By Owie Aideyan
The Beginning: Love at the Bus Stop
Ada never believed in fairy tales. She grew up in a small two-bedroom flat in Surulere, watching her mother sell akara by the roadside just to keep three children in school. She learned early that life wasn’t about magic — it was about grit.
But the morning she met Kunle changed everything. It was raining at Ojuelegba bus stop. Ada, soaked, clutching her handbag to her chest, tried to shield herself from the drizzle. A stranger stepped forward, holding out his umbrella. “Take it,” he said simply. She looked up. He was tall, thin, with eyes that held a kind of softness she’d never seen.
That moment would grow into seven years of shared dreams. Kunle had nothing back then — no car, no apartment, just ambition. Ada, who was already working as an assistant in a law firm, became his anchor. She paid part of his rent, bought him textbooks for law school, and even gave him her old laptop. Friends warned her she was “building a man for another woman,” but Ada would just smile. “He’s my future,” she’d say.
The Sacrifice: Building a Dream Together
Kunle’s struggles became Ada’s struggles. When his father fell sick, she sent money. When he was rejected by a firm, she encouraged him to keep applying. She woke up at night to pray for his success.
Every milestone he reached, she celebrated. She hosted his graduation party, paid for his bar dinner suit, and even covered the deposit for his first tiny office space.
When Kunle finally got his first major case, Ada proofread his documents late into the night, eating instant noodles at the kitchen counter. “One day,” Kunle would whisper as he leaned against her shoulder, “I’ll give you the life you deserve.”
That promise kept her going.
Two years later, Kunle knelt in front of her at Freedom Park, ring in hand. “Marry me,” he said, tears in his eyes. Ada’s hands shook as she said yes. She thought she had arrived at the happy ending she had fought for.
The Warning Signs
The months leading up to the wedding were a blur of fittings, guest lists, and endless family meetings. Ada noticed Kunle seemed distracted, always on his phone, but she brushed it off as stress.
Uchechi, Ada’s favourite cousin and chosen maid of honor, had become Kunle’s go-to for wedding errands. She was bubbly, beautiful, and always ready to help. “She’s like my sister,” Ada would tell anyone who asked.
Then came the anonymous messages. First, a DM on Instagram from an unverified account: “Be careful of the people closest to you.” Then, a WhatsApp text at midnight: “Check your man before you say ‘I do.’” Ada deleted them. She didn’t want to live in suspicion.
Her mother noticed the tension. “Ada, are you sure Kunle is okay?” she asked one evening. Ada smiled weakly. “Mummy, it’s just wedding stress.” Deep down, though, her gut whispered something she couldn’t name.
The Day Everything Broke
The wedding morning was supposed to be perfect. The hotel suite was filled with laughter, makeup artists, and camera flashes. Ada’s white gown hung on the wardrobe door like a promise.
At 9 a.m., her phone buzzed with another anonymous text: “Room 209. Now.” She frowned. Her hands trembled as she showed it to one of her bridesmaids. “Ignore it,” the girl said. But Ada couldn’t.
She excused herself, walked down the corridor, and pushed open the door to Room 209.
Time stopped.
Kunle — her fiancé, the man she had built for seven years — was in bed with Uchechi, her own cousin. They froze when they saw her. Kunle stammered. Uchechi covered her face. Ada’s veil slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
No one spoke. No one moved. The sound of her heartbeat filled her ears like a drum.
She turned and walked out. Outside the room, she vomited into a flower pot. Her body shook violently but no tears came. She went back upstairs, removed her gown, and called off the wedding.
Aftermath and Lessons
Kunle called for days. He begged, he wept, he sent pastors. “It was a mistake,” he said. “It only happened once.” Uchechi disappeared from Lagos. Family members pressured Ada to “forgive and move on.” She refused.
For weeks, she couldn’t eat. She deleted social media. She stared at the ceiling at night, feeling her chest ache like a wound. “I didn’t just lose a man,” she later wrote. “I lost my faith in loyalty.”
But slowly, Ada rebuilt herself. She went to therapy. She started a small foundation for women who’d been betrayed or abandoned. She began sharing her story online — not for pity, but as a warning.
“Never lose yourself while building someone else,” she says now. “Love, but keep your eyes open. Protect your heart.”
Her posts have gone viral, sparking conversations about sacrifice, loyalty, and self-worth. Many readers see themselves in her pain, and some have called her story “a mirror of our silent wounds.”
Ada doesn’t call herself a victim anymore. She calls herself a survivor. But even now, she sometimes wakes up at night, feeling that same cold silence swallowing her whole.
“I’ll love again,” she whispers to herself. “But never like that. Never blind.”
