The dark dusty room - by Oluwadamilola Adesina

Tolani’s wedding was a proper Yoruba wedding.Loud music, abundant food in different varieties, and an overwhelming crowd. From the moment I stepped into the gigantic hall, I knew this had Mummy Tolani written all over it. The aso-ebi was lilac—of all colours. Lilac wasn’t even Tolani’s colour. But then again, this day was never really about what Tolani liked. It was about display. About affluence. About noise. It was beautiful, truly. Colourful. Alive.And yet, my heart felt strangely out of place. Tolani had always been quiet. The kind of girl who never spoke more than two sentences at a time. I met her in the school library, and somehow our friendship grew. Through her, I met Yemi. And just like that, we became three: inseparable, unbreakable, the three musketeers. Or so I thought. It had been three years since I last saw both of them. As I sat there, admiring the bride from the ore iyawo table, a thought crossed my mind, who would have imagined Tolani would be the first to marry? And then another thought followed, quieter but heavier: how am I even sure Yemi isn’t married too? A firm hand on my shoulder pulled me out of my thoughts. I turned. It was Yemi. As handsome as ever. Surprised—no, overwhelmed, I jumped up and hugged him. For a brief moment, everything felt familiar. Like nothing had changed. Like it was still Yemi and me, always together, while Tolani disappeared into her books somewhere. I looked into his eyes and saw joy real joy, at seeing me again. Those eyes. The same ones I fell in love with. We exchanged pleasantries, the kind people exchange when they’re pretending not to feel too much. He told me about his life, and I could see it clearly, he was living the life we once talked about. A cybersecurity officer in one of Nigeria’s biggest banks. Yemi was now a big boy. He always had been. When I joked about him being married, he said he was still searching. The word lingered in my mind longer than it should have. Yemi was always searching. Even when he was with me, something had always felt incomplete. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was us. When he said those words that night. "Damie, I think we should just be friends"my world went dark. I remembered how dark the world felt in that moment. How his back looked as he walked away. How something in me went silent and never quite came back. Now here he was. Still the same Yemi. Hugging people. Laughing loudly. Moving easily through a life I had once been part of. Somehow, he stayed. He kept in touch. And I ran. How could I stay when everything reminded me of him?The paths we walked.The restaurants we loved.The classes we shared.Even church, yes church For two whole years, Yemi was my five and six. “Time will heal,” Tolani told me three months after the breakup. It wasn't happening. That was when I decided to leave. Now, three years later, laughing with him, exchanging shallow jokes, standing close but impossibly far, I realized something painful and undeniable: time didn’t heal me. It only taught me how to survive with the ache. I still search his eyes, hoping that they would choose me again. I still ask myself the quiet question: what if things hadn’t ended the way they did? We exchanged contact numbers. Polite. Civil. Mature. But I know the truth. Yemi has moved on.And I am still in that dark, dusty room.....

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