The first time Dayo said he wanted to break up, he laughed two minutes later and called it a prank.
We actually met during our National Youth Service in Ebonyi State. It was the type of place where the sun would bake your brain dry by noon, but Dayo made it so bearable. He had this cute smile that always arrived before his words, and this laugh that turned strangers into friends. He was very kind, so witty and effortlessly lovable. Somehow, amid drills and parade practices, we fell in love. He was part of the band, I was part of the marching squad.
It was the kind of love that made everything feel so possible. When we eventually left camp, we decided to rent an apartment each close to ourselves. We would sit outside the lodge on cool evenings in each other’s arms and talk about life after service; how we would navigate the distance, where we would live, who would move. We painted a future so vividly that it felt too real. He used to say, “NYSC is temporary. But you and me? We’re forever my love.”
But NYSC ended and reality showed up almost immediately.
He moved to Abuja and I returned to Port Harcourt. At first, we tried. There were late night calls, we were constantly texting, making long voice notes. I even told myself nothing would change. But change came so quietly without me even taking notice of it. There were missed calls, unread messages, and the subtle feeling of
absence.
One evening at the office, I got a cold abrupt text: “ I don’t think this is working, we should move on.” I asked myself if this was a breakup message and where was it coming from?
I froze immediately. With my chest tightening, I shook on my seat, staring at the message whilst trying to make sense out of it. A few minutes later, he called.
“Hey babe, relax! It was just a prank. Wait, don’t tell me you are already crying. You’re too emotional!.”
I laughed nervously, trying to match his tone. But inside of me, something had cracked open. That wasn’t a joke to me. That was pure cruelty covered in humor. Still, I decided to let it go.
I started noticing more signs. Days would pass without a word from him. I was always the one making the calls. He rarely picked up and even when he did, he sounded so distracted and distant.
“I’m just busy,” he would say.
“Too busy to text for four days?” I asked once.
“You don’t understand. I’m under a lot of pressure.”
He didn’t have a job then and so I felt worry for him. I stayed, even when I felt alone. I excused his silence, his coldness. I told myself he was going through something and needed my patience and of course, my love.
Then he got a job. I was overjoyed. I thought, “ Oh, this is the beginning of our new chapter.” Instead, it was actually the end.
He stopped taking my calls entirely. Then I noticed I had been blocked on WhatsApp.
Even regular calls didn’t go through. It was like he vanished and wiped me clean out of his life without a blink.
I cried deep tears with body shaking grief. I questioned myself every day: “What did I do?” “Was I not supportive enough?” “Was love not enough?”
Days turned into weeks and he gave me no call or anything.
One afternoon, I borrowed a friend’s phone and called him. He picked up.
“Hello?”
“Dayo… it’s me. Why? What did I do to deserve this?”
There was a pause….
“You didn’t do anything,” he said. “I just… have a lot on my mind lately.”
That was it. No apology, No clarity; just that same weak excuse.
After that call, something shifted in me. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw someone I barely recognized. I saw this tired and anxious person, waiting for love to come back and apologize. I realized I had been loving someone who no longer had any space for me, a person who didn’t respect me enough to even say a proper goodbye.
So I blocked him. Not to hurt him back, but to protect myself and have my peace.
Some weeks later, I started to feel better again. My laughter returned, slowly and my breathing became more easier too. Then, out of nowhere, he messaged me on Snapchat.
“Can we talk?” he wrote.
I unblocked him, No don’t call me a cow yet.
He spoke about how he was too overwhelmed, how life got too hard and how he didn’t know how to actually explain himself.
I listened, and then laughed; not out of cruelty, but because I was no more blind.
“Dayo,” I said gently, “this was such a weak excuse. You could have just told me you were struggling. You could have just been honest. Love doesn’t vanish when life gets hard, it communicates, fights and it stays.”
He eventually went quiet.
And that silence actually told me everything I needed to know.
Love doesn’t just vanish when life gets hard, only weak excuses do.
All images are mine.
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