The first scar
The first lie did not announce itself.
It did not arrive with thunder or warning bells. It slipped in quietly, like dust settling on a shelf no one bothered to clean. By the time anyone noticed, it had already become part of the room.
Ayo learned this long before he understood what lies could do to a person.
He was seven years old when he first realized that truth could be bent without breaking—at least not immediately. His mother stood in the doorway that evening, her wrapper loose at the waist, her eyes tired in a way that sleep never seemed to fix. The kerosene lantern flickered behind her, casting long shadows across the cracked walls of their one-room apartment.
"Did you break the plate?" she asked.
The plate lay in pieces near the doorway, white shards scattered like fallen teeth. Ayo had been running, pretending the room was a football pitch, imagining cheers that did not exist. His foot had caught the edge of the wooden table. The plate had never stood a chance.
He looked at the pieces, then at his mother.
"No," he said.
The word came out easily. Too easily.
His mother studied him for a long moment. Her face held no anger, only exhaustion. She nodded once, sighed, and bent to sweep the broken pieces into a plastic bowl.
That night, Ayo lay on the thin mattress beside his younger sister, staring at the ceiling. His chest felt tight, but nothing terrible happened. No punishment. No shouting. No consequences.
That was when the lesson sank in.
Some lies worked.
Years later, Ayo would understand that the absence of immediate pain was not the same as safety. But at seven, all he knew was relief. And relief can be addictive.
By the time Ayo turned twenty-eight, lying had become less of a choice and more of a reflex. He lied the way some people blinked—without thinking, without noticing, without asking why.
He lied about small things first.
"I'm fine," he said when he wasn't.
"I'll be there soon," when he hadn't even left.
"I forgot," when he remembered too well.
Each lie was tiny, harmless on its own. But tiny cuts, repeated often enough, still bleed.
The morning everything began to unravel started like any other.
The city woke before Ayo did. Outside his window, generators hummed, motorcycles roared past potholes, and a neighbor argued loudly over the phone. Sunlight crept through the torn curtains, landing directly on his face.
His phone vibrated.
Mara.
He stared at her name until the screen went dark again.
Mara was not someone you ignored. Not because she was demanding, but because she remembered things—dates, words, promises. She remembered who you said you were and held you to it.
Ayo picked up the phone and unlocked it.
You said you'd come yesterday.
I waited.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He could tell the truth: that he had been tired, that the weight in his chest had pinned him to the bed, that facing her meant facing questions he didn't have answers to.
Instead, he typed:
Something urgent came up. I'm sorry.
There it was again. Smooth. Clean. Convenient.
He hit send.
The lie slid into place effortlessly, like a brick in a wall already under construction.
Ayo worked as a records clerk in a government office—a place where files went to disappear and time moved slowly enough to feel thick. He wore neatly pressed shirts and an expression of quiet competence. People trusted him because he looked trustworthy.
Trust, he had learned, was often about appearance.
At his desk, stacks of folders waited to be sorted. Names, dates, histories—entire lives reduced to paper. Sometimes he wondered how many of those files contained lies. How many false addresses, altered ages, rewritten stories.
Probably most of them.
Around noon, his colleague Kunle leaned over the desk.
"You didn't come yesterday," Kunle said.
Ayo didn't look up. "I was sick."
Another lie. Automatic. Effortless.
Kunle nodded. "Hope you're better."
"I am," Ayo replied, though the heaviness in his chest suggested otherwise.
The lies were piling up now, layering themselves neatly over one another. Each one small, reasonable, easy to justify. And yet, beneath them, something was beginning to ache.
Scars don't form immediately. First, there is the wound.
That evening, Mara finally called.
Ayo answered on the third ring.
"Hello," he said.
There was silence on the other end. Then she spoke, her voice calm but sharp around the edges.
"You're lying to me."
The words landed heavier than any accusation he had heard before.
"I'm not," he said instinctively.
Another lie. He felt it settle somewhere deep inside him, warm and unpleasant.
"You always say that," Mara continued. "But your stories don't match your actions. You say you care, but you disappear. You say you're honest, but you hide."
Ayo closed his eyes.
He wanted to tell her the truth—that he was afraid. Afraid that if she saw all of him, she would leave. Afraid that the man he pretended to be had become the only version people could tolerate.
But fear had taught him silence long before love taught him courage.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he replied.
Mara exhaled slowly. "I want you to stop lying. To me. To yourself."
The call ended shortly after.
Ayo sat alone in the dim room, phone resting in his palm. For the first time in years, the lies did not bring relief. They left something behind—an ache, a mark, a reminder.
A scar.
He did not yet understand that every lie he had ever told was still living inside him, etched beneath the surface, waiting to be seen.
But he would.
Soon.