He was not just a walking red flag, he was a red canopy

He Was a Red Canopy In the heart of Abuja, where the sun painted the city gold and the harmattan dusted the streets with a fine, dry haze, Aisha first met Kenechukwu at a rooftop lounge in Wuse 2. The city’s skyline glittered below, a mosaic of glass and ambition, while Afrobeats pulsed through the air. Kenechukwu, or Kene as he insisted she call him, had a presence that swallowed the room. His tailored agbada flowed like a river of crimson, his smile sharp enough to cut through the noise. He was magnetic, charming, and—unknown to Aisha—a walking red canopy. Aisha, a policy analyst at a think tank in Maitama, was used to men who carried themselves with the weight of Nigeria’s capital city. But Kene was different. He spoke of tech startups and oil deals with equal ease, dropping names of ministers and CEOs like they were old schoolmates. His WhatsApp status was a carousel of private jets, Dubai skylines, and cryptic quotes about loyalty and power. “I’m a man who makes things happen,” he told her that first night, his eyes locking onto hers over a glass of Hennessy. She laughed, thinking it was just Abuja bravado. But Kene wasn’t just a red flag waving in the breeze—he was a canopy, casting a shadow that hid a storm. Their first date was at Transcorp Hilton’s Bukka Restaurant, where he ordered for her without asking, his voice commanding the waiter like he owned the place. “You’ll love the suya,” he said, not noticing her raised eyebrow. He paid the bill with a black card that gleamed under the chandelier, then tipped the waiter enough to make the man stammer. Aisha was impressed but uneasy. Something about Kene felt too polished, too performed. Still, she let herself be swept up, dazzled by his promises of weekend getaways to Obudu and connections to secure her next big contract. Weeks passed, and Kene’s canopy unfurled further. He’d vanish for days, claiming “business in Lagos” or “a quick trip to London.” His phone was a fortress—always face-down, always locked. When Aisha asked about his work, he’d deflect with a grin, saying, “Don’t worry, babe, I’ve got everything under control.” But the cracks began to show. A friend of Aisha’s, Tolu, spotted Kene at a club in Gwarinpa with another woman, both draped in matching Gucci. Tolu sent Aisha a blurry photo, captioned: “Sis, isn’t this your guy?” Aisha confronted him, and Kene laughed it off, saying the woman was “just a client.” His explanation was smooth, but it left a bitter taste. Then came the money. Kene started asking Aisha for “small loans” to “tide him over” until his next deal closed. “You know I’m good for it,” he’d say, flashing that disarming smile. She gave him ₦500,000 once, then ₦1 million, her savings dwindling as his promises grew grander. He spoke of a mansion in Asokoro, a future where she’d be his queen. But the red canopy was suffocating now. Her bank alerts stopped coming, and her calls to him went unanswered. One evening, she drove to his supposed office in Central Area, only to find an empty storefront with a “For Lease” sign. Heart pounding, Aisha dug deeper. A quick search on X revealed posts from women across Abuja and Lagos, all warning about a “Kenechukwu Okoye” who charmed, borrowed, and ghosted. His Instagram was a curated lie—stock photos of luxury cars, filters masking the truth. Aisha’s stomach churned as she realized she’d been caught under his canopy, blinded by its shade. She confronted him one last time at a cafe in Jabi Lake Mall. Kene arrived late, his red blazer screaming arrogance. “You’re making a mistake, Aisha,” he said when she demanded her money. “I’m a big man. You don’t want to cross me.” But Aisha was done. She stood, her voice steady, and said, “You’re not a big man, Kene. You’re a small boy hiding under a big canopy.” She walked away, her heels clicking against the tiles, leaving him to his own shadow. Back in her apartment in Garki, Aisha deleted his number and blocked him on every platform. She reported him to EFCC contacts from her work network, sharing screenshots and receipts. The harmattan wind rattled her windows, but she felt lighter, free from the weight of his deception. Abuja’s lights twinkled outside, a reminder that the city, like Kene, was full of illusions—but also of resilience. Aisha vowed to never again miss the red flags, no matter how grand the canopy.

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