AKANNI POV
The night Bukky collapsed rewired something in me.
Anger faded.
Victory meant nothing.
And love… love became dangerous again.
Mira noticed first.
She didn't ask questions. She never did. She simply stayed, bringing meals I forgot to eat, reminding me of meetings, sitting beside me in silence when words failed.
One night, as rain traced lines down the window, she spoke softly.
"You're allowed to feel," she said. "But don't drown in it."
I turned to her then, really turned, and saw what I had been avoiding. Stability, loyalty, something real. Our closeness deepened quietly after that. No labels. No announcements. Just shared breaths, lingering touches, unspoken understanding.
Dangerous—not because it was wrong, but because it was inevitable.
And for the first time since everything shattered, I felt grounded. Ready.
Strong again.
It was the second Sunday of the month, the day our family always gathered at my parents' house for dinner. The kitchen hummed with activity—jollof rice, fried plantains, peppered fish, and the aroma of egusi soup filling the air. Cousins teased one another, aunties exchanged gossip in low tones, and uncles debated politics as usual. The house was alive, familiar, and warm.
Mira sat quietly beside me, poised and composed, her presence steady. I felt her hand brush mine under the table—a silent reassurance. Normally, I would have waited for the right moment, measured words, gauged reactions. But that day, I didn't wait. I felt the certainty deep in my chest, the resolve to speak truthfully, boldly.
I cleared my throat lightly. The room hushed—not abruptly, but enough for ears to turn.
"I'm to have a wedding," I said plainly, letting my voice carry across the table.
The chatter faltered. Eyes widened. Heads turned. Some of the younger cousins exchanged looks, trying to guess who I meant.
"With… who?" my mother asked slowly, eyes narrowing slightly.
I didn't hesitate. "With Mira."
The reaction was instantaneous.
"WHAT?"
"Mira? As in Mira?"
"Your PA?"
"This one that has been around you always?"
"After all that happened with Bukky?"
Even my father's calm face tensed slightly, but he didn't raise his voice. That was enough to make everyone freeze.
I lifted my gaze to Mira. She sat straight, composed, but I could see the flash of nerves in her eyes. I nodded at her briefly—just enough to let her know she had my full support.
My father stood, slow and deliberate, making the room even quieter.
"You will sit," he said in that low tone that always commanded respect. Every eye obeyed instantly.
Then he turned to me, piercing gaze heavy,
"You divorced one wife, the whole city knew, your name was questioned, your character scrutinized—and now you tell us you are with your employee?"
"Yes," I said firmly, meeting his eyes.
My mother pressed a palm to her chest, soft shock in her expression.
"So… all this while?"
"There was nothing while Bukky and I were married," I said clearly, letting each word land. "Nothing."
In our Yoruba home, truth matters. Half-truths destroy families. I let that settle.
"She stood by me when everyone walked away. She saw me at my worst. And I chose her," I continued, glancing at Mira. Her hand found mine again, warm and reassuring.
My father studied me, his eyes scanning, weighing. After a long pause, he finally said,
"You know this will not end quietly."
"I know," I replied.
"You know people will talk."
"They already do."
"You know Bukky's name will rise again."
"I'm aware."
A hush followed. Then my mother spoke softly, with a warmth that cut through tension.
"Does she respect you?"
"Yes."
"Does she love you?"
"With her whole heart," I said.
She exhaled slowly, relief evident in her posture.
"Then bring her home," she said.
A few aunties murmured, some uncles whispered about tradition, but my mother raised a hand, silencing them.
"If my son has chosen, and he has not lied, then we move forward," she said firmly.
The air shifted. Shock mixed with cautious approval. Mira's hand squeezed mine, a small, victorious reassurance. Respect mingled with disbelief, but the weight of my parents' acceptance settled over the room like calm after a storm.
For the first time in months, I felt a deep, quiet satisfaction. Not for pride, not for show—but because truth had been spoken, and love had finally found its place.