The IV came on a Thursday. Gold-trimmed, sealed with wax. Like royalty. My name was written in cursive. I stared at it for almost 2 hours. I almost tore it. I almost framed it. I did none. I just sat there… shaking.

Why is my ex inviting me to his wedding? To flaunt his new peace? To prove he’s healed faster? To remind me that I was just a comma, not the full stop? Worse…

Why did the IV come through his cousin, the same one who texted me at 1am last year asking if I was “up”?

I told myself I wouldn’t go. I said it out loud 7 times. Then I said it in group chat. My girls said: “Let’s boycott.” “Let’s all wear black like funeral guests.” I was laughing. But my chest was heavy. Two days later, I was at Wuse Market, bargaining for a red satin gown. Backless. Slit high enough to threaten decorum. Not for him. For me. For every “Nma you’re too much” he ever threw at me like an insult.

The wedding venue? Transcorp Hilton. The same hotel where we celebrated our 1-year anniversary. The same place I caught a glimpse of a girl’s perfume bottle in his car. He said it was his sister’s. He has no sister.

I arrived at 2:02pm, just late enough to cause a stir. Eyes turned. Her bridesmaids whispered. His mother side-eyed me like I came with a dagger. Then I saw him. In cream agbada. Smiling. Holding her waist like I never existed. I froze.

Until a hand touched my lower back and a voice said: “You don’t look like a guest. You look like a queen.” I turned. And my mouth dried. He was tall. Bearded. With a dangerous smirk. He looked like a groomsman. But his eyes said trouble. He leaned closer and whispered, “You’re Nma, right? I’ve heard about you.” I didn’t blink. I just asked, “From who?” He smiled. “Let’s just say… not everyone in this hall is rooting for the couple.”

His name was Chijioke. Beard like intention. Smile like sin. He wasn’t just a groomsman, he was strategically placed. Why? Because the moment I entered, he appeared. Tall glass of water. With pepper inside.

He offered me a drink before I even sat. Red wine. He said, “Red to match your mood.” I smiled. But I was watching him. I’ve met men like this. Smooth talkers. Always lurking at someone else’s wedding… Looking for a girl with broken mascara and fresh vengeance. He leaned in again. “I heard you used to be the groom’s… peace.” I paused. “That was before he outsourced me to chaos.” He laughed. Too easily. Like he knew the story. Not just the headlines. The screenshots. At some point, I asked, “So how exactly do you know him?” He shrugged. “Family.” Then he added, “I was also his listener during the breakup.” Excuse me? Listener? Was this guy the other cousin or the therapist?

Before I could process it, the DJ called for the “Exes Dance.” I thought it was a joke… Until they started playing Joeboy’s “Contour.” Even the bride looked confused. But guess who stood up and offered me a hand? Yes. Chijioke. In front of everyone. We danced. Rhythmic. Intentional. His palm sat on my waist like rent was due. He whispered, “Let’s give them something to gossip about.” I told myself to pull back. But my body? My body was busy plotting a trilogy.

When the dance ended, I walked back to my seat. Eyes were burning into my back. Bride’s friends were already typing group chat updates. One of them mouthed, “Shameless.” I mouthed back, “Correct.” Chijioke came back with two plates of jollof and peppered snail. “For you. To replenish the gossip you just served.” I laughed. But my stomach was tight. Who is this man? He knows too much. Moves too fast. Talks too smooth. And something tells me… He didn’t come here just for small chops.

Nma’s Diaries….Life…Lessons…And everything inbetween