My beloved Dolapo,
Happy Valentine's! Dinner later? I’ve prepared something special. (P.S- Wear Dolapo–it’s what looks good on you the most). The driver will pick you up at 7p.m.
Love,
Dad.
The notification jolts me out of my unintended early morning doom-scrolling. Give me a break, it's Valentine's morning. Let’s pretend for a second that the streets—both online and offline—aren’t flooded with everything I long for.
Back to Dad’s message.
A smile spread across my lips as I read it. Whenever he says, wear Dolapo, I know what’s coming. I miss him. And deep down, I know it’s impossible to pretend around him.
I’ve been avoiding our heart-to-heart talks, too caught up in my recent feelings of loneliness. Or unworthiness? I’m not sure. I had planned to reach out, to apologize for being distant, but as usual, he’s beaten me to it. Again.
A second notification pops up: Ovulation day–higher chance of getting pregnant.
I stare at the notification, unimpressed. As if!
Funny how life works. I had more suitors at sixteen than I do now at twenty-eight. Back then, I couldn’t take two steps without someone professing undying love, sending cringe texts with bad grammar, or interrogating me about my meals.
There was Dare, who once texted, “I cn’t slp withawt hring ur voice, bby”—which kept me up at night, but not for the reason he intended. Or Samuel, who would call at odd hours just to ask, “Have you eaten? What did you eat? Did you enjoy it? If you don’t eat, I’ll be angry with you.” As per what? Personal nutritionist?
Then there was Shadrach, the drummer in Church, and God forbid I let him handle my heart the way he handled the drums back then.
Now? Even my notifications are more invested in my reproductive health than my career. Perhaps I should’ve held onto those “I can’t breathe without you” texts a little tighter.
With a huff, I toss my phone aside and get up to use the bathroom—only to be startled by a piercing scream.
“Dolapo!”
Was that Deka’s voice? My heart races. Did a burglar break in? Are we about to be gang-raped on Valentine's? I rush toward the living room, dreading the worst.
To my surprise? No emergency.
Instead, Deka is surrounded by an explosion of romance: a bouquet of red roses and mint naira notes, a large velvety box of chocolates, a massive fluffy teddy bear clutching a heart that reads I love you, and a half-opened gift box brimming with more surprises.
The nerve of this girl!
I give her a light, playful kick.
“Ouch,” she winces, smiling like a fool in love. And indeed she is.
“Njideka Okoro, what is wrong with you?” I ask, irritation creeping into my tone. “What will now happen when Eli proposes? You'll land in the ICU?”
At this, she sits up, clutching the big stuffed teddy bear to her chest, her face, annoying me.
“Dolly baby, you won’t understand, my dear.”
“Oh! Rub it in some more, Robin Hood,” I hiss playfully, crossing my arms. “You almost gave me a heart attack, you know?”
“No vex, ehn. Na love dey do me gizz gizz,” she quips.
“Oh, how thoughtful! Happy for you,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
Her expression shifts as she peers into my eyes. “Wait, wait—you don’t even look surprised! You were in on this, weren’t you?”
“In on what? Abeg, leave me,” I try to feign innocence but can’t hide the playful smile on my lips.
Two weeks ago, Eli had texted me, desperate for ideas on how to pull off a surprise for Njideka since work would have him missing in action on Valentine’s. Ever the romance enthusiast (for other people, at least), I had eagerly suggested the best vendors, thrilled to be part of a grand romantic gesture. Now, looking at Deka’s over-the-top reaction, it confirms one thing: we did a great job.
“I know what you are!” she chortles, eyes twinkling. “Good job conspiring behind my back. Just wait till your man shows up. I’m plotting my revenge already.” She throws me mischievous wink.
I manage a faint smile but say nothing. I’ve never been a fan of the Don’t worry, your turn is coming conversations, even when they’re meant in good fun. There’s already enough noise in my head about the subject—I’d rather not let it ruin this moment too.
“These are lovely,” I say instead, running my fingers over the roses and expensive chocolates, admiring the attention to detail. I reach for the handwritten note nestled among the gifts and read it aloud:
“Deka, my Decagon!
Thank you for being both love and light. You’ve stolen my heart (as well as my favorite jewelry), and I wouldn’t have it any other way. In short, you rock my world—not in the Michael Jackson way, but in the Njideka Ojukwu way. I love you beyond words. Happy Valentine’s Day, baby girl.”
Forever yours,
E!
I let out an affectionate purr and pull her into a tight hug. “I forgive your big head for screaming my name earlier,” I tease. “Eli is such a sweetheart.”
“I know, right? And to think he cleared my online shopping cart recently? He’s full of surprises.”
I smirk. “Like you don’t spoil him silly too. You two are basically competing to outgive each other, and it's beginning to stress me out because I’m somehow always in the middle of the planning. But I love it.”
“See? You’re the best third wheel ever!” she remarks. When I playfully roll my eyes, she then adds, “Trust me, it’s a compliment.”
In my heart of hearts, I don't take that as a compliment but I’m not about to act like an enemy of progress, so I just look away.
Deka’s phone rings, and she picks up almost immediately. “E! Hey, my love,” she drawls, picking up the teddy bear and floating toward her room, giggles and all.
For a moment, I feel like a caretaker for all the romantic tokens. There’s nothing waiting for me today—no flowers, except the ones I’ve been hoping to finally buy for myself. No special sweet notes, except for the ones on the newsletters I’m subscribed to.
But there is my standing dinner date with Dad. How did I almost forget?
At dinner…
I sit across from Him at a candlelit table, the familiar warmth of His presence wrapping around me like my favourite blanket.
Despite how special I want to feel, the Valentine’s blues still weigh heavy on my heart. I push my food around my plate, my appetite absent. Across from me, however, sits something that looks like what I truly crave.
“What’s on your mind, honey? You’ve barely touched your food,” Dad asks, his tone casual as he reaches for a piece of chicken from my plate.
“Dad!” I protest. “Don’t take my chicken!” I giggle, shielding my plate.
He chuckles, retreating with mock defeat. “I can’t believe you’re still so protective of your food. Who gave it to you?”
“Ehn, but it’s mine now!” I shoot back.
“Really?”
I laugh, still glancing over at the lovely couple sitting across from us, whispering sweet nothings to each other and giggling as they dine.
Dad clears his throat. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you keep glancing at those two over there.”
I hesitate, then sigh. Of course he did. What goes unnoticed by Dad?
“Dad, they look so in love… and happy. They’ve had eyes on each other the entire evening, smiling like this moment will last forever. I wonder what that must feel like.”
“And you’re not?”
“I’m not what?”
“In love and happy?”
“I’m happy, Dad. But in love?” I shake my head as I chuckle. “You know I’m not. At least, not yet.”
“Hmm.”
I fiddle with the hem of my dress, not looking up. “Lately, it feels like everyone else is finding their person, and I’m just a supporting cast, a third wheel in everyone else’s love story.”
“Tell me more, darling.”
My voice grows smaller. “Dad, lately, I’ve been burning, you know? Craving everything from an intimate touch, to warm hugs, to passionate kisses, to chocolates that aren't hand-me-downs.”
I manage a dry laugh, continuing, “I just want something real with my own person. I know I sound like a broken record, but I’ve tried to pretend like I don’t care. Everyone says that’s the trick—act like you don’t want it, and it’ll come. But I do care.”
Dad sits in silence, still listening to me. His eyes filled with compassion but somehow, it annoys me.
I look at him, eyes pleading. “There goes your silence—please say something!”
“Omodolapo, I’m listening to you, aren't I?” He paused. “It’s so like you to mistake my silence for indifference. My only concern is, in this precious moment where we’re it’s just us, it’s others you’re worried about?”
My lips purse before answering. “Exactly, Dad. It’s just us again this year…”
“When is someone going to love and affirm me the way you do? Is anyone even talking or praying about me? Is he a Michael, Tunde, or Dipo? Where will we meet? When, where and how exactly?
Dad pat my hands gently, his eyes as kind as ever. “You see, I know it feels like you’re waiting for something you don’t have. But I want you to hear me out…”
“You are not waiting to be in love, or to be loved. You have been in love and have been loved before time began, Dolapo.”
He continues. “Always have been, always will be…in love. On the other hand, I am your Father and you know I love to give good gifts. But do you trust me?”
I look at him—really look at him. The one who has never failed me, never withheld good things from me. And I know my answer, even before I say it aloud. In that moment, the first tier of heaviness lifts.
With a slow breath escaping from my lips, my eyes soaked in tears, I nod. “Dad, I do trust you.”
Turns out the perspective I needed was already mine, I just needed to embrace it. Dad stands to embrace me and I weep into his embrace, feeling the conviction stronger than ever.
I am already in love.
Now I feel lighter, and for the rest of the evening, we enjoy our fine dinning.
Bonus💌:
Two years later…
It’s been two years since that dream—the dinner that wasn’t just a dinner, the Father who wasn’t my earthly father. I had woken up knowing, without a shadow of doubt, that it had been God, my heavenly Father, who revealed Himself—His love—to me.
But so much had happened since then. To me, yes. But even more through me.
And now, for the nth time, I was recounting the dream to another person standing where I once stood.
Sitting in the car, I hold my phone to my ear, listening to Edith, a friend from Church, exhale on the other end of the call after encouraging her.
“Thank you for sharing this with me, Dolapo. I needed to hear it,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.
I smile, warmth spreading through my chest. “The revelation was for me in that season but I always knew God had others in mind.”
“God is really such a Dad,” Edith says, the conviction in her voice, unmistakable.
I gave a strong affirmation. “He is.”
She continues. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to the rest of your day. Need to bask in my Father’s love, maybe hang out with friends, enjoy life and do whatever else I need to do, not as one who's single but as one with a life worth living. I’m not waiting to be in love—I’ve always been in love.”
My heart swells. “You go, girl. That’s the spirit.” I reply as I conclude with a heartfelt prayer for her.
“Take care, okay?”
“I will. Thanks again. Give my love to you-know-who.”
I laugh as I end the call, suddenly becoming acutely aware of the culprit’s gaze on me. His eyes hadn’t left my face the entire time, even though he had pretended to be reading something on his phone at some point.
“Folabomi Ariyo, you’re such a distraction, you know that right?” I say playfully smacking his arms.
“You mean your best distraction, your rhythm and blues,” he teased.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I roll my eyes, though I couldn't hide my amusement.
The day felt perfect. Not just because it was Valentine’s, but because Bomi had planned it with the precision of a man on a mission.
From the surprise breakfast delivery, to the mid-day love notes he somehow got my colleagues to slip onto my desk a couple of times, every detail had his thoughtfulness stamped all over it.
Then, right after work, he swooped in and whisked me away. He waited outside my apartment, patient as ever, while I freshened up, threw on something fancy, and pretended not to be giddy.
Then off we went, to a garden, where we had dinner. But more than the romantic setting, it was the ease between us, the knowing, the reassurance about what lay ahead. About forever.
Two years ago, I had sat at another dinner table, pouring out my heart to my Father, wondering if a day like this would ever come. And now, here I am—one of God’s sons looking at me like I’m worth looking at, worth waiting for.
Without thinking, I reach up to tug off my wig, exposing freshly plated cornrows. With the man beside me, I know that in a month’s time, I wouldn’t be guarding anything again. Better to start practicing now. Wigs, first.
“Don’t laugh. Face your front, my friend,” I warned, securing my seatbelt.
But he didn’t look away. “Are you serious?” His voice was calm, the first thing I’d fallen in love with about him.
“This is a better view.”
I shake my head, sighing. “What’s with you Nigerian men and cornrows, really?”
He shrugs, still smiling. “It’s not just the cornrows.” His thumb skim my knuckles absentmindedly. “It’s you.”
He gave a brief pause, then murmur, “And I can’t wait to wake up to this you every day.”
“Osheyy, lover boy.” I laugh, my hand finding his. “You know I can’t wait, too.”
For a moment, silence settles in the car, our gaze lingering on each other. We will be married in twenty eight days but the tension seem to build every moment.
When I hear Bomi give a frustrated exhale, I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. His fingers tighten around mine as he broke the gaze.
“I can wait. We can wait. Twenty eight days more,” he says.
And that was when it hit me. Different seasons, different ways God was calling us to trust Him. In singleness, it had been trusting that His love was enough, that I wasn’t incomplete or waiting to be in love.
In courtship, it was trusting that His timing was perfect, that waiting was a gift, not a burden. And soon, in marriage, it would be trusting that He was the foundation, the intentional hand guiding us through forever.
Different seasons. The same faithful God.
“Jesus take the wheel,” I declare, laughing.
Bomi joins the mirth, squeezing my hand one last time before lifting it to his lips briefly.
“And that’s our cue, my love.” Then, he starts the engine and drives off.
The End.
💌. Author’s note: Happy Valentine's, everyone. I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did writing it. Have a swell day. 🤍
Yours in Quality Time, Adebola. 🦋
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