They say there’s no smoke without fire. Every action has a reason, even if buried deep.

Jazzlyn never imagined the man who was in such sync with her heartbeat and massaged her feet after a long day would be the son of the man who once crushed her world.

She met Feyi at a friend’s game night. There was jollof, music, and laughter. He had dimples, a polished accent, a mix of Lagos and London. An architect.

His parents died in a car crash. He hated talking about it. Jazz never asked further.

In two years, they were married. An intimate wedding. Her mother adored him. And why not? He was everything a Nigerian mother prayed for: kind, well-dressed, wealthy and prayerful.

He loved Jazz loudly, cooked when she was too exhausted, sent midday voice notes. Never once raised his voice.

Until that one night. 

She said something she shouldn’t have. Maybe about his parents. She doesn’t remember.

His face changed.

“What did you just say?” he asked. Voice low.

The slap came first. Quick and hot. Then a fist, then some kicks.

She screamed but he didn’t stop.

Until there was blood.

She laid there, unmoving.

The hospital reeked of antiseptic. Her mother held her hand and prayed.

Jazzlyn's eyes opened. “My baby?”

The doctor removed his glasses slowly. “I’m sorry. You lost the baby.”

She screamed. They’d been trying for two years.

Her eyes soon landed on him, Feyi, standing quietly in the corner. She screamed, “GET OUT!”

He stood frozen.

“GET OUT!” she screamed again, louder. 

He left.

In his car, he broke down. Hitting the steering, apologizing to a God he hoped was listening.

Feyi hadn’t just lost control. He lost everything.

He sat outside the therapist’s office for thirty minutes. Didn’t go in.

Instead, he drove to his pastor’s office.

“I don’t want to be him,” he whispered.

“Who?”

“My father.”

Healing came slowly. In therapy (eventually), in midnight prayers, in journaling. “I don’t want my children to heal from having me as their father,” he once wrote.

Four months passed. Jazzlyn lived at her mother’s now, returned to work, to anything but Feyi. He reached out via calls, voice notes, letters, Bible verses. She blocked him. Unblocked him. Listened, but ignored.

One Saturday, she agreed to meet. A park in Ikeja. She wore black. He looked like grief in human form.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” he paused, “a therapist.”

She scoffed.

“I came to tell you the truth,” he said. “About my parents. About… everything.”

She listened.

“He was a monster. He used to hit my mom. When I was seven, he pushed her down the stairs. She lost the baby. He killed her eventually. One night, just… beat her to death. I was thirteen. Didn't cry. I just left.”

He paused.

“They said he died face down, head in the pit toilet. And was buried face down. Said his soul was cursed. I changed my name. Didn’t want any ties.”

Tears streamed down his face. “But that night, I was him. And I killed our baby.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’d spend my whole life making up for it. 

“I forgive him,” he said. “God told me to. I forgive you, Chief Sunday Adedayo.”

Jazzlyn’s face froze.

“What did you say?”

“Chief Sunday Adedayo. Why?”

She whispered, “That’s the man who raped me.”

Feyi’s world crumbled again. She was fourteen. He was her late father’s friend.

They sat in silence. Both understanding.

A month later, there was a quiet knock. Jazzlyn stood at the door. No makeup. A scarf on her head. She held a flask.

“Amala and gbegiri,” she said.

He blinked.

She set it on the table and turned to him.

“I’m not here to say I forgive you. Not yet. But I’m willing to walk slowly toward forgiveness. Just... slowly.”

“I’ll take it,” he said. “I’ll wait, whenever you're ready.”

She smiled. Then walked toward the door.

“Jazz?” he called.

She turned.

“Thank you.”

She nodded and left.

He sat on the floor and cried while eating.

It tasted like grace.