The day I met Amal, it felt like the heavens were smiling down on me. The weather was perfect. It was July 31^st. The sun was bright, but it didn’t burn, and the rain didn’t chill. My armpits weren’t itching. My nose wasn’t sweating. My hands weren’t clammy. My glasses didn’t hurt the bridge of my nose. I mean, I had just changed my frames the day before, but does that even matter? I’m trying to make this story sound perfect.

People say romcoms isn’t like real life, but how else do you explain the soft music drifting through the air just as she breezed into the café? I was neck-deep in a stubborn bug with barely an hour left before the product manager’s deadline when she walked in. The smell of Amal was startlingly fresh, minty even. She wore an orange, flowing silk gown knotted at the waist, giving her the look of a regal African woman. Her hair was silky and pulled back into a tight bun. Her large, brown eyes, soft and vulnerable, contrasted sharply with her deep voice. It was low, rich, and firm. With someone like Amal, you’d expect a girlish, high-pitched tone. You’d expect her to be like a Disney princess swaying delicately as she waits for a knight to save her.

But Amal needed no saving.

I did.

So I walked up to her, a devotee seeking to worship at her feet. I could care less about the bugs or my product manager. Or my JOB! She laughed when I told her she drew me in and said mischievously, “It’s the jazz from Yobe. My people are very prolific with love potions.”

My friends would go on to agree with her. They said the way my hands shook till I spilled my latte at the café was abnormal, not sharp guy behaviour. They said it was the kayanmata that made me nervous, and only a man-eater could stare me down until I looked away, bashful like a shy bride on her wedding night.

I didn’t care. I wanted to be enamoured, possessed by Amal. So, when the yes finally came after weeks of yearning, it felt like I was on top of the world. Amal was everything. Her name rolled off my tongue effortlessly. Amal was even more loving than I expected, generous with her love, attention, and affection. She was also good with planning; our next vacation, our five-year plan, my next career move.

“It will end in tears!” My friends teased saying a woman that pretty would leave me in a matter of days but Amal and I celebrated our 1 year anniversary to more teases from my friend. They said she has an elite Hausa boy waiting somewhere and it was only a matter of time before I receive her wedding invite.

“She is not even Hausa, she is Karai-Karai.” I retorted.

“Doesn’t matter. All Northerners are Awusa, Aboki. Potato-potahto,” Mike, my best friend, said nonchalantly as he mashed an entire loaf of bread around a full tin of sardines and took a massive bite. His temple muscles twitched with every chew, and in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to grab his throat and stop the bread from going down. It took everything in me not to throw him out of my house.

On the 14th of February, I received a box with a Montblanc wristwatch engraved with my name—Ozoza. She smirked as she tried on the Van Cleef necklace I got for her.

“You really shouldn’t have.”

“What?” I asked, clasping my watch.

“You’re getting me a Van Cleef set because you think this is what I want, but I would’ve been fine with something more…” She wrung her hands, searching for the word.

“More expensive?”

“No!” she said firmly, her large eyes looking at me with pity before she looked away.

“More what?” I prodded, already feeling inadequate.

“I’ve told you—your gifting sometimes feels like you’re trying to prove something to me. And you don’t have to. I would’ve been fine with a simple necklace that felt more genuine. Not… this,” she said, gesturing at the necklace with the ten ruby motifs and shaking her head.

“I thought you would like it.”

“I already have one. There’s no need for another.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to stall any further argument.

She picked up the box and smiled painfully. “It’s fine,” she said, hugging me and planting a wet kiss on my lips. My lips felt sticky from her lip gloss, but I couldn’t wipe it off, not when my chest was pounding furiously from what felt like a major fuck-up on my end.

Over dinner, the fork kept slipping from my clammy hands.

“Are you okay?” Amal asked, her eyes wide with concern.

“Yeah. Just nerves, yunno.” I took a sip of water, and it felt stuck in my throat. I started coughing.

“Ozoza? Should we head home?” she asked, worried.

“Argh, damn this. I’m fine, Amal, it’s just that…” I fumbled in my pocket, pulled out a tiny box, and got down on one knee.

“It’s just that I realized my heart had been searching for you even before I met you. Meeting you healed a part of me I didn’t know was aching, and nothing would make me happier than having you as my wife, and I your husband. Amal, will you marry me?”

Other diners stared furtively. Someone had their phone camera out, recording covertly. Amal’s eyes misted over. My chest was about to burst. She took the ring, stared at me, and I heard a clap pause midway. Then, she gently placed it on the table and whispered, “Get up.”

“Nothing would give me more joy…”

“Get. Up,” she said again, through gritted teeth.

I awkwardly stood. She smiled at the people across from us who rolled their eyes—robbed of the satisfaction of witnessing another sweet proposal. She had denied them the story they could’ve told: the nervous guy with the huge diamond and the stunning woman who wore it.

We sat in silence. Neither of us touched the dessert. The chocolate ice cream began to melt. Suddenly, Amal stood.

“I need to go to the ladies.” She said as she tossed down the napkin. I noticed two of the male diners turning to stare at her as she sashayed away. The flowing gown failing to hide her curves. My chest lurched a bit but I then relaxed when I saw their partners and took a sip of water to steady myself.

“Stupid lots.” I said to myself as I waited.

Amal didn’t return. The ice cream had turned to a watery mess. The waiter kept checking in to ask if I needed anything.

After an hour, I asked a waiter to check the restroom for my girlfriend. She returned and said the restroom was empty. Amal’s phone and purse were still on the table. Panicked, I tried to go into the ladies’ myself but was stopped by a tall dude with locs.

“The restaurant is empty! Surely there’s no woman at risk of me seeing her naked. Please get out of my front!” I snapped, shoving the waiter aside and dashing in. The restroom was empty. One of the toilets was leaking, forming a puddle on the floor.

I rushed back out.

“Where is she?” I was turning frantic. “What have you people done to my girlfriend!” I began to shout. Threatening fire and brimstone. My head was getting hot. My armpits began to itch and I removed my blazer and tossed it aside.

The manager came out and calmly led me to the security room to check the CCTV. We saw Amal take a detour on her way to the restroom. She stopped one of the waiters, exchanged a few words, then collected a phone from the waiter and made a call. Shortly after, she exited through the back. In the next frame, she was on the street, blending into the night.

And then she was gone.

My ears rang. My vision became blurry and I had to wipe my lens with the sleeve of my shirt but I still couldn’t see properly. The manager’s threat to fire the employee who took a diner through the kitchen sounded far away. I left the restaurant confused and empty. The next morning, my search for Amal began.

I’ve looked for Amal. At the café where we first met. The house where I’d dropped her off and picked her from.

“We no know this Madam. She no dey live for here.” The security had said. He wouldn’t let me in. I waited there from morning till evening and only left when I saw an Asian man and his wife, not Amal, step out with their kids.

The lounges I went to with her. Nothing. Her oils are still on my dresser. Her clothes in my wardrobe. Her scent lingered in the air. What sin could I have committed in a past life to be tormented this way? The smell of Amal was torture. I went weeks without brushing because the smell of mint reminded me strongly of her.

I would’ve searched for her beneath the seven seas or climbed every mountain. I would’ve trekked the length of Yusufari and swum the breadth of the Atlantic just to see her again and ask—why?

Why disappear like a mirage just when my feelings had started to take shape? When the giddiness in my heart felt like warmth on a cold harmattan morning?

Was it because I was too effusive? Because I made plans for the life I envisioned for us? Because I told her, eagerly, that I was ready to become Muslim, even though I’d never believed in religion and was content floating through life without questioning the mysteries?

Was it because I answered every call and never left a message unread? Because I always shared my location so she could see me coming back to her?

Or am I just unlovable?