The sun rose over Lagos with a quiet brilliance, casting golden beams that filtered through the blinds and stretched across the tiled floor like fingers of promise. Danika stood barefoot by the window of their apartment, her nightgown brushing softly against her legs as she watched the city awaken. From their third-floor flat, she could see danfo buses sputtering into motion, newspaper vendors shouting headlines, and mothers tugging sleepy-eyed children across the street. Life moved with its usual Lagos rhythm—noisy, relentless, vibrant.
But for her, everything felt… still. As if the world was holding its breath for what came next.
Behind her, the faint sound of zippers and folded clothes filled the silence. Mike was packing. Again.
She turned slowly, eyes settling on the man she had chosen to fight for, even when everything told her to run. His back was to her, shoulders strong but slightly tense as he folded the last of his shirts into a worn duffel bag.
Her heart clenched.
Not because she was scared. Not because she doubted him.
But because this was real now.
The decision to move to Port Harcourt had been a long time coming—a combination of necessity and opportunity. Mike's new job offered stability, better pay, and a chance to rebuild their lives. After everything they'd endured—debt, heartbreak, unspoken resentment—they were finally stepping into something that looked like hope.
But leaving Lagos, their small rented apartment, her salon sisters, the street vendor who always saved her extra puff-puff on rainy mornings—it felt like ripping up roots she didn't realize had grown so deep.
"You're quiet," Mike said, his voice breaking the silence. He didn't look up.
Danika crossed the room and leaned against the doorway. "I'm thinking."
He zipped the last bag and turned toward her. His eyes searched hers gently, carefully. "About staying?"
She blinked, startled. "No. I mean, yes—but not like that." She paused. "I'm just… feeling it. You know? The weight of goodbye."
Mike nodded and stepped forward. He reached for her hand, fingers rough and warm. "This isn't goodbye, Danika."
She swallowed hard. "Then what is it?"
He smiled—small, but real. "It's a new chapter."
A soft breath escaped her lips. The truth of it settled in her chest, equal parts terrifying and beautiful. They were no longer reacting to pain. They were choosing something. Choosing each other.
Danika reached up and brushed a stray thread from his collar. "Then let's write it well."
The journey to Port Harcourt wasn't smooth. Their bus broke down twice. The heat was unforgiving, the roads uneven, and their few belongings packed into three bags and two boxes. But through the cracked windows, they held hands and watched the country roll by in fragments—burnt grasslands, laughing children, rusted rooftops, billboards promising miracles.
Mike made jokes. Danika laughed louder than she had in weeks.
By the time they arrived at their modest new apartment—two rooms, one fan, and a shared bathroom—they were exhausted but hopeful.
They laid on the bare mattress together, staring at the ceiling.
"This place smells like cement," Danika said.
Mike chuckled. "It smells like possibility."
"You're so corny."
"But I'm your cornball."
She snorted, and the sound surprised them both.
That night, they slept side by side, backs pressed together, their breaths syncing in the dark like lullabies. There was no furniture yet, no curtains, no gas cooker. But there was warmth. There was them.
And that was enough—for now.
Days blurred into weeks.
Mike started his new job at an engineering firm near the oil fields. The hours were long, and the learning curve steep, but he came home with dirt on his clothes and stories in his mouth. Danika would listen as she stirred pots on a borrowed stove, tired but attentive.
She found work, too. The salon wasn't much—just three chairs, two dryers, and a noisy generator—but it was hers in a way nothing else had been. The women welcomed her with curious eyes and cautious smiles. But her hands spoke for her. Quick, graceful, confident.
"She sabi work," one of the older stylists whispered to the manager after watching Danika braid a client's hair in under an hour.
Danika heard. She smiled to herself and kept weaving.
Her name began to spread in whispers through the neighborhood. Clients returned. Tips grew. So did her sense of worth.
In the evenings, she and Mike cooked together. Yam porridge. Fried plantain. Sometimes just noodles with too much pepper. On Fridays, they'd walk down to the riverside market and browse stalls, even when they couldn't buy much.
"Let's dream," Mike would say, pointing at a set of velvet curtains or a blender they didn't yet need.
And they would dream.
But love didn't mean ease.
There were hard days.
Mike once came home with blood on his knuckles—an accident with rusted machinery. Danika sat him down, cleaned the wounds with quiet fury.
"Next time, don't be a hero," she snapped.
He winced. "I wasn't. It just happened."
Her hands trembled. Not from anger. From fear.
He reached for her. "I'm okay."
She buried her face in his chest and whispered, "You better be."
There were also days Danika would come home exhausted, hands aching, back sore, and find the kitchen untouched. No food. No water fetched. And she would snap.
"I work too, Mike. Not just you."
He'd apologize. They'd argue. They'd fall asleep not speaking.
But the next day, he'd come home with her favorite suya.
She'd leave a note in his lunchbox with a badly drawn heart.
Little things. Quiet apologies.
Because they had learned: Love wasn't loud. It was daily.
On Sunday mornings, Danika liked to wake before the city stirred. She'd brew tea, step onto their narrow balcony, and breathe.
It became a ritual.
Sometimes Mike would join her, his head resting on her shoulder.
Sometimes she sat alone, replaying memories like old records.
The miscarriage. The months of silence. The phone calls that never came.
But those memories didn't haunt her anymore. They visited, gently. Like ghosts that had made peace with the living.
In this city, they weren't just surviving. They were becoming.
She noticed how Mike started calling her baby again, without thinking.
How he'd reach for her hand in public.
How her laughter came easier, fuller.
They made video calls to their families every week. Danika's mother cried the first time she saw their new apartment. "You're growing, my daughter," she said. "I can see it in your eyes."
Danika nodded, voice catching. "I feel it too."
One evening, Mike came home with a surprise—a small portable speaker.
"For our evenings," he said.
They danced that night, barefoot on the cold floor, to old Asa songs and the rhythm of each other's joy.
Months passed.
Their apartment slowly filled—curtains from the market, a secondhand sofa, framed photos printed at a corner shop.
One frame held a picture of them taken outside their new church. Mike in a wrinkled shirt, Danika in a bright head wrap, both grinning like fools.
The caption she wrote beneath it read: New city. Same love.
One night, as rain tapped the windows and thunder rumbled in the distance, Danika curled beside Mike and whispered, "Do you think we'll make it?"
He opened one eye. "Make what?"
"Through everything."
Mike turned to face her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "We already are."
She looked at him, this man she had almost lost, this man who held her hand through grief, through anger, through hope.
And she realized—he was right.
Love wasn't a finish line.
It was this.
Choosing, daily.
Holding on, even when your fingers were tired.
Letting go, when your pride got too loud.
Starting again, over and over, until starting wasn't necessary anymore.
Until it simply became living.
In the quiet hours of the morning, as dawn returned to bless the streets of Port Harcourt with pink and golden hues, Danika stood by the window of their now-lived-in apartment.
The scent of rain clung to the air. The world below moved slower here than in Lagos, but it still pulsed with life.
She held a cup of tea in her hand, warm against her fingers.
Behind her, Mike snored softly, wrapped in the faded blanket they'd brought from their old home.
She smiled.
They were no longer running.
No longer afraid.
This was a new chapter.
And it was theirs to write.
Together.