Bolaji's Pride: Part 3: THE MAN SHE HATED TO LOVE

Three weeks. That's how long it had been since Xavier walked out of her life, and Bolaji couldn't understand why she was counting.
Her bedroom had become a cocoon of expensive misery. The Italian marble floors felt cold against her bare feet as she paced at 2 AM, her silk pajamas clinging to skin that hadn't seen sunlight in days. The scented candles...vanilla bourbon and white tea...had burned down to waxy stumps, their fragrance now cloying in the stale air of drawn curtains and unopened windows.
Sleep had become her enemy. Every time she closed her eyes, Xavier's voice cut through the darkness with surgical precision: "You could have had the very best of all worlds."
Not shouted. Not angry. Just... certain. Like a diagnosis she wasn't ready to hear.
She'd tried everything. Melatonin left her groggy but still awake. The bottle of Hennessy her father kept in his study barely touched the edges of her restlessness. Even her meditation app... usually reliable for its patronizing calm...couldn't quiet the storm in her chest.
The worst part? She didn't even know what she was fighting anymore.



Her mother noticed during their usual Saturday brunch at the Country Club. Bolaji sat picking at her eggs Benedict, watching the hollandaise sauce congeal while her mother discussed the upcoming charity gala with surgical precision.
"The Adelekes confirmed they're coming, and I specifically requested their table be placed near...Bolají, are you listening?"
"Mm-hmm." Bolaji moved a piece of Canadian bacon from one side of her plate to the other...Her mother's fork clinked against her plate as she set it down. "You look terrible."
"Thanks, Mummy. Really what every girl wants to hear."
"I'm serious. Your skin is dull, your eyes are puffy, and you've lost weight." Her mother leaned forward, lowering her voice despite the privacy of their corner table. "Are you using something? Because if this is about some boy..."
"It's not about a boy." The words came out sharper than Bolaji intended. Several heads turned at nearby tables.
Her mother's eyebrows arched. "Everything's about a boy when a woman stops taking care of herself."
Bolaji stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the polished floor. "I need some air."
"Bolají..."
But she was already walking away, her heels clicking an angry rhythm across the marble foyer.
@@@

The intervention came on a Tuesday evening, disguised as Gigi dropping by with takeout from their favorite Lebanese restaurant.
"I brought fattoush and shawarma," Gigi announced, pushing past Bolaji at the door. "And before you say you're not hungry, I also brought wine and a very serious conversation."
Bolaji's apartment looked like a magazine spread that had been hit by a very small, very specific tornado. Designer clothes draped over furniture, makeup scattered across surfaces, empty water bottles forming small pyramids on the coffee table. The blinds were drawn tight, creating an artificial twilight that made everything feel suspended in time.
"Jesus, Bolaji." Gigi set the food on the kitchen counter and turned to face her friend. "When's the last time you showered?"
"Yesterday." A lie. It had been three days.
"When's the last time you left this place?"
"I went to lunch with Mummy on Saturday."
"That was five days ago." Gigi crossed her arms. "And according to your mother, you looked like death warmed over."
Bolaji sank onto her sofa, pulling a throw pillow against her chest. "I'm fine."
"No, you're not." Gigi's voice was gentle but firm. "You're falling apart, and everyone can see it except you. What happened?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. Bolaji felt something crack open in her chest...small at first, like ice beginning to split.
"I can't stop thinking about him," she whispered.
"Xavier."
It wasn't a question. Somehow, Gigi already knew.
Bolaji nodded, not trusting her voice.
Gigi moved to sit beside her, the sofa cushions dipping under her weight. "Tell me."
"I hate him." The words felt heavy, wrong. "I hate that he thinks he knows me. I hate that he walked into my father's house and embarrassed me in front of everyone. I hate that he made me feel small."
"But you don't hate him."
Bolaji looked up sharply. "What?"
"You don't hate him," Gigi repeated softly. "If you hated him, you wouldn't be falling apart. You'd be angry, maybe plotting revenge, definitely moving on. This?" She gestured at the chaos around them. "This is something else entirely."
"I don't..."
"When's the last time a man told you no?"
The question caught Bolaji off guard. She opened her mouth, closed it again.
"I'm serious," Gigi continued. "When's the last time a man didn't fall over himself trying to impress you? When's the last time someone looked at all of this. .." she waved at the luxury surrounding them "....and wasn't impressed?"
Bolaji's throat felt tight. "That's not..."
"He saw you, Bolaji. Really saw you. Not your father's money, not your beauty, not the image you've perfected. He saw the real you, and he still walked away."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"No, it's supposed to make you think." Gigi shifted to face her fully. "He walked away because he recognized his own worth even without wealth. He wanted an equal, and all you saw in him was someone beneath you."
Bolaji felt tears threatening...real tears, not the practiced ones she could summon for effect. "I'm confused," she admitted. A brief silence followed before she eventually declared, her voice ragged, "I don't know what's wrong with me. I haven't been myself since the day he came."
Her voice cracked as she clenched her fists. The words felt wrong even to her. "You say this isn't hate? Then what is it?"
Gigi knelt beside her.
"No, you don't hate him," she insisted again, softly. "You respect him. Deep down, you know it. And it terrifies you because he doesn't fit the picture you've always had of your ideal man."
Bolaji looked at her sharply. "So now you're psychoanalyzing me from your comfortable little bubble?"
Gigi smiled grimly. "You're the one living in a bubble, not me. Come out of that crystal tower you've built and just... face it."
Their eyes locked. A moment passed. Something unspoken shifted.
"What do you mean?" Bolaji asked, voice hushed now.
Gigi sat back, folding her arms. "Two things. I'll start with the easier one. You feel guilty...for what you said to him. The way you humiliated him in front of everyone."
Bolaji looked away, jaw tightening. "He asked for it."
"God! You're too stubborn for your own good."
"What do you want me to do?" she mumbled.
"Go find him. Apologize. That's not weakness, Bolaji. That's humanity."
A silence passed like a slow wind between them.
"And the hard one?" Bolaji whispered. Her throat was dry.
Gigi scratched her scalp, exhaled heavily.
"This might be tough to hear, but... I think you're falling in love with him."
Bolaji burst into sharp laughter. "Him? That nobody?"
Gigi laughed too, but hers was gentler, deeper.
"Then he's the nobody who conquered the princess. Think about it. He didn't flatter you. Didn't beg. Didn't care about your money or your father's name. He told you the truth. He saw past your beauty and called out your pride. And now? He's living rent-free in your mind."
Bolaji's lips parted as if to argue, but no words came. Her throat closed up.
"Are you serious?" she whispered.
"Dead serious," Gigi retorted.
Another pause. The room was suddenly hot despite the air-conditioning. Bolaji sank deeper into the couch behind her like her legs had given out.
"I'm afraid, Gigi. Afraid to look into my own heart. Afraid of what I'll find there. What if... what if I really care?"
Gigi reached out and squeezed her hand.
"Then be brave. This isn't war. It's just love. You can walk away and pretend it's nothing. Or you can chase what your heart clearly wants. You don't have to have it all figured out. You just have to be honest."
Bolaji's voice trembled.
"But what if he rejects me?"
"Then take it like the queen you are," Gigi said. "But don't miss the chance to find out."
@@@

That night, Bolaji stood in front of her mirror.
Not just to touch up her lashes or adjust her hair, but to see herself...really see. The proud girl who thought the world owed her love without cost was fading. In her place stood someone uncertain... vulnerable... and more human than she'd ever allowed herself to be.
She touched the glass.
And for the first time in weeks, she whispered the truth.
"Xavier... I'm sorry."
@@@


The Lagos sun hammered down mercilessly as Bolaji's Mercedes crawled through the labyrinthine streets of Ajegunle. Four hours of searching had left her silk blouse clinging to her skin, her usually pristine makeup beginning to streak. The air hung thick with the scent of burning charcoal, fried plantains, and diesel exhaust....a world away from her air-conditioned penthouse in Victoria Island.
"This is madness," she muttered, dabbing her forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. "A schoolteacher can't just vanish into thin air."
Gigi adjusted the AC vent toward herself. "Lagos is a big place, my dear. And maybe your guy is a ghost that doesn't want to be found. Can't say I blame him after what happened at your place the other day."
The words stung more than Bolaji cared to admit. She pressed her lips together and kept driving.
Their breakthrough came at a small primary school where peeling paint revealed layers of failed renovations. Mr. Sulaimon, a young teacher with wire-rimmed glasses and gentle eyes, emerged from a classroom filled with the chatter of children.
"Excuse me," Bolaji called out, stepping from her car. "I'm looking for Xavier Dada. I was told he's an acquaintance of yours."
Sulaimon's eyebrows rose in recognition. "You're Bolaji Adebayo." It wasn't a question. "The one from the magazines."
Heat crept up her neck. "Yes. Do you know where I can find Xavier?"
A knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Interesting. The queen of Lagos society searching for the man she once called..." He paused diplomatically. "Well, let's just say you weren't kind."
"Please," Bolaji said, the word coming out smaller than intended. "I need to speak with him."
Sulaimon studied her face, perhaps searching for sincerity in her designer facade. "You're too late for the Xavier you remember. He's not the same man you humiliated."
Bolaji's stomach lurched. "What do you mean?"
"He's moved on." Sulaimon pulled out his phone, scrolling through photos. "Got a full scholarship to University of Edinburgh. Master's program in Creative Writing."
The words hit her like a physical blow. "Edinburgh?"
"That's not all." He turned his phone screen toward her. "Recognize this?"
Bolaji stared at the image. It was a book cover featuring a haunting photograph of empty chairs arranged in a circle. The title read: *ALL THE THINGS WE NEVER KNEW by Xavier Dada.
"He won the Olive Tree International Literary Prize," Sulaimon continued. "The ceremony is in New York. He leaves tomorrow."
Gigi leaned over Bolaji's shoulder, squinting at the screen. "Wait...that's the Xavier? From TikTok?" She grabbed Bolaji's arm. "Girl, this book is everywhere! They're calling him the voice of his generation. I saw Chimamanda Adichie praising it on Instagram just last week."
The ground seemed to shift beneath Bolaji's feet. The same man she had dismissed as worthless was being celebrated across continents, while she..for all her wealth and beauty...felt suddenly, devastatingly small.
"Where is he staying?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
Sulaimon hesitated, weighing her desperation against his loyalty. "He's been crashing at my place. Refused to get a new apartment since he's leaving soon. Said there was no point in putting down roots."
Bolaji's hands trembled as she clutched her handkerchief. "Please. I need to see him. Just... please."
Something in her tone...perhaps the crack in her carefully constructed armor...made Sulaimon nod slowly. "Follow me."
As they trailed his weathered Corolla through the maze of streets, Gigi broke the heavy silence. "Still think he's the king of paupers?"
Bolaji stared straight ahead, her reflection ghostlike in the windshield. The woman who had once believed no man could match her worth was about to discover whether she was worthy of the man she had destroyed.
The reckoning she had avoided for so long was finally at hand.



ASHES AND EMBERS

Xavier stood by the window of Mr. Sulaimon's cramped flat in Yaba, watching Lagos traffic blur into streams of light and shadow. His suitcase lay half-packed on the narrow bed, a few weathered books stacked beside it like old friends saying goodbye. He wore a simple white shirt and dark jeans, barefoot on the concrete floor, his sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that carried the quiet strength of someone who had learned to hold his own weight.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in," he said without turning.
The door opened. Sulaimon entered first, then stepped aside to reveal Bolaji and Gigi.
Time seemed to crystallize.
Xavier turned slowly, his gaze finding Bolaji's face. No surprise flickered in his expression...no anger, no longing. Just a calm, complete presence that made her breath catch.
She looked beautiful but somehow smaller than he remembered. The armor of arrogance had fallen away, leaving something raw and uncertain in its place.
"I see you found me," he said.
His voice was steady, unhurried. It did something strange to her chest...made her feel both seen and exposed.
She opened her mouth, then closed it. The words she'd rehearsed scattered like leaves. Gigi touched her shoulder gently.
Xavier waited. "What do you want, Bolaji?"
"I came to..." Her throat felt desert-dry. "I came to say I'm sorry."
The silence stretched between them like a bridge neither had crossed before.
"I shouldn't have said those things. I didn't know who you were, what you carried. Maybe I still don't. But I was wrong. You didn't deserve any of it."
He nodded once, considering. "Thank you. That means something."
She blinked, thrown off balance. "That's... that's all?"
"What else should there be?" His voice held no edge, only genuine curiosity. "Apologies don't come with obligations."
She swallowed hard. "I thought you cared. That day. The way you fought back..."
"I did care," he said, and something in his tone made her heart skip. "I loved you before I even understood what that meant. But some loves are like distant stars; beautiful to admire, impossible to touch. You appreciate them for what they are, not what you wish they could be."
The words hit her like a physical blow, their gentleness somehow worse than any cruelty. "So there's... nothing left?"
"I'm saying I've found peace." He paused, studying her face. "I don't hate you, Bolaji. I just outgrew the version of myself that needed your acceptance to feel whole."
The silence that followed felt heavy with unspoken truths. Gigi glanced at Sulaimon, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Sulaimon cleared his throat. "Bro, I know you're flying out tomorrow. But before you go..." He turned to Bolaji. "Tell him why you really came."
She hesitated, then let her designer bag drop to the floor with a soft thud. When she stepped closer, her voice cracked like glass. "I haven't slept since the day you walked away. I told myself I hated you for making me feel things I didn't want to feel...for making me see myself clearly for the first time."
Xavier's expression remained neutral, but his fingers flexed almost imperceptibly.
"I convinced myself it was wounded pride," she continued, "but it wasn't. It was fear. You weren't rich or polished or any of the things I thought I needed. But you were complete. Whole. And I've never known what that feels like...not in this life of marble floors and champagne bubbles and beautiful emptiness. You stood there and told me the truth, and it shattered something in me I didn't even know was broken."
Xavier exhaled slowly, quietly.
Sulaimon stepped forward, holding a thin envelope. "This came for you today. Special courier."
Xavier opened it carefully. Inside lay a handwritten note and a plane ticket. His brow furrowed as he read.
"This is a second ticket," he said, looking up.
Bolaji stepped closer. "I made some calls. Used connections I've never touched before. Pulled strings I swore I'd never pull."
"You did what?"
"It's a ticket to New York." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I didn't come here to beg for forgiveness or demand a second chance. I came to ask if I could walk beside you...wherever you're going. If you say no, at least I'll know I tried to do something worthwhile for once."
Xavier stared at the ticket, then at her face, searching for something he couldn't name.
"Why New York?"
"Because that's where your story continues," she said. "And I want to see where it leads. I'm tired of marble prisons and golden cages. I want to learn what wholeness feels like."
The room held its breath.
Gigi muttered under her breath, "If you say no, I'm never speaking to either of you again."
The ghost of a smile touched Xavier's lips...barely there, but real.
He looked at Bolaji, then down at the ticket, then back to her eyes.
"I'm not promising anything," he said quietly. "But I suppose there are worse companions for a transatlantic flight."
Tears spilled down Bolaji's cheeks before she could stop them. "I'll take that."
Sulaimon grinned. Gigi released a breath she'd been holding since they'd climbed the stairs.
Xavier turned back to the window, but his posture had softened. The rigid line of his shoulders had eased into something that looked almost like hope.
Outside, Lagos hummed its eternal song of chaos and possibility. Inside, something new was being born from the ashes of what had come before.
Some love stories begin in fire.
Others in ice.
This one began with pride.

But what came next might just be grace.



EPILOGUE: SOMEWHERE BETWEEN

Six months later... Edinburgh, Scotland

Frost kissed the cobblestones of the Royal Mile, and golden lamplight pooled in the ancient wynds. Winter had arrived with quiet ceremony, wrapping the Old Town in scarves of mist and memory. Tourists clutched steaming cups, their breath visible as they wandered through centuries-old passages.
Beneath a weathered stone arch, a small bookstore glowed with warmth. The handwritten sign on its door read: An Evening with Xavier Dada..
Author of "ALL THE THINGS WE NEVER KNEW."
Inside, the room hummed with anticipation. Students perched on windowsills, academics claimed front-row seats, and lovers of language filled every corner. Camera flashes dotted the darkness as Xavier's voice rose above the silence; steady now, confident, no longer afraid of his own words.
When the reading ended and the queue for signings formed, she appeared.
Bolaji.
Gone were the designer labels and calculated perfection. Tonight she wore a simple navy coat, her hair pulled back without ceremony. But her eyes...those eyes remained unchanged. Sharp as Edinburgh wind, warm as whiskey by firelight.
"You once said you weren't sure if we'd make it this far," she murmured when her turn came.
Xavier looked up from his book, pen suspended. "I said I wasn't sure I'd let us."
"And have you?"
His mouth curved. "Still deciding."
Her laughter came easy, unguarded. "Still keeping your distance."
"And you're still pushing boundaries."
They stood in that space between what was and what might be...two people who'd learned the difference between wanting someone and choosing them. No desperate declarations. No grand gestures. Just the quiet recognition of something worth building, brick by careful brick.
"I took a flat down on Grassmarket," she said. "Thought I'd try writing again. Actually writing, not just living off expectations."
He nodded, capping his pen. "How's that going?"
"Terrifying. Necessary." She paused. "Real."
Xavier opened the book to its title page and wrote in careful script:
To the woman who taught me that the loudest love often whispers,
and the strongest hearts learn when to be still.
*X"

He handed it back, their fingers brushing for just a moment. "So... dinner?"
She smiled; not the dazzling, practiced smile from before, but something smaller, truer. "I know a place. Terrible lighting, excellent stories."
"Lead the way."
They stepped into the Edinburgh night, where ancient stones had witnessed a thousand love stories and would witness a thousand more. The frost crunched beneath their feet as they walked; not toward certainty, but toward possibility. Two people who'd finally learned that the best love doesn't announce itself with fireworks.
It arrives quietly, like snow.
And stays.

Is this the end?