Chapter 2 The safe Lie

Two years earlier, Zainab sat across from Tunde at NOK by Alara, pushing roasted plantains around her plate while trying to laugh at his jokes. He had just returned from San Francisco and was full of app updates, funding rounds, and humble brags.

She was tired.

He was beautiful, though. She'd met him at an art auction fundraiser in Lekki. He'd asked a question about a piece by Victor Ehikhamenor, then offered to buy the entire installation "just to understand the artist better." He didn't buy it, of course. But he bought her dinner that night. And then her attention. And eventually, her body.

Zainab had fallen hard - or thought she did.

Back then, being with him made sense. He was safe. Well-mannered. He understood Lagos elite culture - the events, the silent competitions, the power of appearance. He always showed up with flowers, took photos with her in tasteful lighting, and posted her with just the right captions to stir envy without starting gossip.

It looked like love.

But in private, it was a different story.

Tunde didn't listen. He didn't ask. He didn't touch her like someone who wanted her whole self. He kissed her like she was made of glass and corrected her opinions with that same annoying laugh that meant he thought she was cute but wrong.

She had learned to smile through it. To play the game.

Because that's what you did in Lagos. You found someone decent, rich, nonviolent, and straight. You settled. You prayed your butterflies would come later.

But they never came.

One night, they had fought. Not with screaming, but worse - with silence that echoed. Tunde had come home late, again, smelling faintly of women's perfume. Zainab didn't ask. She never did. She only said, "I feel invisible."

He looked at her like she'd spoken another language.

"You have everything," he said. "Why are you always looking for something to fix?"

And that was it. The end of pretending.

Except she didn't leave. Not yet.

She threw herself into her work. She travelled. She smiled at events. She posted curated pictures of love, ignoring the hollowness growing between them.

Then, a year later, a photo from a friend's party caught her eye - Tunde with another woman. Arms around each other. Intimate.

Zainab had confronted him. He denied. Gaslighted. Swore it was old.

She forgave him. Publicly.

Privately, something snapped.

She began questioning everything. Why didn't she feel desire with him? Why did she dream of nameless women with warm hands and firelit eyes? Why did she ache when a woman's voice dropped low, when a stranger's fingers brushed hers in passing?

Why had she always known... and always buried it?

Because Nigeria didn't allow you to know. Especially not if you were female, respected, from a "good home." You hid. You blended. You survived.

Until you couldn't.

Zainab had written it in her journal once, after a sleepless night:

"What if the lie I built my life on was the very thing killing me?"

---

Back in the present, after the exhibition, Zainab sat alone in her car. Her phone buzzed.

Tunde: "I miss you. Can we talk properly now?"

She stared at it. Her fingers hovered.

Then she remembered Adaeze's eyes. The way they stripped her bare without judgment.

Zainab didn't reply.

She turned her car towards Yaba.

Towards something real.

Towards herself.