Dami...

Chapter one. The morning Tunde Adebayo was to be laid to rest arrived beneath a sheet of pale, unforgiving grey. Even the wind seemed to have taken a solemn oath not to disturb the quiet streets of Ikoyi. The usually noisy Lagos neighbourhood felt unusually subdued, as though every house, streetlamp and passing vehicle had collectively lowered its voice in respect. Inside the narrow bedroom that Damilola had called her sanctuary for the past two weeks, she stood before an antique mirror, staring at the reflection of a woman she scarcely recognised. The black silk of her mourning dress hung loosely over a frame that felt as fragile as the paper-thin skin covering her bones. Dark circles traced the hollows beneath her cheekbones, reminders of sleepless nights and thoughts that refused to leave her alone. Her hair, usually styled in neat, carefully arranged curls, was now packed into a simple bun, with a few stubborn strands escaping around her face. Behind her, Bisola leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, her eyes soft but unwavering. "You look beautiful," her sister said, her words a gentle blanket against the chill in the room. Damilola didn't answer immediately. Her fingers hovered over the thin gold wedding band on her left hand, a token Tunde had given her on their first wedding anniversary. A tiny circle that now seemed to contain an entire universe of memories. "Beautiful feels like the wrong word for today," she finally whispered. Bisola pushed herself away from the doorframe and stepped closer. "It's the only one I've got." A small, rueful smile flickered across Damilola's lips. "Is everybody here?" she asked, her eyes shifting towards the hallway. Bisola nodded. "Mummy and Daddy are downstairs. The pastor is already at the church. And..." She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. "Tunde's parents arrived early this morning." The name hung between them like a heavy stone. The Adebayo family. The thought of their grief-stricken faces, their eyes raw with a loss that mirrored her own, twisted a quiet knot in Damilola's stomach. "Okay," she whispered. It was a small word, but it felt like surrender. The church stood exactly as it had twenty-one years ago, its white walls illuminated by shafts of muted sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows. The sanctuary carried the familiar scent of polished pews, old hymn books and freshly arranged flowers. It was a place Damilola knew intimately. She remembered walking down that same aisle in a beautiful white wedding gown, her hands trembling as she approached the man she had promised to spend the rest of her life with. She could still hear the excited whispers of guests, the gentle music from the choir and her mother's occasional sniffles as she watched her only daughter become a wife. Today, she walked down the same aisle in black. Every step was a measured echo of loss. The pews were filled with mourners. Neighbours, family friends, colleagues from Tunde's company, church members and distant relatives had gathered to pay their last respects. Some offered sympathetic smiles. Others whispered quiet prayers. A few approached her with familiar expressions of pity, their words of consolation sounding painfully rehearsed. Damilola barely registered their faces. Her attention was fixed on the polished mahogany casket positioned before the altar. Tunde. Her husband was inside that box. The thought remained as incomprehensible as it had been two weeks ago. Bisola sat beside the Adebayo family in the front row, offering them quiet comfort. Across from her, Chief and Mrs Adebayo sat side by side. Pa Adebayo, a once imposing man whose presence had commanded respect in every room he entered, looked considerably older. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes sunken beneath the weight of grief. Beside him, Mama Adebayo clutched a white handkerchief, occasionally dabbing at her cheeks. When Damilola slipped into her seat, the pastor's voice floated through the sanctuary. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of our beloved brother, Tunde Adebayo. A son, a brother, a husband, a friend and a faithful servant of God." Damilola stared at the casket. The thought of Tunde lying inside it felt impossible, as though the world had taken a pause before it could truly comprehend what had happened. "Tunde was a man who loved deeply and lived honestly," the pastor continued. "Though his time with us was shorter than we would have wished, the love he shared and the lives he touched will remain with us." A soft murmur of agreement travelled through the congregation. "May his soul rest in perfect peace." "Amen," several voices responded. Bisola's hand found Damilola's, giving it a gentle squeeze. The pastor paused, allowing his eyes to travel across the congregation before settling on her. "Sister Damilola, would you like to say a few words about your husband?" Damilola's breath caught. She hadn't planned to speak. In fact, she hadn't planned on doing much of anything that morning beyond surviving the funeral. But as the silence stretched, the weight of everything she had left unsaid pressed against her ribs until she could bear it no longer. She slowly rose. The heels of her black shoes clicked against the polished tiled floor as she made her way towards the podium. At the front, the sea of faces blurred. All she could see was the casket and the hollow echo of Tunde's laughter somewhere in the back of her mind. She inhaled deeply. "I met Tunde when I was twenty-one," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "He spilled coffee all over my notebook during a study group." A ripple of soft laughter drifted through the church. "And instead of apologising, he told me it was my fault for sitting too close to the table." This time, the laughter was warmer. Even Mama Adebayo managed a faint smile. "He was stubborn, terrible at directions and believed every problem in the world could be solved with a hammer and a toolbox." A few people chuckled. "But he loved fiercely." The room gradually fell silent. "He loved his family. His friends. His work. His church. He loved Sunday afternoons with too much food on the dining table, football matches he took far too seriously and arguing with me about the most ridiculous things." Her fingers tightened around the edges of the podium. "And he loved me..." Her voice faltered. "More than I probably deserved." A tear slipped down her cheek, catching the light. "I thought we had decades left together. I thought we'd grow old, become that annoying elderly couple who still argued over what to watch on television. I thought we'd have children, spoil our grandchildren and spend our retirement complaining about how expensive everything had become." A few mourners smiled through their tears. "But life didn't give us that chance." She swallowed. "If there's one thing Tunde taught me, it's that love doesn't disappear just because someone is gone." Her eyes moved towards the casket. "I don't know how I'm supposed to live the rest of my life without you. I don't know how to wake up every morning and accept that I won't hear your voice again." Her lips trembled. "But I know that I was blessed to have loved you. And I will carry you with me for the rest of my life." She paused, looking at the casket one final time. "Rest well, my love. Until we meet again." The church fell into a reverent silence. Then, as though the walls themselves had finally exhaled, the congregation released a collective sigh. Bisola rose and gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her back to her seat. Outside, a gentle breeze whispered through the rows of headstones, rustling the leaves of the old trees surrounding the cemetery. The sky remained a heavy blanket of clouds, a fitting backdrop for the small crowd gathered around the open grave. The pastor recited the final prayer, his voice carried intermittently by the wind. "From dust we came, and to dust we shall return..." Damilola barely heard him. Her attention was fixed on the casket. The undertakers began lowering it slowly into the grave. The ropes shifted, producing a dull, hollow sound that seemed to reverberate through her chest. She felt her breath catch. This was it. The final goodbye. Behind her, Mama Adebayo sobbed quietly, her tears falling freely now. Pa Adebayo placed a steady hand on his wife's shoulder, his own grief concealed behind a stoic expression. Bisola stood beside Damilola, her presence a pillar of silent strength. One after another, mourners stepped forward to lay flowers beside the grave. Fresh roses, lilies and chrysanthemums formed a colourful arrangement against the dark earth. Damilola remained still, uncertain whether to join them or simply watch the ritual unfold. Eventually, she moved. Her hands trembled as she placed a single white rose atop the casket. She stared at it for a moment, thinking about purity, new beginnings and all the beautiful things she had once believed their future would hold. "Goodbye, Tunde," she whispered. The wind carried her words away, rustling the branches overhead. And just like that, Tunde Adebayo was gone. His body had been returned to the earth, leaving behind memories, unanswered questions and a silence that no amount of prayers could fill. The crowd gradually began to disperse. Some mourners approached the family with final words of consolation, while others gathered in small groups, speaking in hushed tones. A few relatives were already discussing the arrangements for the reception following the burial, where food, drinks and prayers would be offered to the guests. Damilola turned to acknowledge a few family friends when a sudden shift in the murmuring caught her attention. Heads were turning towards the cemetery entrance. Whispers travelled through the crowd. A lone figure had just walked through the open iron gates. He moved with quiet confidence, a dark coat hugging his broad shoulders against the gloomy weather. The wind caught his hair, sending a few strands across his forehead. He was taller now, his posture straight and deliberate. The boy she had once known had disappeared, replaced by a man whose very presence seemed to command attention. Damilola barely noticed that she had stopped breathing. Beside her, Bisola leaned closer. "Dami..." There was something peculiar about her sister's voice. Damilola turned. Bisola's eyes remained fixed on the approaching stranger. "Isn't that...?" She paused, narrowing her eyes as though trying to convince herself of what she was seeing. "Is that Micah?" Damilola's breath stalled. Micah. The name alone was enough to send a thousand forgotten memories rushing back. Summer evenings spent beside the lake. Secret promises whispered beneath the stars. Stolen moments and innocent laughter. And then, the sudden, inexplicable disappearance that had left a gaping hole in both their lives. Ten years. Ten whole years had stretched between them, filled with unanswered questions, unfinished conversations and memories she had long convinced herself belonged to another lifetime. The man stopped a few yards from the grave. His gaze travelled slowly across the gathering before finally settling on Damilola. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, time seemed to fold in on itself. The past and present collided in a silent, unspoken conversation. His jaw was sharper now. His shoulders broader. There was a maturity about him that hadn't existed before. But those eyes... Those unmistakable, earnest eyes remained the same. Micah Adebayo. He opened his mouth. And when he finally spoke, his voice was deeper, richer and far more resonant than the one she remembered. "Hi... Dami."