Love’s Choice

I was supposed to fly to Abuja for an official assignment, but my finances told a different story. Rent was due, and I was short on cash. The money for my flight ticket and hotel stay would cover a good part of it, so I made a practical decision—I’d travel by road and stay with my cousin in Gwarimpa instead.

The journey back to Lagos turned out to be more eventful than I could have imagined. I found myself seated beside a woman whose scent was intoxicating, drawing me in before we even exchanged words. I complimented her, and that was all it took.

Funmi.

She wasn’t just beautiful; she was engaging, smart, and could hold deep, meaningful conversations. She had opinions that made me think, a way with words that made me listen. But the moment she steered the conversation toward sports, I was sold. A woman who knew and loved sports? That was the final piece of the puzzle.

By the time we reached Lagos, I was convinced—I had met my missing rib. We exchanged numbers, and as we parted, she hugged me and said, “Please keep in touch.” If only she knew the plans I was already making in my head.

Excited, I rushed home, eager to call her and continue where we left off. But as I reached for my phone, my heart dropped. It was gone. Picked from my back pocket.

A sickening wave of emotions washed over me—anger, frustration, and, worst of all, despair. Losing my phone was one thing, but losing Funmi’s number? That was a different kind of pain. She had only mentioned she was staying with her cousins in Festac for a job interview, but no surname, no additional details.

I held onto hope, convincing myself that she’d call me when she didn’t hear from me. But days passed. Then weeks. Then months. She never called.

Did she forget me? Was she just being polite all along? Or had something happened to her? The uncertainty was maddening. Searching for her on social media was like looking for a needle in a haystack. How many Funmis existed in the world? Too many.

The years went by, but I never truly let go. I traveled to Abuja by road twice, hoping to relive our first meeting. I started shopping in Festac, praying for a chance encounter. But luck was never on my side.
Life had to move on, and so did I.

I started dating Oyinda, a wonderful woman—kind, caring, and everything a man could ask for. But the spark? It wasn’t there. Still, I convinced myself that chemistry could grow. Love, after all, was a choice, wasn’t it?

One day, Oyinda casually mentioned her cousin, Funmi, who lived in Festac. My heart pounded, but it turned out to be a different Funmi.

Disappointment struck again.

Eventually, I stopped chasing ghosts. I committed to Oyinda, not just in words but in action. I proposed, and as our wedding day drew near, I made a conscious effort to love her fully. She deserved that. She deserved me, without reservations or comparisons.

We had a small, intimate wedding surrounded by family and friends. It was beautiful. Peaceful. A new beginning.

For our honeymoon, we stayed in a lovely hotel, basking in newlywed bliss. One evening, after spending too much time indoors, we decided to explore the town. As we stepped into the elevator, a familiar scent enveloped me.

I froze.

No, it couldn’t be.

We stepped out, and the fragrance grew stronger. My heart pounded as my eyes scanned the lobby, and then—I saw her.

Funmi.

As graceful as ever, standing at the reception desk, signing out.

I whispered her name, barely believing it myself. She turned. Her eyes widened in recognition, and before I could react, she flew into my arms.

My wife stood beside me, silent, watching.

The weight of the moment pressed down on me. I explained everything to Funmi—that my phone had been stolen, that I waited for her call, that I had searched for her. She shook her head, smiling sadly.

“The number you gave me was missing a digit,” she said.

So it was my fault.

She was rushing to catch a flight, but before she left, she handed me her business card. And just like that, she was gone again. But this time, I had a choice.

I spent the rest of the honeymoon trying to be present for Oyinda, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. She saw through me. She felt my distance. And I hated myself for it. The struggle within me grew, eating me alive. For weeks, Funmi’s business card remained tucked inside my wallet—a lifeline to a past that almost was. Then one night, I heard my wife sobbing. The sound shattered me.

I had vowed to love her, yet here I was, making her feel second place to a memory.

I walked to the dresser, took out my wallet, and pulled out Funmi’s card. Holding it for a moment, I let out a deep breath—one that carried the weight of years of longing, of “what ifs,” of unfinished stories. And then, I tore it.

Piece by piece, until there was nothing left. Then I returned to bed and pulled my wife into my arms.

Funmi was my dream.

But this, right here, was my reality.

And I was finally ready to embrace it.