I woke up before the sun.
Black trousers. Black T-shirt. Black "Timberland" boots.
Pullover sewn from rich, vibrant Cameroonian Ankara.
Tight cornrows. Laid edges. No makeup—just raw determination.
My black backpack carried a change of clothes, a toothbrush, painkillers, makeup and some toiletries.
At 6:12 a.m., I was already at the bus station, boarding a car to Y-City.
A surprise visit. A reckless one, even.
But love does that.
Turns sensible people into Mumus
I never thought I'd be that girl. The kind that travels across regions just to "spend time." But here I was, doing just that—no dignity left to lose.
The road was long, and with each stop came local vendors swarming the bus like bees on mango juice.
Groundnuts. Roasted plantains. Bananas. Soya. Kola nuts. Pure water in recycled bottles.
One man practically shoved a stick of soya through the window, the smoky meat inches from my lips.
I had an absurd idea.
I leaned in and bit it.
Just like that.
The vendor froze.
For two seconds, we just stared at each other.
Then he exploded.
" EKIE, PAYE MOI, TU CROIS QUE C'EST LE GOUTEMENT?!"
Other vendors rushed to the window, all demanding justice like I had eaten the entire market. I stayed calm, smirking.
"Il poussait ça dans ma bouche. Je croyais que c'était pour goûter, que c'était gratuit," I said sweetly.
The crowd erupted.
Some yelled I was a scammer, others accused me of using beauty to trick honest vendors. The noise escalated until the driver strolled back, glanced lazily at the chaos, climbed into his seat, and turned on the ignition.
Perfect.
As the soya vendor turned to shout at the driver, I snatched four more sticks from his hand and leaned back like a queen.
Just before the bus pulled off, I tossed out a 500F note through the window. Silence fell.
The bus moved.
Inside, half the passengers were grinning. Some women scolded me gently, "Ma fille, tu es belle, ne fais pas des choses comme ça." Others said I was brave.
Then the debates began.
About women. About pride. About what "real women" should or shouldn't do.
One woman, about fifty, bragged about leaving her useless husband. A man in his thirties claimed she was pretending not to be lonely. "She go still go back if the man just kneel down small."
I rolled my eyes and leaned against the window.
"It really is a man's world," I thought. "And the worst part? So many women believe men are the prize."
Hours later, we arrived.
Y-City.
Clean. Planned. Peaceful. Almost unreal. I took in the palm-lined streets and organized traffic with envy.
I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address Alvin had casually dropped weeks ago.
The villa was huge. Like… Hilton conference center huge.
"Wow. They're really rich," I whispered.
I knocked at the tall black gate.
A security guard dressed in mustard yellow approached. "Who are you looking for?"
"Hi… I'm Alvin's—"
I paused. No. That wasn't my place.
"I'm a friend. I came to visit him."
"Ohhh. You came for the wedding?"
I blinked.
"Wedding?"
He kept speaking like I hadn't just died inside. "They already left for the council. From there, straight to Hilton Hotel. They'll probably spend the wedding night there. Then probably proceed to the honeymoon location"
Wedding night?
Honeymoon?
I frowned. "Wait, which Alvin?"
"Sir Tim Alvin, of course. This is the Tim residence."
I could barely breathe. "Who's getting married?"
He stared at me, puzzled. "Ah! You came for the wedding without knowing the groom? It's Sir Alvin now! You don't know?"
My ears buzzed. I instinctively took two steps back.
This had to be a mistake.
My Alvin? Getting married?
I nearly turned and ran. But something—rage, curiosity, grief—rooted me.
"Which council?" I asked.
He gave me directions.
I got into another taxi. Each meter on the fare felt like a countdown to heartbreak.
At the council building, people stood outside, cheering, clapping, cameras flashing.
I moved closer.
And there he was.
Alvin.
Standing in a crowd. Dressed in a fitted grey suit. That familiar innocent smile on his face.
I almost called out to him.
But then the photographer said, "Groom, please step in now."
And Alvin—my Alvin—walked to the bride.
Held her.
Intimately.
Then: "Bride's family step aside. Couple and groom's family, please."
I stared, stunned.
I couldn't hear anything anymore. Just a sharp ringing.
He was smiling.
She was glowing.
They looked perfect.
And I?
I was a joke.
He kissed her. A soft kiss. On the lips.
Just yesterday, he called me. Told me nothing. Lied with his silence.
I took one final look, turned around, and ran.
My lungs burned. My heart cracked. My hands trembled.
I didn't look back.
I ran. Again.