn’t know then that prayers can come wrapped in chains.

“Yes,” I said, my voice trembling with joy I didn’t think I’d ever have.

He slipped the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly, like it had been waiting for me, and I wondered if he had taken a measurement of my finger. The wind caught at my dress, the sea roared behind us, and somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard the faint echo of another woman’s name in the way he smiled.

We sat on the sand until the stars began to scatter above us. He told me stories of his childhood , how his mother kept the house spotless, how she could predict the weather by looking at the sky, how she had once chased a girl away for “wasting his time.” He laughed when he said it, but something in my chest shifted. I laughed too, though, ignoring the flicker of unease.

By the time we left, the tide had crept closer, erasing our footprints. I didn’t notice. I was too busy staring at my hand in the dim light, the ring catching the faint gleam of streetlamps as we walked back to his car.

That night, in bed, I lay awake long after the city outside my window went quiet. I turned my hand over again and again, letting the gold catch the soft light of the bedside lamp. My chest was full, warm.

I told myself I had found the kind of love that doesn’t just happen but the kind you wait for, pray for, and protect when it arrives. I told myself this was the beginning of a life where I belonged.

I didn’t see that it was also the beginning of a life where someone else would believe I belonged to them.