Surviving Love in Lagos.

Lagos is a city that is constantly bustling with activity.

The sounds of honking danfos, street vendors calling out their wares, and the ever-present hustle of people chasing their dreams fill the streets.

It’s a city full of life, but behind the vibrant energy lies a harsh reality — especially when it comes to love.

I experienced this firsthand.

I met Deji on a rainy Friday afternoon at a popular café in Victoria Island. The rain poured relentlessly, drumming against the windows as I sipped my cappuccino.

He walked in, shaking the water from his umbrella, and our eyes met across the room.

It sounds cliché, I know, but there was an instant connection. He smiled, and I smiled back. That was all it took.Deji was charming in a quiet, confident way. His deep voice had a calming effect, and his laughter felt like warmth on a cold day.

He told me he was an architect, passionate about designing spaces that told stories. We spent hours talking about everything and nothing — dreams, music, the chaos of Lagos traffic. When he asked for my number, I didn’t hesitate.

The first few months were bliss.

Deji made me feel like the only woman in the world. He sent good morning texts, brought me flowers “just because,” and always listened to me vent about work.

We explored Lagos together — long walks by the lagoon, dinners at cozy restaurants, and spontaneous drives along the Third Mainland Bridge at night, where the city lights reflected on the water like a million tiny stars.

But Lagos has a way of hiding secrets.The first crack appeared when he started canceling plans at the last minute. “Work emergency,” he’d say, apologizing profusely. Then there were the late-night calls he never answered and the messages left on “read.” My friends warned me.

“Men in Lagos,” they’d say, shaking their heads. “Be careful.” I brushed off their concerns. Deji was different. Or so I thought.One evening, we had plans to meet at a new seafood spot in Lekki. I dressed up, excited to see him, but he never showed up.

His phone went straight to voicemail. I sat there for hours, pushing food around my plate, hoping he’d walk through the door with a grand apology.

He never did.The next day, he finally called. “I’m sorry, babe. Work has been crazy,” he explained, his voice smooth as ever.

I forgave him.

I always did.Then came the night that changed everything. I was scrolling through Instagram when I stumbled upon a photo that made my heart drop.

Deji — my Deji — smiling at a fancy event, his arm wrapped around another woman. The caption read: “With my love. Forever to go.”I felt like the ground had been ripped from beneath me. My hands shook as I scrolled through the comments.

Friends congratulated them, calling them a “power couple.” I stared at the screen, unable to breathe.When I confronted him, he denied it at first. Said she was “just a friend.”

But the lies unraveled quickly. The woman wasn’t just anyone — she was his fiancée. They had been together for years. I was the side piece. The backup plan.I wish I could say I handled it with grace, but the truth is, I broke down. I cried for days, questioning everything. How had I missed the signs?

The late-night disappearances, the sudden cancellations, the phone calls he never took around me — it all made sense now.

But here’s the thing about Lagos: it teaches you resilience. Heartbreak in this city feels like a rite of passage, a baptism by fire. Slowly, I began to heal. I leaned on my friends, poured my emotions into late-night journal entries, and focused on rebuilding myself.

One day, I found myself back at that same café where we first met. The rain poured down, just like before, but this time, I wasn’t waiting for anyone. I sat there, sipping my cappuccino, watching the city move around me.

Lagos hadn’t changed, but I had.Deji became just another lesson in a city full of them.

And while the pain lingered for a while, I emerged stronger. In Lagos, love might break you, but it also teaches you to rise. And rise, I did.The

End.