BUKKY — POV
After about fifteen minutes of driving, we arrived at the largest restaurant in the state—Take Away
The place was breathtaking.
Everything about it screamed luxury: the architecture, the valet service, the soft golden lights spilling through the tall glass walls. Dining here would easily cost over a hundred thousand naira per meal—if not more.
"Wow," I exclaimed softly. "This place is beautiful."
"I admit," Demi said with a slight smile, "it's impressive. I heard it's owned by the
Convergence Group."
"Yes," I replied as we walked toward the entrance. "It's one of their businesses here. I wonder what the owner looks like."
"I only know there's a woman overseeing operations," Demi said. "But rumor has it there's someone above her.
"A woman?" I asked, genuinely surprised. Managing something this vast couldn't have been easy. *How formidable she must be*, I thought. *If only I could secure a deal with this company someday.*
I shook the thought away almost immediately. Some stars were too distant to reach. It was wiser to gather the raindrops already falling within reach.
Inside, a smiling server approached us.
"Good afternoon. Here's the menu. Please place your order."
Her smile was warm, polished—almost disarming. I had to admit, the restaurant justified its reputation. Every staff member looked stunning, well-trained, and confident.
Demi turned to me. "Order anything you like, Bukky."
"I'm fine with whatever," I said, trying to hide my admiration for the place.
He nodded and ordered for both of us. Within minutes, the food arrived—efficient, precise, flawless. I was impressed.
*I'll come here with Akanni one day,* I thought. *After the wedding.*
I made a mental note.
We ate quietly for a while. The food was exquisite, though I restrained myself from ordering more. There would be time for indulgence later—on my own terms.
After we finished, silence stretched between us.
We discussed for some minutes. We sat across from each other. Around us, the restaurant buzzed with life: footsteps coming and going, the clink of cutlery, murmured conversations. Demi's fingers tightened around his cup.
I hadn't planned for Demi to say it.
I hadn't wanted him to.
But when something has been buried for too long, it surfaces—ready or not.
"Bukky," he said, the smile gone, "I didn't come back to Ekiti for nostalgia."
My chest tightened.
"I loved you," he continued. "I still do."
There it was.
Raw. Direct. Unavoidable.
"I loved you before Akanni did. Before he became… everything."
So he *had* done his research.
I inhaled slowly, steadying myself.
"I'm engaged," I said calmly. "And I love the man I'm marrying."
"Akanni?" he laughed softly, bitterness coating the sound.
"Yes," I replied. "And our relationship is solid. We're getting married in three weeks."
"The studio manager," he said, disdain thick in his voice.
"Yes," I repeated firmly. "The man I love."
He leaned forward, voice rising. "What exactly can someone like him offer you? Don't you find it outrageous? He lets you shop alone while he—"
"That doesn't concern you," I cut in sharply. "Akanni is busy handling preparations. He updates me when things are done. Please don't cause a scene—we're in public."
Anger stirred beneath my calm.
This was a part of my past I had buried.
Once, I would have married Demi without hesitation. What we shared back then was serious—pure, unforced. But he had refused to follow me to meet my parents, claiming he wasn't ready, too busy with work.
Now he was ready.
Now—when I was already getting married.
It complicated everything.
I had loved him once. Truly. He never pressured me, never rushed me into what I wasn't prepared for. But Akanni—Akanni was different. He was gentle, practical, understanding. Not just romantic, but present.
And I loved him for that.
"I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings," Demi said more calmly, "but I just want you to see reality."
"I see it clearly," I replied. "But you can't expect me to run back into your arms just because we once shared something."
Still, the memories clawed at me.
*Why now?*
*Why not months ago?*
"But I still love you, Ayanfe," he said.
My heart jolted.
"Don't call me that," I said quickly. "Only he can."
"I bet he doesn't even know that name," Demi scoffed.
"I never told him," I replied firmly.
"You never told me either," he said. "I figured it out. Remember?"
I stood up.
"Thank you for the meal," I said politely. "It would be nice to see you at my wedding."
"Do I really have no chance?" he asked, standing too. "Bukky, I love you—"
"Please stop," I said softly. "If you continue, I won't be able to keep your company."
I walked toward the exit.
"You should think about this, Ayanfe," he called after me.
"There's nothing to think about," I replied without turning back.
Outside, I waved down a restaurant taxi.
"Where to, ma?" the driver asked.
"Third Extension, GRA," I replied.
"Don't worry, she's with me," Demi said, handing the driver some cash and waving him off.
I turned sharply. "What exactly are you doing?"
"I brought you here. I'll take responsibility," he said calmly. "I'll drop you at the estate gate. Nothing more."
I sighed. Arguing would only exhaust me.
At home, the compound buzzed with activity—family members assisting with wedding preparations. I greeted everyone and retreated to my room, took a quick shower, then lay on my bed.
My thoughts drifted.
Back to Osun State.
My NYSC year.
I had been posted to a secondary school tucked away from the city's hum—dusty compound, buzzing classrooms, and afternoons that dragged lazily under the unforgiving sun. That's where I first met Demi.
He was the school's baseball coach. Confident, precise, and somehow magnetic in a quiet way. I noticed him first during our orientation week, as he organized students
on the field with such meticulous patience. He had a way of commanding attention without shouting, of moving through the chaos and making it seem effortless.
At first, our interactions were minimal. I was new, shy in the role of a corps member, cautious not to stand out. But Demi had a knack for noticing small things—when I struggled with a lesson plan, when the generator failed during classes, or when I got caught in the midday sun running errands. He would offer a hand, a tip, or a ride.
We started talking. Little at first. A comment here, a shared laugh there. Slowly, familiarity crept in, I learned he was the son of a wealthy businessman—but not how vast that wealth truly was. What drew me in was his simplicity, his ability to make space for people without demanding anything.
Over weeks, we spent hours after school discussing everything: the future, ambition, life in the small town versus the cities we came from. Baseball became our unspoken bridge—he coached, I assisted when I could. Our shared laughter during drills, the late evenings reviewing student progress, even casual walks home, all built a connection that neither of us named but both of us felt.
By the time service year ended, we had grown close. There was a subtle warmth that felt safe—a first kind of love, delicate and unpressured. But duty and distance pulled us apart. I returned to Ekiti, Demi left for Lagos, saying he was not ready, and slowly, our communication dwindled. It wasn't anger or resentment—it was just life. And somehow, I believed that chapter had closed.