Continuation 

I wasn't always this version of myself. Still clutching that brainwashed optimism from my early HR grind days, wide-eyed and vowing we'd conquer the world one payroll at a time. I believed life had finally turned kind, that after all the waiting, the praying, the almosts (job interviews that ghosted, family pressures), it had saved something good for later. 

Maybe, just maybe, it would reward patience. But life doesn’t reward patience. It tests it. That’s when Bode slipped into my life, quietly, like a soft melody I didn’t know I needed. We met at a church singles' fellowship, him leading worship with a voice that filled the hall with a heavenly atmosphere, notes rising over the congregation like smoke from an altar. 

His smile was steady, the kind that made you think of Sunday mornings and shared devotionals, his guitar strumming promises of forever. With Bode, everything had been calm. Too calm. And calm, I would later learn, can be deceptive. He was everything I thought I wanted. 

Soft-spoken. Kind. Attentive. God-fearing. The kind of man who prayed with confidence, as though God responded to him on speed dial. We were in sync, our conversations flowed like a river at low tide, our silences were comfortable, our plans felt aligned. 

Talks of building a home, tithing together. I didn’t feel like I was forcing anything. Looking back, the signs were subtle, flickering like faulty lights. The calm wasn’t peace; it was distance disguised as stability. Small things: he’d zone out during my stories about work drama, nodding absently while checking his phone for "ministry updates," his thumbs flying over scripture apps. 

Or cancel plans last-minute for work meetings that stretched into nights without a single text, leaving me staring at a blank chat. But when you want something to work, you learn how to excuse quiet warnings. The silence didn’t announce itself. It arrived like a fog rolling in from the Atlantic. 

One day, my message stayed unread longer than usual. The next, my call rang until it stopped. By the third day, I was checking my phone too often, tapping the screen awake like it owed me something, heart syncing with the pulse of my data bundle warnings. I sent a text I still remember clearly: Hey, hope you’re okay. Haven’t heard from you. 

No response. I waited. I prayed. Knelt by my bed that night, Bible open to Psalms, whispering for clarity amid the distant hum of generators and crickets outside my window. I told myself not to overthink. Then the silence grew thicker, like harmattan dust settling on everything. I tried again, sounding casual. 

Concerned. Brave. I replayed conversations, searching for the moment I might have said the wrong thing, had I talked too much about my dreams? Laughed too loudly? I blamed myself easily; it felt familiar, a habit woven into my existence. The more I reached out, the further he retreated, his profile picture mocking me from afar. 

One evening, after staring at my phone until the screen dimmed for the fifth time, I grabbed my keys and went to his apartment. The estate gate creaked open under the watchman’s lazy gaze, his radio blaring Fuji music. I don’t know what I expected, an explanation, maybe, or relief, but what I met was absence. 

A closed door. No movement. No apology waiting on the other side. I remember standing there longer than necessary, hands shaking slightly, corridor too quiet, only the faint echo of a neighbor’s generator humming and children laughing from a balcony two floors up. It felt like begging without words, the humid air clinging to my skin like regret. I didn’t know then that I was standing at my first red traffic light. Stop. Turn back.