JIDE
Five Years Ago…
Frankfurt, Germany
"Chinekeme, ị nweghị ike ịdị egwu ugbu a, Jide. Ị na-akpa ọchị!"
(My God, you can't be serious right now, Jide. You're hilarious.)
My elder brother, Ikemefuna, could barely hold his laughter as I told him what happened at Sharon's office.
I was spending some time at his mansion in Frankfurt. Ikem was the second-born and the closest thing I had to a vault — the keeper of every secret I'd never share with anyone else. Married to his former C.O.D. friend, Chioma, and blessed with two kids, they were the family's perfect success story. December would mark their tenth wedding anniversary.
I was happy for him — really. His own story unfolded easily: a random virtual game connection that turned into a lifelong bond. From chatting over Call of Duty to exchanging numbers and falling headfirst into love.
We were sitting outside, playing Ludo in his patio when I brought up her again.
A whole month had passed since that day at Sharon's office. A whole thirty days since I'd last seen her, touched her, heard her voice.
No sex. No calls. No texts. Nothing.
Even when she said she wasn't mine, I still claimed her in my heart.
Maybe I was pestering her too much — I could admit that now. I'd been hovering around her like a lost spirit, calling from different numbers, sending texts that were always seen but never answered.
She ghosted me. Cut me off completely.
And it hurt. It burned, actually — not seeing her, not touching her, not even smelling her perfume again.
I'd tried visiting, but her security guards had clear instructions: no entry for me. And whenever I stopped by her office, she'd already left — always about twenty minutes before I got there. Sometimes, she was out of the country, buried in work trips.
I even tried waiting outside just to pick her up after closing hours, but she always used her private elevator that led straight to the rooftop, where her helicopter waited.
Every time that chopper lifted off, I felt like she was flying farther away from me — like a butterfly disappearing into the clouds.
It broke me.
That day her father caught us making out in her office — yeah, that day — was the most humiliating moment of my life. I'd never been caught doing something that wild before.
He didn't shout or curse, though. He just looked at us — long, unreadable, and silent. Then his phone rang, and he stepped out to take the call. He never came back.
I couldn't tell if he was angry or just too shocked to react.
After that, everything between us changed. The memory of what we did that day kept haunting me — distracting me at work, keeping me awake at night.
I tried to stay away. I really did. She had just returned from an eighteen-hour flight from Osaka, Japan, and the right thing to do was let her rest. But my heart — and my body — refused to listen.
That day, we'd been intimate.
And the next, I was ruined. Completely gone.
I couldn't stop thinking about her — her voice, her laugh, her scent, the way she looked at me when she was angry. I didn't know if it was love or something darker, but it felt like black magic pulling me closer every second.
The last time I entered her office, I found the door slightly open, thinking maybe she had just stepped out. But it wasn't her — it was her father who'd left moments before.
"Amaghị m ihe kpatara na mgbe ọ bụla anyị na-akparịta ụka siri ike, ị na-ewere ya mgbe niile ka ọ bụrụ egwuregwu, Ikem."
(I don't know why every time I try to have a serious conversation, you always turn it into a joke, Ikem.)
Anytime I was with him or anyone from home, I switched to our dialect. It came naturally — warm, grounding, familiar.
Ikem raised his hands in mock surrender, still laughing under his breath. "Ọ dị nwute, ọ dị mma? Mana akụkọ gị na-achị m ọchị."
(I'm sorry, okay? But your story is too funny.)
I gave him a hard glare. "Ọ bụghị ihe ngọpụ." (That's not an excuse.)
He sobered up a bit and leaned forward. "Iso nwanyị na-ehi ụra mgbe mgbe n'ihi imegwara ma ọ bụ ihe ọ bụla agaghị eme ya ka gị."
(Sleeping with a woman often, whether out of desire or revenge, won't make her love you.)
That hit me deep.
He clasped his hands together and looked me straight in the eyes. "N'ikwu eziokwu, ị ga-ebu ụzọ were ihe ngwa ngwa."
(To be honest, you need to slow down.)
Slow down? Wasn't that exactly what I'd been doing? She was the one running. I was just trying to catch up.
"Ikem, unu na-ada ka a ga-asị na m na-atụ ya egwu."
(Ikem, you're talking like I've been scaring her away.)
He gave a short laugh. "N'ezie!" (Of course!)
Then his tone softened — serious, brotherly, measured.
"Lee, otu izu gara aga unu abụọ ahụbeghị ibe unu. Na nke nta nke nta ọ na-efu gị, n'agbanyeghị na ọ gaghị egosi ya mana enwere m ike ịgwa gị nke ahụ n'ezie. Ugbu a, ọ fọdụụrụ gị ka ị gbaa ogbunigwe gị. Kpọpụ ya na ụbọchị, soro ya nwee mkparịta ụka mara mma 'ewezuga mmekọahụ,' Jide."
(Look — it's been a month since you last saw each other. Gradually, she's starting to miss you. She won't admit it, but trust me, she is. Now it's your turn to shoot your shot. Ask her out. Have a real conversation — one that doesn't end in sex, Jide.)
That last line landed like a warning.
I exhaled and rubbed my palms together, creating a faint friction. "Nwanne, i marakwa m nke ọma. Enwetụbeghị m nwanyị ọ bụla na ụbọchị. Amaghị m ka m ga-esi kpawa nwanyị. Ị maara nke ọma. Ị kwesịrị inye m ntuziaka."
(Brother, you know me too well. I've never taken any woman out on a date. I don't even know how to date. You know better — you should give me some guidelines.)
Ikem smiled faintly, the kind of smile that told me he'd been waiting for me to finally say that.