A Never Perfect Time

The first time you met Dunni—officially—was in church, Christ Embassy Iyana-Ipaja. You’d never forget that night, you’d swear. Something about the fifteen-year-old leaning against the Usher’s stand, humming softly, caught you off guard. She sang better than all the girls in the choir you led, yet she seemed content being unnoticed.

Laishe Da Vinci, you’d tease.

2023

“You’re late.”

Dunni’s rant yanks you back to the chaos of Iyana-Ipaja—the noise-polluted streets, the reckless bike men, the keke riders who thought they owned the roads.

“Hahaha, you made your hair,” you noticed, watching as she walked down the stairs.

“Y’an,” she yelled.

“O’local,” you announced, grinning.

"Ọ̀rẹ́ ẹ̀ local ni ọ," she pointed at you, rolling her eyes.

“So, where am I dropping you off?” you asked, handing her the helmet.

“Dafe, you’re taking me in this Okada?” She recoiled.

“Power bike, you mean,” you corrected, slapping the passenger seat with unnecessary confidence.

She scoffed, but she climbed on anyway.

She always did.

Your last birthday at Uni

2019 was the year she got into Uni, two levels below you. Uncle Tunde, who worked at ICtac, processed her admission directly—she wanted to be a journalist, and he made sure her dream stayed valid. You never mentioned a word of it to her, but Tunde, ever the blabbermouth, flexed his good deed the first time she came visiting.

From the outside, you and Tunde looked like you could have come from the same womb. But that was where the similarity ended. Tunde embraced his receding hairline early, while you held onto your dream of becoming the next Bob Marley. His baldness falsely sold him as a good guy, while your dreads did the exact opposite.

The night of your final birthday in Uni, Dunni picked the perfect spot to celebrate—far from the noise of hostel corridors and birthday well-wishers who’d post you on their status and expect the usual “Thanks, boss” or “Thanks, love” in return.

She was different.

At dawn, she woke you with a birthday song that wasn’t gospel, her rich alto filling your tiny room. Then came the cake, the gifts, the prayers from Mama Dafe. It wasn’t the first time she’d slept over, and it wasn’t the first time her boyfriends had raised hell over it. In their defence—who wouldn’t?

By evening, she bounced into your room, arms wrapped around you like she belonged there.

“Big head, go dress up. I have a surprise for you!” she announced.

You smirked. “And where would you be taking me, Miss Local?”

"Kì í ṣe ẹ̀ jọ ẹ̀," she retorted, flinging you playfully to the other side of the couch.

You never saw it coming—the grand surprise at BT Court. The court was dark, empty, and yours for the night. You groaned, pacing.

Then—blinding lights.

Shouts of “Surprise!”

Laughter, warmth, people who actually cared.

Behind the basketball hoop, you spotted the banner:

Happy Birthday, Dafe

Your heart clenched. You turned to her, eyes soft, voice quieter than before.

“No one ever really cared,” you admitted.

And later, when everyone had gone, she sat next to you, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you always stayed behind the scenes.”

You shrugged. “Less pressure that way.”

“And that’s why you never told me what it took to put me in that Mass Comm hellhole?” She laughed, resting her chin on her knees.

“No be your dream?”

She went quiet. Then, softly—

“Why did you care so much?”

You wanted to tell her.

Tell her why you never touched her, despite the countless nights she stayed over. Tell her how she made you feel, how you were terrified of ruining things.

Instead, your hands found her waist, her fingers tangled in your dreads. You leaned in. She didn’t stop you. Dunni’s lips tasted like nothing you’d ever known. Like warmth. Like a promise.

Then—

“Dunni, Dunni!”

A voice cut through the night.

She sprang back.

“Micheal,” she whispered, her body shifting away from you.

You sat there, frozen, watching as she ran into another man’s arms.

“So this is how you are,” Micheal spat, ignoring you like you were nothing.

“It’s not what it looks like,” she said, voice low.

“With this thing?” he scoffed.

“He’s my best friend.”

“Best friends kiss?”

Dunni turned to you, pleading silently.

You exhaled.

“It’s fine,” you muttered. “I’ll take my leave.”

The Wedding Party

Tunde had seen it coming.

“Why you never tell her yet?” He switched on the T.V.

“There was never a perfect time,” you admitted.

“Pele o, Mr. Ed Sheeran.” 

“You wrecked her relationships, though.”

“That’s unfair.” 

“So, what happened after the kiss?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have an answer.

Dunni moved on. You thought she’d come back.

She didn’t.

The first time she told you about him, you thought it wouldn’t last. It never did with her past boyfriends. But this one? She kept saying he was different. You stopped listening.

Running one of Africa’s biggest event-planning companies meant you barely had time to breathe.

Until she called.

“Dafe, I want you to plan my wedding.”

The words didn’t register at first. Then they did, and they burned.

You planned the whole thing, like an artist. Like someone who had no history with the bride.

But the night before the wedding, she found you again.

“We never spoke after the kiss.” She murmured.

Why now? Dunni! You wanted to yell.

Her voice was small, like she was seventeen again, asking why you cared so much.

“Dunni, your wedding is hours away.”

“I know. I just thought you might want to talk.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

“I’ve been in love with you since you were fifteen,” you confessed. “Since I watched you sing in church since I watched you catch people sleeping during sermons. I tried faking it—pretending you’d see me—but I guess you were too scared to notice the Music Director.”

She chuckled, but you weren’t done.

“In Uni, I did those things because I loved you. And I guess that’s why our relationships never worked. I believed we belonged together.

Until you found someone else.

And I was diagnosed with cancer.”

Silence.

Then—her sharp inhale.

“Dafe…”

But you shook your head, smiling faintly.

“Go get married, Dunni.”

And she did.