After I moved out of the house, everything changed.
It was supposed to be the beginning of peace. That's what I told myself when I carried my two bags and walked out of the gate without looking back. I thought freedom would feel like fireworks, like the sun breaking through the clouds. But it didn't.
Freedom felt like silence. It felt like walking into a room that echoed because no one was calling your name. It felt like cold floors, long nights, and conversations with the ceiling. In the beginning, I couldn't even cry. I didn't want to give in to the pain not after fighting so hard to get out. I told myself, "You chose this. You wanted this. So don't act surprised now."
I had no one in that town apart from my relative, who now looked at me like a stranger or rather I saw as a stranger, and Chukwubuikem, the one presence that kept my chest from caving in.
He wasn't mine. Not yet. But he was around.
I still worked at my cousin's firm. I stayed on not because I loved the job, far from it but because of the contract I had signed: a two-year agreement. I had completed one year already, and I had promised myself that I would finish the second. Even if it killed me. I didn't want to go back home with my head bowed. I wanted to leave by choice, not because I was pushed or probably maltreated,I still see them as my family.
But things got harder after I moved out. The rent was eating into the little I had saved. My salary which had never been prompt became even more elusive. They delayed it almost every month, and each time I asked about it, I was met with vague excuses. "Be patient," they would say. "We will sort it out." But I knew. I knew they were doing it deliberately.
You see, my cousin's husband wanted me out of the house long before I even left. He had made life unbearable. He would lock me outside at night and pretend he didn't hear my knocks. I once slept on the corridor, wrapped in my shawl, with mosquitoes singing near my ears like mourners. And when I told my cousin? She acted like it was nothing. Like I was the one making it up.
But what cut deeper than the cold nights or delayed salaries was the truth I dared not say out loud: he wanted something from me. Something vile. And when I refused, he made it his mission to frustrate me. My silence was a rebellion, and I paid for it every day.
Despite everything, I held on. And one of the biggest reasons I stayed was Chukwubuikem.
He was my escape in the simplest ways. He would send me funny videos, reels that made me laugh out loud when my heart was heavy. He would send me thoughtful messages, affirmations, sweet nothings that found their way into my soul. It was through those little things that he slowly chipped away at the walls I had built.
We talked about everything about work, life and dreams. He did listen when I ranted. He would cheer me on when I doubted myself. And when I had nothing to say, he would just be there. Not demanding. Just present. And that mattered more than he knew.
He asked me out a few times. Lightly, never pressuring. Always with a smile in his voice. "I want you," he would say. "But I can wait until your heart is ready."
And I wasn't. Not really. I was still carrying the debris of my last relationship, the chaos, the betrayal, the shame of staying too long. I didn't want to fall into another mess. But Chukwubuikem wasn't like anyone I had ever known,at least. His calmness grounded me. His gentleness soothed parts of me I had forgotten.
Sometimes I wondered if I was being unfair to him. Was I just using him to distract myself from my reality? But then I realized he wasn't trying to be my distraction. He was trying to be my peace, Was he really? Then I asked myself. I did not have the answer to that question yet.
Still, I held back. Not because I didn't want him, I did, deeply but because fear is a loud voice, and mine screamed every time I got too close.
He never got upset. Never acted entitled. It was like he saw the answer in my eyes and just waited for my lips to say it. And honestly? That quiet confidence was the most attractive thing about him. He would tell me, "I see myself in your eyes. You don't have to be afraid. I'm not going anywhere."
How does someone say that without meaning to sound like a savior? How does someone stay like that unbothered, unmoving like he had all the time in the world?
He became my secret joy.
But reality didn't stop hitting.
Every month was the same story at work. I'd see others sign out their salaries while I was left wondering when mine would come. My phone would vibrate with rent reminders and electricity tokens, and I would stare at my bank app, praying for a miracle. But none came.
Still, I didn't shout. I didn't fight. I stayed.
Two months before my contract ended, I summoned the courage to tell my cousin I was quitting. I thought it was only fair to give her notice. I wanted to leave right. I didn't want to burn bridges. I even thought, foolishly, that maybe she would finally pay me everything I was owed.
But I should have known better.
I worked those last two months with even more dedication than before. I stayed late, met deadlines, trained new staff and did everything an employee is supposed to do. And when the time came for my final paycheck?
Nothing.
The same excuse. "There's no money right now. Just be patient."
Patient?
I had worked. I had suffered. I had earned every naira.
But again, I said nothing.
Because I knew. That was their parting gift. Their way of saying, "You may have left, but we still own a piece of you."
So I packed my things. No tears. No words. I just walked away.
And outside that gate, as the sun dipped into the horizon, I felt something rise in me. It wasn't anger. It wasn't even sadness. It was release, I was actually smelling of freedom.
I was done.
And waiting for me, like he always did, was Chukwubuikem.
He showed up with soft eyes and open arms. He didn't ask questions. He didn't try to fix anything. He just hugged me and said, "I'm proud of you."
And in that moment, I believed him.
I didn't know what the future held. I didn't know where I'd go next. But for the first time in a long time, I wasn't afraid.
Because I wasn't alone.