It was in the wee quiet hours of that morning that I made my final decision to end my relationship with her, and by evening, everyone thought I had lost my mind.
I remember waking up that morning in my room, the small one built separately from the main building, just at the back of my family's house, in that exact room where the ceiling fan groaned as if it were tired of its own job. I could hear my mother outside whistling her favorite line from "Chinyere Udoma's album' It's Well" while the birds chirped as if they were backing her up. I tried to nod to it but my thoughts that morning were heavier than my head could carry or move. Mother was rinsing rice in the kitchen.
In the background, almost faint Father's radio murmured the news. He was in the verandah that led to the house.
Everything felt normal, which made my decision feel unreal, as if I were about to interrupt a perfectly good day for no reason anyone else could see.
I sat up on the edge of my bed and read her message from last night again. Just as it has always been polite and warm. The kind of message that makes people think you have the most caring girl in the world. I stared at it for some minutes then I put the phone face down and stared at the wall where my old childhood posters of Emma Watson still left faint marks. My chest felt tight, but my head was clear. That was how I knew i needed to do it.
With gathered courage, I picked up my phone and dialed her number, staring as her face popped up on the screen like it was my karma.
"We need to talk," I muttered without even exchanging pleasantries.
"Now?" She asked, her face etched with fear and worry.
I nodded. "Now."
I stared at the puzzled look on her face. Then she replied, "I'll be over in a few minutes."
I dropped the call. Her face was already exuding that charm that melts my heart to change my decisions.
She arrived a few minutes later, smiling at everyone. She always smiled in front of people. She greeted my mother properly, asked after my aunt, and laughed at a joke that wasn’t funny. I stood by the door watching as my mother looked at me with that look that said, You did well choosing this one.
I grabbed my coat and we stepped outside, past the mango tree, to the low fence at the side of the house. The street was quiet. Everyone must have traveled for Christmas. At the far end was Mr Brown, our bald neighbor, attending to his almost scrap bike. I waved at him, and he waved back, screaming out.
"Na our wife be that?"
I smiled without replying to him.
Then I sat down on the fence and when I was sure she was comfortable too, I said her name. She tilted her head, patient, kind. I could see she was already rehearsing concerns.
“I don’t think we should continue,” I said.
She laughed once. “Continue what?”
“This,” I said. “Us.”
The smile slipped from her face “Tell me this is a joke?”
I couldn't reply. I shook my head instead. My hands were steady. “No it's not. I'm done.”
She stared at me as if she were searching for that version of me that would easily give in to her drama. She faked crying, threatened to tell my parents. But when it appeared that I wasn't backing down this time, her voice changed. Not loud. Just sharp.
“After everything? You wake up and decide this?”
I avoided her face. I was scared it would break me and make me take back my words. She was good at that. She was good at manipulating me with her countenance that I would end up begging.
But as I avoided her face, I also wanted to explain, to let her know my reasons, to line up the moments that never happened in public. The tiny humiliations that broke me. Her kindness rationed publicly and privately. The way she shows me affection, only when it favours her. But how would my explanations sound strong when the other person performs goodness so well?
“I’m done,” I said. My words were loud and clear this time.
She stared at me for a while. "At least look at my face while you break up with me." She asked. "Don't be that coward you've always been!” She added.
I nudged myself. At that word, I was sure I was making the right decision. I was putting an end to being called names for demanding to be treated right and not only when we are in public.
When it was clear to her I wasn't backing down. She got up and walked away without another word, shoulders straight, dignity intact. Anyone watching would have felt sorry for her. Anyone watching would have thought I was cruel. But instead of walking home, she walked back to my family's house. I knew what she was up to, so I avoided heading back home.
That evening the calls came in full.
My cousin was first. “Where are you? You need to come back home now?"
"And if I don't?" I replied.
He paused. "But bro, are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Because this doesn’t sound okay.”
"Everything I did was for my own good."
It wasn't long after I dropped his call that my aunt called next. Then a family friend. The questions changed shape but meant the same thing.
“She’s such a good girl,” they said.
“You won’t find another like her.” They concluded.
“Men don’t behave this way.” They blamed me.
Nobody cared to know my reasons. That was how deeply she had bought their love with her public show of humility.
I got back later that night to my mother sitting on my bed waiting for me. "You didn’t even try to make it work,” she said quietly as I stepped in. That hurt more than the others.
I tried to explain without betraying myself. But it was hard. I hoped Mother would understand but she sighed and got up. Then she left the room.
That night, I lay awake listening to the fan, wondering if patience was just another name for silence. I replayed every moment, searching for proof, anything to prove that I had taken a wrong decision, but all proved that I chose my peace.
The next few days I avoided my family. They had the talks all over me whenever I was with them. It felt as if I had gone crazy. I hid from them at every chance. I just wanted to breathe.
I wished they knew how light I felt now without tension. How my shoulders had relaxed because I wouldn’t be explaining myself to someone who only listened to advice from outside. Someone who used my family to manipulate me into doing her bidding even if it hurt me. Someone who preferred I go broke to please her. Then pretends to my family that she was materialistic.
Weeks passed. The comments softened. I felt alone, yes, but not lost. The clarity dawned on me more that I didn’t leave because I was confused or angry.
I left because I had understood the difference between love that performs and love that truly listens.
And honestly, I don't care if people continue to think that I walked away from something good. I have tried to explain but nobody cares to listen.
And now, I'm fine knowing that I’m not crazy. I just chose the quiet truth over a loud lie.
