It started on a Thursday morning, the kind of morning where the sun is already disrespecting everybody by 8am. I entered the hall for our 200-level Sociology class, minding my business, holding my bottle water like someone that came to learn.

I went out briefly to see a friend, came back only for me to see one girl, brown skin, curly wig, fine like fresh Agege bread, sitting on my seat.

My spirit said, “Just go somewhere else.”

My pride said, “Over my dead body.”

So I cleared my throat.

“Hi… you’re on my seat.”

She looked up, smiled, and said, “Oh, I didn’t know people own seats here.”

My chest did gbish.

Normally, I would have argued, but her smile reset my destiny. I just stood there like a mannequin until she shifted slightly.

“Sit now,” she said.

I sat. And immediately regretted every insult I had planned for her.

Her perfume, ha! It smelled like somebody mixed coconut oil with answered prayers. I’ve never been close to heaven before, but that day I inhaled it.

Lecturer started teaching.

But me? I was learning NOTHING.

Every time she wrote in her notebook, her braids brushed my arm. My brain stopped working. At a point, lecturer asked a question. I raised my hand confidently, opened my mouth… and absolutely nothing came out.

She chuckled.

That laugh entered my bones.

After class, she stood up to leave. Panic grabbed me. I couldn’t lose her like that.

So I said, “You know… you can keep the seat. I don’t mind.”

She smiled again, God knows I wasn’t ready.

“My name is Bolu,” she said. Can we sit together every class?

I nodded like a lizard.

“Deal.”

From that day, we became seatmates.

Then reading partners.

Then “let me walk you to hostel” partners.

Then “we’re not dating but why are you jealous?” partners.

Then, finally… something sweet.

Now, whenever people ask how we met, I simply say:

“She stole my seat… and my focus… and the rest is classwork.”