Chapter One: The Night It All Began
If Benita had known their love would end in charades, she would never have opened her heart to Michael. To her, relationships were meant to be stepping stones to marriage—a place of security, loyalty, and shared dreams. But life had a different script, one that tore apart her naïve assumptions.
She had always believed that if you gave your all—your heart, your time, your body—a man would see your worth and stay. What she didn't know was that many men already know who and what they want, and if you're not it, no amount of love, sacrifice, or devotion will change their minds.
The tragedy, however, is this: if you don't ask questions to define your place, you may wake up one day realizing you never had one to begin with.
Michael was the kind of man that turned heads without trying. Light-skinned, well-groomed, bearded, with an effortless charm. He was in his early thirties and doing well financially—running a thriving electronics shop. Women often passed by his store not to buy, but to admire. The most popular comment around him, usually said in playful Pidgin, was, "God dey create!" And truly, he looked like a masterpiece.
Benita worked at a nearby boutique. She had noticed him countless times. His charisma, his composure, his confidence—it was hard not to fall. Unlike other girls who admired him from a distance, she made herself visible. She asked him questions, brought him snacks, offered assistance with things he didn't ask for. It was clear—she liked him. And Michael noticed.
There was something about her that intrigued him. Maybe it was her openness, or the fact that she didn't pretend to hide her interest. She wasn't playing games like the others. She was straightforward. But that was also her weakness.
Benita fell too fast.
One fateful evening, after work, Benita followed him as he closed his shop. Michael turned and asked casually, "Where are you going?"
"To your house, of course," she said, smiling as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Michael smirked. He didn't say yes, but he didn't say no either. In his mind, it was simple—if she was available, why resist?
They walked quietly. The streets were dimly lit, shops were closing, and the only sound was the shuffle of slippers and occasional motorcycle horns. Benita's heart beat faster than her footsteps. She had never done anything like this before. But she felt safe—like this was where she was meant to be.
When they arrived at his apartment, Michael let her in. She settled on the sofa while he excused himself and stepped out briefly. A few minutes later, he returned with three drinks—one soft drink, and two alcoholic bottles.
He handed her the soft drink.
"Thanks," she said, and took a sip.
Michael, already sipping from his bottle, sat across from her. He didn't speak much. Just subtle smiles, occasional glances. They put on a movie, but neither was paying attention. The tension was thick, unspoken but understood.
Benita relaxed into the couch. She wasn't thinking about consequences, or what the next day would bring. She was just... there. Happy.
Midway through his drink, Michael excused himself to use the restroom. When he returned, he sat beside her, a little closer than before. His arm brushed hers lightly. Benita didn't flinch.
It started with a soft kiss—gentle, searching. She responded instantly, kissing him back with a need she didn't know she had. Within minutes, they were lost in each other. His hands found her waist, her back, her breasts. Her moans came softly at first, then louder as he undressed her with practiced ease.
He led her to his bedroom where the atmosphere changed completely.
He touched her. Slowly at first, then deeply. She whispered his name, begged for more, drowned in the sensations. When he finally entered her, her world exploded in pleasure. Every movement, every touch, every sound was engraved in her heart as confirmation that this must be love.
They had sex like people who had known each other forever—raw, passionate, overwhelming. There was no awkwardness. Only desire.
Afterward, she lay on his bed, smiling. She had given herself to him. Not just her body, but her emotions. In her heart, it wasn't just a hookup—it was the beginning of something serious.
The next morning, she went home feeling like she had won the lottery. She smiled at strangers, replayed every kiss in her head, and texted her closest friend with excitement: "Girl, I think I've found the one."
But Michael didn't text her back that day.
In fact, when they saw each other again at the market, they only exchanged looks—long, silent glances that said everything and nothing at once.
Still, from that day, things began to shift. Benita started visiting him more often. Spending nights. Helping with chores. Cooking. They acted like a couple, even though no words had been spoken. No commitment made.
And yet, in her heart, she believed—this was it. This was love.
What she didn't realize was that their relationship had no foundation. No direction. No definition.
Only memories of a night that meant everything to her, and maybe just something casual to him.
Chapter Two: Living the Illusion
Benita soon became a regular part of Michael's life—or so she thought.
It started with casual visits after work. Then came overnight stays. Eventually, she was spending more time at Michael's apartment than at her own. Her toothbrush lived on his sink. Her clothes took over a portion of his wardrobe. She even started helping with his laundry.
To outsiders, they looked like a couple—one deeply in love. But the truth was, they had never talked about it. Michael never called her his girlfriend. He never introduced her to anyone as someone special. He never said, "This is us."
Benita did all the believing for both of them.
She began referring to him as "my man" in conversations with her friends. "Michael is so sweet," she would say. "He makes me feel like a queen." She meant it too. He was generous, always made sure she ate, and sometimes bought her gifts—tiny things, but enough to spark hope.
She told herself she was lucky. At 25, to find a man like Michael—mature, stable, attractive—felt like a win. She thought she had secured her future.
But deep inside, a quiet voice whispered warnings.
There were no clear plans. No signs of commitment. No talk of introductions. They had been together for two years, yet Michael never asked to meet her parents. And anytime she hinted about the future, he would smile vaguely or change the topic.
Still, Benita brushed off the doubts. "He's taking his time," she told herself. "Men don't like pressure."
They continued spending their evenings together—watching movies, going to clubs, sometimes attending random parties. Michael loved the nightlife, and though Benita didn't care much for it, she followed him everywhere. Her joy came from being seen with him.
"Couple goals," her friends would tease whenever she posted a picture of them online.
But behind those filtered smiles was a woman losing herself slowly.
Benita no longer knew who she was outside of Michael. Her days revolved around his schedule. She cooked when he was home, stayed indoors when he was out. Sometimes she even skipped work just to be with him.
Her friends began to notice.
"Benny," her best friend Rita warned one afternoon, "don't let this man consume you. What exactly are you two?"
"We're building something serious," Benita replied with a soft smile. "It's only a matter of time before he makes it official."
Rita wasn't convinced. "Has he said that?"
Benita hesitated. "Not directly, but I can feel it."
Rita shook her head. "Feelings without words are dangerous. Don't build a castle on a handshake."
Benita laughed it off. "You don't know Michael the way I do."
But deep down, she couldn't shake Rita's words. That night, while lying beside Michael after yet another round of passion, she turned to him.
"Babe," she began softly, "what are we really doing?"
Michael blinked, caught off-guard. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… where is this going? We've been together for a while now."
He sat up, rubbing his face. "Benita, must we always define everything?"
She froze. "I just want to know where I stand."
"You stand right here," he replied, tapping the bed. "Beside me. Why rush things?"
Benita smiled faintly, but her heart dropped. His answer wasn't clear. It didn't hold the promise she longed for. But she swallowed her disappointment. Again.
---
In the months that followed, Benita tried to keep her doubts in check. She focused on being the perfect partner—supportive, patient, loving. She avoided fights, ignored red flags, and convinced herself that if she held on long enough, Michael would change.
But cracks began to show.
Michael became less emotionally present. Sometimes, he wouldn't return her calls. He started sleeping at different locations, claiming he had "late deliveries" or was "spending the night at a friend's place." He became secretive with his phone—locking it, hiding it, refusing to answer certain calls in her presence.
When she asked questions, he called her "paranoid."
"I'm not doing anything wrong," he would say. "You just overthink too much."
And maybe she was. Or maybe her instincts were right all along.
Still, Benita stayed. Not because everything felt right, but because she feared starting over. She feared being alone. She feared losing the little piece of love she had built in her mind.
Besides, she had given him too much already.
Her body. Her time. Her dreams.
One night, while out at a birthday party Michael dragged her to, Benita met a girl who would shake her world.
The girl's name was Clara—light-skinned, petite, with bold red lipstick and a mischievous laugh. She seemed familiar with Michael. Too familiar.
They exchanged playful touches. Spoke in inside jokes. And when Benita stood to get a drink, she returned to find Clara seated beside Michael—too close, too comfortable.
"Who is she?" Clara asked with a raised brow when Benita approached.
"I should be asking you that," Benita replied, her voice tight.
Michael laughed awkwardly. "Benita, this is Clara. Clara, Benita."
No titles. No explanations.
Just names.
Benita forced a smile and sat quietly for the rest of the evening, her mind spinning. When they returned home, she didn't speak. She went straight to the bathroom and locked the door.
She stared at her reflection—eyes dull, lips dry, heart cracked.
Who was she to him?
The question returned with even more intensity than before. This time, however, she wasn't sure she could ignore it.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Michael was already asleep. Or pretending to be. She lay beside him, wide awake, realizing that maybe—just maybe—this wasn't love at all.
It was an illusion.
A house built with hope and silence, but never with truth.
And illusions, no matter how beautiful, always fade.
Chapter Three: When Truth Breaks the Heart
Benita knew something was wrong. She had known for months—years, even—but the weight of denial is a heavy thing, and she carried it until it crushed her.
After the encounter with Clara, nothing felt the same.
The energy between her and Michael shifted. They still went through the motions—occasional dinner, shared laughter, late-night whispers—but the magic was gone. Or maybe it had never been there.
One rainy afternoon, while Michael was in the shower, his phone buzzed repeatedly on the nightstand.
Benita tried to resist. She had always told herself she wasn't the kind of woman who snooped.
But her fingers betrayed her.
She unlocked his phone—he had never changed the password—and scrolled through his messages. What she found made her entire body go cold.
There were multiple conversations with different women.
Some were flirtatious. Others explicit. And one, with Clara, was undeniable.
"Missed your lips last night."
"Wish I could see you again without that other girl tagging along."
"You know I care about you more, right?"
Benita's breath caught in her throat. The screen blurred. Her hands trembled.
He had been cheating—right under her nose. And not just with Clara. There were others. Maybe there had always been others.
She placed the phone down and sat quietly on the edge of the bed.
When Michael came out, he looked refreshed and oblivious.
"Food ready?" he asked casually, rubbing a towel over his head.
She stood slowly and faced him. "Who is Clara to you, Michael?"
He paused, eyes narrowing. "Why?"
"I saw your messages."
A thick silence filled the room.
Michael stared at her, then exhaled. "Why were you going through my phone?"
Benita laughed bitterly. "That's your first reaction? Not even denial?"
"You shouldn't invade my privacy," he said flatly.
She felt something inside her snap. "I gave you everything, Michael. My time, my trust, my body, my heart. I treated you like my future—while you were treating me like an option."
Michael shrugged. "I never promised you anything, Benita."
The words hit her like a slap. She stepped back, as if trying to dodge them.
"You never—" she started, voice cracking, "you never said it out loud, but you knew what I believed. You saw how I acted, how I committed to you. And you let me believe it."
"I didn't ask you to," he said coldly.
Silence.
Benita stared at him, stunned. A thousand emotions swirled inside her—rage, sadness, humiliation. But above all, a deep, aching regret.
Regret for staying too long. For loving too hard. For silencing her instincts and calling it faith.
She turned away, grabbing her bag.
"Where are you going?" Michael asked, still not moving.
"Away from this. From you."
He laughed slightly. "You're overreacting. Every couple goes through things."
"We're not a couple," she said firmly, finally accepting it. "We never were. You were just a comfortable lie I kept telling myself."
And with that, she walked out—into the rain, into uncertainty, but also into truth.
---
The first night away was the hardest.
Benita stayed at Rita's place, curled under a blanket, sobbing uncontrollably. Her eyes were swollen. Her chest felt tight.
Rita didn't speak much. She just sat beside her, offering warmth and presence.
"You did the right thing," she said eventually.
"It doesn't feel right," Benita whispered. "It feels like I lost everything."
"No, Benny. You lost someone who was never yours to begin with. What you're feeling is grief—but not for love. You're grieving the illusion."
Benita nodded slowly. The words sank in.
Days passed.
Benita stopped checking her phone every five minutes. She stopped waiting for Michael's texts. She even blocked his number—after receiving two meaningless "I miss you" messages that offered no apology, no remorse.
She returned to her own apartment and started rebuilding her routine. She went back to work. Reconnected with old friends. Took walks in the evening and journaled at night.
Healing wasn't linear. Some nights she cried. Some mornings she felt numb. But the fog was lifting.
She began to see how much of herself she had lost in that relationship. How often she compromised. How deeply she had twisted her worth around someone else's validation.
One afternoon, while folding laundry, she found an old photo of her and Michael—smiling at a beach, arms around each other.
She stared at it for a moment. Then she tore it in half.
Not out of bitterness. But as an act of release.
Love had misled her. But it had also taught her.
It taught her to listen to her inner voice. To define love not by what someone says, but by what they consistently show. It taught her that real love doesn't confuse, hide, or hurt without accountability.
And most of all, it reminded her that loving someone else should never come at the cost of loving herself.
She wasn't angry anymore. Just wiser.
---
Months later, Benita stood in front of a classroom of young women during a community mentorship event. She had been invited to speak about relationships and self-worth.
She took a deep breath, smiled, and began.
"I once thought love meant giving everything—until there was nothing left of me. But love, real love, adds to you. It doesn't subtract."
The girls listened intently. Some took notes. Others nodded slowly, relating.
"If you ever feel like you have to lose yourself to keep someone, that's not love. That's fear dressed in romance."
As the applause followed, Benita felt something rise in her—a peace she hadn't felt in a long time.
She walked off the stage, confident, free, and full of herself in the best possible way.
Michael had been a chapter—not the story.
And her story was just beginning.
Chapter Four – The Man Behind the Mask
Benita had never felt more alive in a relationship.
Michael, who had once been emotionally distant and difficult to read, was now starting to open up. He began doing the little things—sending a good morning message, asking how her day went, even occasionally calling her just to hear her voice. These small gestures felt monumental to Benita, because for months, she had been loving a man who felt far away.
Now, he felt closer. Warmer. More present.
She convinced herself that what they were building was real. Genuine. Promising.
And so, she gave.
She gave her heart—again.
She gave her time, sometimes late into the night, staying on the phone just to keep him company while he worked. She gave advice for his business—rebranding ideas, social media marketing tips, even connecting him to one of her old clients who was interested in his product. She gave without reservation, without counting the cost, because she believed in him.
In her mind, the future was bright.
He was finally treating her like a partner, and that was all the validation she needed to dive deeper. The late responses didn't matter anymore. The unspoken questions could wait. She was committed to him. To them. Because, after all, who wouldn't invest in a future that seemed so close?
But the truth? Benita was falling in love with only one side of the story.
Michael's story was heavier than she knew.
Underneath the quiet progress, under the gentle smiles and rare but comforting laughter, Michael was suffocating.
He had grown up in a modest home—never poor enough to starve, but never wealthy enough to relax. The day his elder brother died in an accident, something inside him shifted. He had barely been in his twenties, still trying to figure life out when the entire family's survival suddenly rested on his shoulders.
His parents were aging fast, emotionally weakened from grief and financially drained. His younger brother, Chuka, had no stable job. Struggling with depression and minor health issues, Chuka often stayed indoors, relying on Michael for everything—from medicine to motivation.
Michael didn't have the luxury of pursuing dreams. He had responsibilities. Heavy ones.
His business, which everyone assumed was thriving, was actually bleeding slowly. His profits disappeared almost as quickly as they came in. There was always something—mother's medication, father's electrical repairs, rent arrears, utility bills, transport for Chuka's job interviews that never yielded results.
Yet he smiled.
Because that's what strong sons do.
They carry the load, even when it crushes them.
But it wasn't just the finances—it was the silence. The emotional burden of being everything for everyone, while silently needing someone himself. Someone who wouldn't look at him and see a provider, but a man deserving of rest. A man deserving of love.
He sometimes looked at Benita and felt that maybe… just maybe, she could be that person.
But then the fear would creep in.
What if she saw the whole picture and walked away?
He didn't want her to feel burdened. She was light, warmth, faith. He didn't want her drowning in the shadows of his life. So he kept her out of certain truths. He let her believe everything was fine—even when it wasn't.
Sometimes he responded to her messages with enthusiasm. Other times, he disappeared into his thoughts, too drained to hold a conversation, but too ashamed to explain why.
It wasn't because he didn't care.
It was because he cared too much.
He couldn't bring himself to say, "I want to marry you, but I don't know how I'll afford a wedding."
Or "I want to build a life with you, but I can barely keep the one I have from falling apart."
So he said nothing.
He just kept striving.
Kept providing.
Kept smiling.
Even if it cost him the one person who saw past the surface.
---
Chapter Five – The Questions She Dared Not Ask
Benita knew how to hold on. Life had taught her that nothing good came easy, and if you truly wanted something to last, you had to nurture it with patience and belief.
And she believed in Michael.
But lately, she was beginning to wonder if belief alone was enough.
She sat on the edge of her bed one evening, staring at her phone. He hadn't replied to her last message, sent five hours ago. She had told him about an upcoming business workshop and had even offered to pay the registration fee for him to attend.
Still, no response.
Her mind began to drift.
This wasn't the first time he had gone quiet without explanation. There were patterns—long silences, tired tones, emotionally detached calls. Yet, the next day, he would be apologetic, even sweet. And that cycle kept her hooked—always hoping that tomorrow would be different.
But deep inside, a question started whispering louder:
"What is really holding him back?"
Was it fear?
Was it another woman?
Was it… her?
She didn't want to be the woman who nagged or interrogated. She had read enough relationship advice to know that men didn't like pressure. But was it still "patience" when you were the only one doing the waiting?
She scrolled through their old messages. The days he called her "my peace." The voice notes filled with laughter. The photo he once sent of his lunch, captioned, "Thinking of you made it taste better."
She missed that version of him.
And it hurt not knowing if that version still existed, or if she had imagined it all.
Benita's best friend, Tonia, had noticed the shift and once warned her gently:
> "You're building a house with bricks he's not laying, Benita. Be careful."
But how could she let go when her heart had already moved in?
Meanwhile, Michael sat in his room that same evening, staring at the same message she had sent hours ago. His phone screen dimmed and lit up again, a soft reminder of the attention he hadn't yet given her.
He read the message over and over.
He wanted to respond. He wanted to say "thank you," to tell her how touched he was. But guilt held him hostage.
How do you accept help from someone who thinks you're strong, when you're barely holding it together?
He had just returned from a heated conversation with his brother. Chuka had asked for more money. Michael had said he couldn't. Voices were raised. Words were said. Their mother had cried. And now, silence filled the house like smoke.
Benita's message had come in right after that.
Wrong timing.
But then again, when was the right time to tell a woman you love that your life is a mess?
He put the phone down, shut his eyes, and prayed—quietly, desperately.
> "God, please don't let me lose her."
The next day, he texted her a simple, "Thanks babe, you're always thinking of me. I appreciate you."
Short. Sweet. Safe.
But Benita stared at the message, her heart aching more than before.
He hadn't asked how she was doing. He hadn't said he missed her. No interest in the workshop. No excitement.
Just… appreciation.
Was she reading too much into it?
She didn't know anymore.
All she knew was that she had given so much of herself, and what she was receiving in return now felt like crumbs.
And yet, she stayed.
Because maybe he needed more time.
Because maybe he was trying in his own way.
Because love always hopes.
But even hope has questions.
Questions Benita was now scared to ask, like:
> "Where is this relationship going?"
"Do you even want a future with me?"
"Am I loving someone who is emotionally unavailable?"
She didn't ask.
She couldn't.
Because she feared the answers might end everything.
So she smiled. She replied, "You're welcome, love. Always rooting for you."
Then she stared at her screen again, waiting for the version of him she missed… to come back.
But deep inside, something told her—he may never fully arrive.
And maybe, just maybe… that's what misleading love looked like.
Chapter Six – Silent Storms
Four years.
It was a number that carried weight for Benita. Four years of loving the same man, four years of building memories, four years of hoping that each season would bring them closer to a life together. And in those four years, she had given him all of herself—her time, her trust, her body, her patience.
Yet, there was still no family introduction.
She had never met his parents in person. Not even a cousin or an uncle. The most she got was the occasional mention of them in conversations, like shadows in the background of a picture she wasn't allowed to see fully.
She told herself not to push.
Maybe he had his reasons. Maybe he was waiting until his business stabilized. Maybe he wanted to surprise her. Or maybe… she was just afraid of the answers she might get if she asked.
The truth was, Benita loved Michael deeply, but she also feared losing him. And sometimes, that fear kept her silent.
They continued their lives as usual—posting each other's pictures online, leaving sweet comments like "Dear" and "Mine" for the world to see. To anyone scrolling through their social media, they looked like a perfect couple. The kind of love story people envied.
But perfection was a costume.
---
It started subtly.
Michael's phone would ring more often, and he would step outside to take calls. His replies to her texts became slower, sometimes hours later with vague explanations—"Busy with work," "Long day," "I'll call you later." And when he did call, he sounded distracted, his laughter muted.
One evening, they were at a café when his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, his expression tightening for a moment before he flipped the phone face down.
"Who's that?" she asked casually.
"Work," he said without meeting her eyes, already changing the subject.
Benita didn't push, but the unease in her chest grew.
---
A week later, she noticed something odd. Michael had changed his cologne. She recognized scents—she was the kind of woman who remembered the little things about a man she loved. And this one wasn't his usual.
"New perfume?" she teased one evening as they sat in his car.
"Yeah," he said quickly. "A gift from a client."
Her lips curved into a smile, but inside, her thoughts were racing. What kind of client gives a man perfume?
Still, she said nothing. She had no proof, only instincts—and instincts could be wrong.
---
It was on a rainy Thursday night that the pieces began to fit together.
Benita had finished work earlier than expected and decided to surprise Michael at his shop. But when she got there, one of his workers said casually, "Oga don commot since. Say e wan go deliver goods."
She called him, and he answered on the second ring.
"Babe, where are you?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light.
"Still at the shop. Why?"
Her chest tightened. He had just lied.
"Oh, nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice."
She ended the call and walked away, her heels splashing through puddles, the rain masking the warmth leaving her eyes.
---
That night, she sat on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She didn't have solid evidence, only patterns—patterns that whispered of another woman in the picture.
But what would confrontation bring? Anger? Denial? The risk of him walking away entirely?
She loved him too much to lose him over suspicions.
So she stayed quiet.
Endured it.
Smiled when he texted. Laughed when he called. Held him close when they met.
Yet the silence inside her was getting louder.
---
A part of her expected the distance to change him—to make him miss her enough to come back fully. But Michael didn't change. He still treated her with the same level of respect, the same soft-spoken gentleness, the same occasional "I love you"s.
And strangely, that made it harder for her to leave.
Because how do you walk away from someone who still treats you like you matter, even when your heart suspects they're giving parts of themselves to someone else?
---
One Sunday afternoon, they met at a small restaurant. Michael arrived before her, sitting at a corner table, his phone on the table beside his glass of juice. When she walked in, his eyes lit up, and he stood to hug her.
"You look beautiful," he said.
"Thank you," she smiled, letting his warmth melt some of her unease.
They ordered food and talked about random things—her work, his latest clients, a football match he had watched the night before. Everything felt normal on the surface.
But Benita noticed the way his phone kept vibrating. And how, every time it did, he glanced at it briefly, then set it back down without replying.
---
At one point, she asked, "Michael… do you ever think about where we're going? I mean, it's been four years."
He looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Of course I do. You know I care about you."
"That's not what I asked," she said softly.
He reached across the table, taking her hand. "Benita… just trust me, okay? Everything will fall into place. I just need time."
Time.
She had been giving him time for four years.
She nodded anyway. "Okay."
Because part of loving Michael meant accepting his pace—even if it broke her inside.
---
That night, she lay in bed thinking about their relationship. It was strange—how a man could make you feel loved and unsure at the same time. How you could feel chosen and yet… replaceable.
She didn't know if Michael was still seeing whoever it was her instincts whispered about. She didn't know if she would ever get a family introduction. She didn't know if her patience would one day turn into regret.
All she knew was that for now, Michael still called her "dear," still posted her picture online, still held her hand in public.
And for reasons she couldn't fully explain, that was enough to keep her from walking away.
For now.