Shadows of instability - by Emilia's Pen

In the bustling streets of Lagos, where the sun beat down on hawkers selling plantain chips and okada riders weaving through traffic like angry hornets, lived Chinedu. At 32, he was a man adrift in a sea of his own making. Financially, he was a disaster—a freelance graphic designer whose clients paid him in promises rather than naira. His bank account was a ghost town, haunted by overdrafts and unpaid bills from his tiny one-room apartment in Oshodi. Mentally, he wrestled with shadows: bouts of anxiety that kept him up at night, replaying failures like a scratched CD—failed business ventures, a degree in computer science gathering dust, and a family back in Enugu who called him "the lost son." All-round, Chinedu was unstable, like a three-legged stool missing a leg, always teetering on the edge of collapse. Yet, in the midst of this chaos, he harbored a burning desire: to get married. It started with family pressure, as it often does in Nigeria. His mother, Mama Ngozi, would call from the village every Sunday after church, her voice crackling over the poor network. "Chinedu, when will you bring a wife home? Your cousins are all married with children. Are you waiting for Jesus to return before you settle down?" She'd remind him of his late father's wishes, of the need to continue the family line. Chinedu, desperate to silence the nagging and fill the void in his life, convinced himself that marriage was the anchor he needed. "A good woman will stabilize me," he'd mutter to himself while staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. "She'll manage the money, calm my mind, make everything right." That's how he met Adaora. She was a no-nonsense bank teller at a branch in Ikeja, with sharp eyes that could spot a fake naira note from a mile away. They crossed paths at a mutual friend's birthday party in a noisy buka, where jollof rice flowed like wine and Afrobeat pulsed through the speakers. Chinedu, dressed in his best faded polo shirt, approached her with a grin that hid his inner turmoil. "You're the most beautiful woman here," he said, his voice laced with false confidence. Adaora, intrigued by his charm despite the rough edges, gave him her number. Their courtship was a whirlwind of stolen moments. Dates at cheap roadside eateries where they'd share suya and laugh about Lagos traffic. Chinedu painted pictures of a bright future: "I'll start a big design firm, buy a house in Lekki, give you everything." But Adaora saw the cracks early. He'd cancel plans last minute because of "work stress," only for her to find out he was holed up in his room, battling panic attacks. Money was always an issue—he'd borrow from her for transport, promising to pay back "next week," but next week never came. And his moods swung like the harmattan wind: one day euphoric, the next withdrawn and irritable. One evening, as the sun dipped behind the high-rises of Victoria Island, they sat on a bench in Freedom Park after a rare outing. Chinedu, fueled by a mix of desperation and delusion, pulled out a small ring he'd bought on credit from a street vendor. "Adaora, marry me," he said, his hands trembling. "We'll build a life together. I'll change for you." Adaora stared at the ring, then at him, her face a mask of disbelief turning to anger. She had her own dreams—a stable home, a partner who could stand firm amid Nigeria's economic storms. She'd confided in her sister about Chinedu's issues, and the advice was clear: "Don't tie yourself to a sinking ship." Pulling her hand away, she stood up, her voice steady but sharp. "Chinedu, you're not stable, and you want to make me unstable with you? Financially, you're drowning in debt. Mentally, you're fighting battles you won't even admit to. And all-round? You're like a danfo bus with no brakes—dangerous to ride with. I can't marry into this mess. Fix yourself first." The words hit Chinedu like a slap from an okada mirror in traffic. He sat there, stunned, as Adaora walked away, her heels clicking against the pavement. For the first time, he saw himself through her eyes: not a man ready for marriage, but a boy playing house in a storm. That night, back in his dim apartment, Chinedu didn't sleep. Instead, he made a list—therapy sessions at the free clinic in Yaba, budgeting apps on his phone, reaching out to old contacts for steady work. Marriage, he realized, wasn't a lifeline; it was a partnership that demanded stability from both sides. Months later, he started small: a steady gig at a printing press, counseling that quieted the shadows in his mind. And though Adaora never came back, Chinedu found a fragile peace. In Nigeria, where life tests you daily, he learned that true stability begins within—one shaky step at a time.

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