MY FIRST LOVE (2)
ADESUWA
READ THE FIRST PART HERE:
Ngozi was the first person to figure out we were together.
We were in the cafeteria the next day, sitting maybe a little too close, sharing my food, laughing at something only we understood.
Ngozi’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She set it down slowly, her eyes narrowing as they moved from me to Adesuwa, then back to me. A smile was already forming at the corners of her lips.
“Wait,” she said, leaning forward. “Wait, wait, wait. You two have been too close these days.” Her voice rose with each word. “Are you two dating?”
"No—" Adesuwa started.
"Yes," I said, reaching under the table to take her hand. "We're together."
Adesuwa's head whipped toward me, eyes wide. But I didn't let go.
Ngozi slammed both palms on the table. "I knew it! I knew something was different!" She pointed an accusatory finger at Adesuwa. "You, madam, you'll explain why you had to make me find out by myself.”
But she was grinning so wide. I'm happy for you both sha," she said quietly, and I could tell she meant it.
Beside me, Adesuwa squeezed my hand three times. Our signal. I love you.
I squeezed back. Four times. I love you more.
We had eight months.
Eight perfect, messy, beautiful months of being together. Study dates where we’d spend the whole time making jokes only we understood until Richard would bang on the library table and shout, “Get a room!”. Her wearing my school sweater even though it swallowed her whole. Me learning to braid hair from YouTube just so I could play with hers during break.
At some point, everyone knew about us.
Probably even my mother, though she never said anything.
Then one Tuesday, sitting under our mango tree, Adesuwa told me her father had gotten a promotion. A big one. In Abuja.
"It's a good opportunity," she said, her voice carefully steady. "For everyone."
"When?"
"Two weeks."
We didn't waste a single moment. We spent every possible second together, pretending the deadline didn't exist, making memories like we could stockpile them for the drought ahead.
The day before she left, we went to the cinema. Silverbird, Ikeja. We watched Captain America: Civil War—she wanted action, I wanted anything that meant sitting in the dark next to her for two hours. My uncle dropped us there.
Afterward, we sat in the parking lot waiting for him to pick us up. With the sound of cars humming from a distance
"Promise me something," she said, her voice small.
"Anything."
"Promise you won't forget me."
I turned to face her fully, shifting so our knees touched. She wouldn’t look at me, just kept staring at our intertwined fingers.
"Adesuwa, look at me."
She did. Her eyes were already glassy.
"How could I possibly forget you?" I reached up and tucked a loose braid behind her ear, let my hand linger against her cheek.
"No i won’t forget you. I couldn’t, even if i tried. My Adesuwa.” I meant those words then
Tears were streaming down her face now. "I love you so much it hurts."
"I love you too. And this isn't goodbye. It's just... see you later."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"I'll miss you a little bit sha," she said, trying to smile through her tears.
"Liar, you obsessed freak.”
She laughed, and I leaned in to kiss her, and just as our lips were about to meet—
"Ah ah! See these small children, what are you both about to do? Will you get in the car!"
My uncle had materialized in front of us like a genie, his face split in a knowing grin. We sprang apart so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. Adesuwa's face went from tearful to mortified in 0.5 seconds. She covered her face with both hands while I suddenly found the parking lot asphalt absolutely fascinating.
"Uncle, we were just—" i started.
"Just what? " He was laughing now, fully enjoying our suffering. "Come on, let's go. Your parents are waiting."
The car ride back was the most awkward fifteen minutes of my life. My uncle kept glancing at us in the rearview mirror with this amused smirk while Adesuwa stared determinedly out the window and I counted the moving vehicles in my head.
---
The next morning, I stood in front of her house and watched her family pack the last boxes into their Sienna. The street was quiet except for the sound of car doors opening and closing, the scrape of cardboard against metal.
She hugged me one more time, pressed her face into my chest, and whispered, "I love you."
"I love you too Adesuwa."
Then she got in the car. Through the window, I could see her almost teary. Her mother put an arm around her shoulders. Her little brother waved at me, oblivious.
I stood there as the engine started. As the car began to move. As it turned the corner at the end of the street.
I stood there long after it disappeared, long after the sound of the engine faded, staring at the empty space where it had been.
We tried.
Phone calls every night that became every few nights, then once a week. Text messages that grew shorter as new lives consumed us both.
Time is the cruelest thing. It doesn’t just rip people from your life all at once—that would be too kind. Instead, it does something worse: it turns them into strangers so slowly, so gently, that you don’t notice. Not until the day you reach for your phone and realize the person you once couldn’t imagine living without is someone you haven’t spoken to in months.
The calls stopped after first semester, 100 level. The texts became birthday wishes and "how are you?"s that neither of us really answered honestly.
I lost my SIM card at some point. Lost her contact.
She was moving on. I was moving on.
That's what people do right?
I was scrolling through LinkedIn a few months back when her profile appeared in my suggestions.
Her bio said she'd graduated top of her class from Ahmadu Bello University. Interning at some prestigious architecture firm in London.
I stared at her profile picture for longer than I'd like to admit. She looked older and prettier. The gap between her teeth was still there.
I hovered over the "Connect" button for a while
I didn't click it.
Sometimes I wonder if she thinks of me. If she's making tea in her London flat and suddenly remembers the boy who rewrote her entire notebook until his hand cramped. If somewhere in the architecture of her memory, there's still a small room reserved for promises made under mango trees and almost-kisses in parking lots.
I hope she’s happy. I hope she’s loved well, selfishly, and fiercely, I hope that once in a while, in the space between one moment and the next, she remembers me too.
ADESUWA.
MY FIRST LOVE.
I love your writing so much, the intimacy of it is ….chef’s kiss❤️
You’re such an amazing writer!