Paper hearts (The story)
“I…I need to tell you something,” she said, looking at him intently, deliberating on whether she was about to make the right decision.
“Okay, okay. But first—” He nuzzled into her neck with tender, sloppy kisses, about to ignite the familiar conflagration of passion.
“Let me love you.”Yenyenyen. Love her? When had he truly ever done that? Her body, he knew intimately and loved—every curve, every nuance, what she liked and how she liked it. Moments like this would often lead down a familiar route. Make-up sex. But how about her soul? He hardly connected with her mind, nor was he ever sensitive to her feelings, not to talk about respecting her will on most days.
As she pulled away, his smile faltered, and his eyes narrowed.
“Babe, I said I'm sorry.” His words were like a familiar trap, an attempt to distract her from the pain he had inflicted time and again.
I'm done. The word was right there at the tip of her lips. All that remained was for her to vocalize it.
As though he could sense her growing apart from him, he whispered, “You know, I’ve been meaning to show you something.”
When he dipped his hand into his left pocket, her heart sank. Was he finally going to propose? Oh, that would only leave her more conflicted than she already was. She had come to call it quits, something she should have done a long time ago. But what if he proposed? Where does that leave her resolve? She had never imagined herself with anyone else.
The devil you know is better…
And now that I'm beginning to know God, why should I settle?
As he pulled out a paper heart, a symbol of how their love began, she felt a mix of emotions. Nostalgia, anger, and sadness swirled inside her. Her mind flashed back to how it all began. The year 2008. Mr Madonna’s fine arts class. The class received individual instructions from the instructor to create something creative from a piece of paper. While other kids made what they were familiar with—paper canoes, paper fans, paper flowers, she stood out that day when she made a beating heart, signified by many layers from paper.
That was the day he approached her to strike a deal. Unbeknownst to her, many years later, he would have dealt so treacherously with her heart.
“Remember this?” he searched for her eyes to find a glimmer of hope for what they had. “This was what brought us together in the first place.”
Her voice was curt. “Given the circumstances back then, this is not very flattering, you know?”
“But this is what first led me to you, and that's never going to change.”
Right.
“Yeah, I know. But I need more than a paper heart to hold on to…” she sighed before continuing, “And I think I already found it.”
And it's no longer in you, but in God.
Having made a life-changing decision recently, receiving the life of God, she understood that she didn't only have the desire to surrender what they had, but the power to do so.
“Me too,” he replied coyly, flashing his gap-toothed smile, not fully understanding the gravity of her words.
He continued, “And that is why I know it's about time. Let’s start over. I'm done with the games. You know, I've realized that you're the only one who could truly hold me down. That's why I think we should make it official by getting married. It's all you've always wanted anyway, so let's get it over with.”
She swallowed hard. Did she just hear him right? His choice of words highlighted and amplified the depth of his heart towards her.
Start over…games…hold him down…think we should get married…what she always wanted…get it over with.
He had said enough to convince her.
****
“Now, may the bride and groom do as the occasion serves,” Bishop Kuti, a grizzled veteran of countless weddings, pronounced, in a bid to sound rather conservative. He stood, flanked by his fellow clergymen, donned in a typical ceremonial attire for clergymen in the Anglican Diocese. His glasses was resting on the tip of his nose, looking at the couple intently.
The dapper bridegroom was on cue. With his supportive best man behind him giving him a faux massage in his cream three piece suit, he straightened himself ready to unveil his bride. He tenderly lifted the sequinned lace veil off her face, and beheld, for the first time, his partner in covenant. A genuine smile plastered to his face, reflecting hope for what was about to begin. He dabbed his face with a handkerchief quickly and immediately gave the “yes!” gesture. It would have been one of the best moments to cue in Timi Dakolo’s “Iyawo mi” or K-ci & Jojo’s “All my life.”
Zena sat among the congregation of close to five hundred wedding guests, with more to come at the reception. The typical Lagos high society wedding.
A heartwarming smile spread across her face, as she took in the moment playing out before her at the Cathedral Church of Christ, Marina, Lagos. Her hands clasped together in her lap, her slender fingers intertwined in a gesture of quiet contemplation, playing with the ring on her fourth finger. She’d longed dreamt of the moment playing out before her but with her as the bride, which was not the case that day.
If she was, she had imagined herself to be adorned in a graceful dress, something that would accentuate her willowy figure, and preferably in lavender colour because she had quite the scare for white wedding dresses. Make nobody stain my white. Not as though she had seen any bride get spilled before. But ever since her Aunty Osasere asked her, “are you sure this scare is about the wedding dress, and not something else?” Zena might have wondered exactly why white was a problem.
Zena had pictured how her eyes would sparkle with delight and she would gush with hopeful excitement, as the girly girl she'd always been. Hopefully by then, the off-the-market song used for reels on Instagram would still be a thing. Even if it wasn't, who cares?
For her bouquet, two options she might have considered would be either a fresh bouquet or crotchet bouquet. Her mother might throw a tantrum or two if it's the latter, but everyone go dey alright laslas.
Zena never truly understood why guests at a wedding should be more than fifty people. But in a bid to “honour thy father and mother that your days may be long in the land of the living,” she was open to a bit of a healthy compromise. And most especially, he–whoever he ends up being, would be worth it.
“Thank you newlyweds, please save the rest for later,” Bishop Kuti cautioned humorously when the couple's kiss lingered more than was necessary. Gales of laughter erupted from the congregation, snapping Zena out of her reverie.
Zena’s heart glistened with joy for Jumoke, who looked so radiant in her long, off-white, silky, beaded mermaid wedding dress that Jumoke had made herself. Zena’s beloved Jumoke, as she would fondly refer to her.
Not many kept in touch with their school-daughters after graduating secondary school, but Zena did, being very fond of Jumoke despite the six years age gap between them. To Zena, Jumoke was like the younger sister she never had. Their bond had blossomed when Zena, being the disciplinary prefect, rescued the then little and clueless ‘JJC’ Jumoke from some senior bullies at their school. While Zena was in her finals, Jumoke was in her first year. The year Jumoke completed secondary school was the year Zena was wrapping up her master's program.
Who would have thought Jumoke would be getting married before her? God, most probably did. These were moments where life seemed like some plot twist. Zena remembered how Jumoke would often bug her on wanting to be her Chief bridesmaid.
“Mother, I know you have many girlfriends. But abeg, that CBM position is mine and mine alone. And I'm definitely making your dress, too! Anybody that wants to alter that arrangement will have to go through me first” Jumoke once said.
Well, plot twist, Jumoke.
If it were to be about a year ago, and another wedding, Zena wouldn't have been able to shake off the gnawing feeling of dissatisfaction, disappointments, the whys and hows. It was a season where Zena would decline wedding invitations. Invitation after invitation made her heart sink into despair. The invitees weren't the problem, she was. The call to purchase Aso-ebi for others’ weddings was a regular piss off. Well, now that she had gotten over such bitterness, she often consoled herself by saying, “at least I saved time and money,” until she realized that sharing in the joys of others was a privilege more than it was a burden.
However, Zena had come to know a different kind of intimacy since the past year. One that had helped her navigate and embrace the love that made her whole. Her healing from a breakup from an eight year relationship wasn't beans–well, it might as well have been beans, since she loathed beans in every form except as crunchy and tasty akara.
She made a choice to let go of the only love she thought she ever knew, inorder to truly embrace the love that had always known and chosen her.
As a person given to symbolism, the silver ring on her fourth finger served as a reminder of the fact that she had something special going on for her. Zena had come to know and cherish herself as His bride. A member of his body, connected to Christ by a lifeline that had its roots in eternity. Dissatisfaction and other related matters had no place in her life anymore.
Moreover, Zena had worn an assurance ring since then. It bore the infinity symbol. She took a glance at it, her thumb gently spinning it around her finger. As she played with the ring, a sense of comfort and security washed over her and she broke out in a smile. For her, the ring was similar to the sobriety coin given to recovering addicts at rehab. While theirs served as a reminder of their achievement and commitment to sobriety; hers served as a reminder of the assurance of God's love and the commitment to abide in the same.
Assurance ring? You're pathetic. Better stop fooling yourself and face reality! If only you had said yes to Emeka…
Start over…games…hold him down…think we should get married…what she always wanted…get it over with.
Upon those thought, Zena silently restrained herself from spiraling. The Emeka episode was over, alongside its inner turmoil, emotional blackmail, cheating and manipulation-almost-turned-bad-marriage. All of that was behind her. Once, all she knew was Emeka and his good-for-only paper heart love. If only she discerned it had been all wrong from the beginning.
Who falls in love with someone who asks them to write love letters in their stead and make paper hearts for another girl they liked? Zena did. She and Emeka made that deal, and in exchange, he taught her math, and soon enough, other things. They were young and foolish, but even as they grew, she had very little to show for a eight year relationship-in-twelve-years-of-togetherness.
What happened when she finally wanted to let go? Emeka made a half-hearted, grudging, let-my-people-go proposal. She wanted to hit him so badly where it would hurt. His words had hung in the air like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down. “Let’s get it over with,” as if marrying her was a chore. The casual cruelty of his statement had sent chills down her spine. Zena realized that if she had accepted his “proposal”, they would have already been one year sadly-married. Or divorced. What were the odds?
“Okay, Zena, that's it. Chapter closed. You're here for Jumoke and Ayo” she muttered to herself, stylishly separating the strand of hair that was coming to her face.
As the ceremony concluded and guests began filing out of the grand Cathedral, Zena took a deep breath, feeling the hostile, lukewarm Lagos breeze against her skin. She decided to step outside for a moment, away from the bustling crowd, to gather her thoughts before heading to the reception. Plus, the church environment offered some great view. She sat on a bench beneath a blooming tree, gently twirling her assurance ring, letting its significance soothe her.
“Beautiful ring,” a voice said, soft but clear. “It seems to mean a lot to you.”
Zena looked up to see a man standing nearby, holding a camera. He had an air of calm about him, his eyes gentle but curious. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong, tan arms, and he had a relaxed smile that instantly put her at ease. His unconventional attire was a masterful blend of traditional àdìre and modern flair, exuding cultural pride and sophistication. It was crisp and well-fitted, the grey fabric contrasting nicely with his caramel skin.
“Thank you,” she replied, glancing down at the ring. “It does. It’s a symbol of my journey, more than anything else.” Once, Zena’s mother hinted that the ring would chase potential suitors away, and she needed to stop wearing it. What her mother failed to understand was that it wasn't about a suitor, it was about her journey.
The man nodded, as if he understood. “I’m Fidel, one of the wedding photographers. Well, the church wedding photographer, to be precise. So, my official work for today is done.”
“Zena” she offered a warm smile.
They shook hands briefly.
“I see. Couldn’t help but notice you from across the courtyard. You seemed so at peace, it was almost like you were part of the scenery.” He chuckled softly, lifting his camera. “I hope you don’t mind—I took a picture. You just looked so serene.” He had a slightly pronounced East-African accent that gave him away.
“I don’t mind…” Zena replied, still trying to ease into the conversation. Then she added, “I actually like the idea of capturing moments that mean something.” As a creative person herself, she knew that much.
Fidel smiled, sensing a deeper connection in her words. “You know? I usually focus on the big moments—like the kiss, the vows—but it’s the quiet ones like these that really tell the story, don’t you think?”
“I couldn't agree more.”
A group of children ran past them, giggling and playing. In their hands, they carried a large, thick paper heart, one of the decors at the church wedding earlier. They waved it around, their laughter filling the air. Zena now understood why she seemed to have remembered the whole Emeka-paper-heart narrative during the ceremony.
“Oh, would you look at that?” Fidel took a shot of them before his gaze returned to Zena. “This reminds me of something from my childhood. I gave a paper heart to a girl once, thinking it was enough to win her over. But looking back, I realize it was just a gesture—a start, but not the substance.”
Zena’s eyes widened at the irony. “That’s funny… I once made a paper heart for someone, too. Well, it's quite complicated, but yeah, it was supposed to mean something. In the end, it was just that—paper. I thought it could hold everything together, but now I know better.”
Fidel’s expression softened. “It’s strange how life teaches us those lessons. The things we think will last forever often don’t, but they lead us to what truly matters.”
Zena nodded, feeling a sense of shared understanding. “Exactly. And it’s those deeper connections that we find later on that truly count.”
He stepped closer, still holding the camera at his side. “I’d love to show you the photo sometime. Maybe we could keep in touch? I’d like to give you a copy. I'm hoping you would like how it turns out.”
“Touché.”
My sincere apologies about this post being one day late. Er, truth is, this one took me quite longer than usual—busy schedule, writer's block, touch and retouch–“not this, that…not that, this” (other writers can relate 😂).
But I hope the wait was worth it, and you had some quality time reading this. 💛
Some good news—
🚨. Up next: “OOPS!” (Coming 16/08).
(P.s - Your comments make my day more than you can imagine. Most especially the ones with a lot of analysis😂. The plot is now yours; so are the characters! Analyze them as you deem fit, okay?)
Until next time…
Yours in Quality time,
Adebola🦋.
Ouuuuh! You're forgiven! I love love this piece!
Zena and Fidel are a thing 🌚
Thr story makes up for the lateness. You're forgiven. 😌
Also, the suspense in the beginning part? I thought she'd accept his proposal. 🥺😩😩
Well, thank you, Adebola, for this story. 🤗