By Owie Aideyan
When Love Was Young
It began in 2003 at the University of Ibadan. Daniel was in his final year studying architecture, quiet but charming in an effortless way. Amaka was a bright, spirited sophomore in the English department with a love for books, art, and soul music. Their paths crossed one humid afternoon at the university library, both reaching for the same copy of Things Fall Apart. That brief, awkward hand-touch led to a shared smile — and an unspoken connection neither of them fully understood in that moment.
From that day, their worlds began to revolve around each other. They took long walks after lectures, shared suya at the campus gate, danced at faculty parties, and whispered their dreams under the stars behind Mellanby Hall. It wasn’t loud or dramatic — it was steady, sincere, and incredibly real. Friends joked they were “an old married couple in young bodies.” And maybe they were.
But as graduation approached, Daniel received an offer to intern with a renowned architectural firm in Canada. It was everything he had worked for. Amaka, on the other hand, had just begun a prestigious writing fellowship in Abuja. They tried to talk about the future — about long-distance, about visits, about making it work. But reality crept in slowly. With time zones, time differences, and time itself pulling them apart, cracks began to form.
They broke up quietly — no anger, no betrayal, just heartbreak. Daniel boarded his flight to Toronto. Amaka stayed behind, holding the last letter he wrote her like a piece of her heart had gone with him.
Separate Lives, Silent Longing
Years passed. Daniel built a successful life abroad. He married a kind Canadian woman named Sophie, had two children, and worked his way up in one of Toronto’s leading design firms. But despite his professional achievements, something inside him felt unfinished. He loved his family, yes — but every now and then, he would hear a Fela Kuti song or read a line from Soyinka and feel the sharp sting of a memory he couldn’t name. Amaka haunted his quiet moments.
Amaka, too, moved on. She married Uchenna, a respected civil engineer from Enugu. They had one son and a home filled with polished furniture and practiced smiles. But deep inside, she often felt like a visitor in her own life. The poetry dried up. Her laughter became careful. Sometimes, in the silence of early morning, she would wonder what Daniel would say about the chapters of her life she’d never written.
Though they never reached out, neither deleted the other’s number. They never blocked each other on social media. They just watched — silently — through the pixels and posts of years gone by.
Amaka’s marriage crumbled after fourteen years of emotional absence. Daniel’s ended amicably but sadly, after both he and Sophie admitted they had drifted into different worlds.
Two divorces. Two continents. Two hearts still half-full.
The Unexpected Meeting
In 2021, fate finally intervened.
Amaka was in Lagos promoting her first published poetry anthology — her return to writing had been quiet, cathartic, and deeply personal. After a radio interview at a Victoria Island station, a sudden downpour trapped her inside a nearby bookstore. She walked in, half-drenched, looking for shelter — and something to distract her restless mind.
There, in the far corner, wearing glasses and flipping through a collection of African architecture, stood Daniel.
He turned. Their eyes met. Time froze.
Amaka gasped softly, her hand covering her mouth. “Daniel?”
His book dropped. “Amaka,” he said, barely above a whisper.
They stared at each other in disbelief. For a moment, no words came. Then laughter. Then tears. Then hours of conversation in the bookstore café as rain poured outside like the sky was weeping in reunion.
They were both single. Both older. Both scarred. But somehow, both still felt seventeen when they looked into each other’s eyes.
Coming Home
They began again — cautiously, beautifully. There were no grand declarations or dramatic makeups. Just two people rediscovering the rhythm they had once shared. Daniel relocated back to Nigeria, taking a part-time consultancy role with an international firm. Amaka moved to Lagos full-time to teach creative writing at a university.
They spent weekends walking in parks, reading to each other, cooking meals together. They didn’t try to reclaim lost time — they simply made new memories. Their children, now grown, embraced the relationship. “I’ve never seen my mom laugh like this,” Amaka’s son once said.
A year later, on a warm December evening, surrounded by close friends and family, they married in a garden filled with sunflowers and soft music. Amaka wore a yellow dress, Daniel a cream agbada. There was no aisle, no rehearsed vows — just honest words and tearful smiles.
“I knew we weren’t done,” Amaka whispered.
“You’ve always been my home,” Daniel replied.
Today, they live in a modest house near Lekki, filled with books, laughter, and quiet joy. Their story is no longer one of regret, but of rediscovery. Proof that sometimes, life comes full circle — and that the love we lose is not always lost forever.
Because the heart never forgets where it truly belongs.
