Isabella showed up at my door just after sunset with a pink overnight bag, her braids swept in a loose bun, and a grin that could light up the whole of B-town.
She didn't even knock like a guest. She kicked the door with her foot and shouted, "Open up, I brought snacks, gossip, and zero emotional stability!"
I laughed as I pulled open the door. "You act like you live here."
"Give me three more sleepovers and I just might," she winked.
She dropped her bag on my carpet like she was planting a flag, tossed off her sneakers, and threw herself on the bed as if it was hers. I didn't mind. Not one bit. If there was anyone I could share silence, space, and soft moments with, it was Isabella. We'd known each other for only 2 weeks. She'd never been to my house but it felt so natural.
That night, the plan was a sleepover. No deep conversations, no overthinking. Just two girls in their pajamas, eating chin-chin, plantain chips, and gummy bears from the random snacks she stuffed in her bag, while gossiping under the low golden light of my bedside lamp.
And with Isabella? Gossip always started at gear 10.
"So," she began with a dramatic stretch, "we finally found out about that girl my brother allegedly got pregnant."
I raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Not his?"
She shook her head. "Sis, she had a whole community. Like—playboy levels of rotation. The drama is, nobody knows who the real father is. Now they're just waiting for the baby to form before any paternity test can be taken."
I gasped and burst into laughter. "You're telling me the minister's daughter was playing paternity roulette?"
Isabella nodded with the seriousness of a newscaster. "Ministerial levels of baby daddy mystery. Netflix should call me."
We laughed until our sides ached.
From there, the gossip spiraled into wild political theories. Isabella had dirt on everyone. Allegedly, one regional delegate had a secret family in Equatorial Guinea, a parliamentarian once fainted after drinking energy drink and aphrodisiac tea, and some senator's wife faked an identity to stalk her husband on Facebook for months before busting him in a hotel with a twenty-something-year-old.
"This country's politics is Nollywood," Isabella said dramatically, wiping imaginary tears from her eyes. "You don't need fiction when reality's this juicy."
Then her voice softened. "But enough about my crazy family. Guess who finally has a boyfriend?"
I paused mid-crunch. "You?"
She nodded with pride. "My bodyguard."
I choked on the chin-chin. "Your what?!"
Isabella grinned. "My bodyguard. Six foot something. Quiet. Always frowning like he has secrets. I couldn't resist."
I stared at her in disbelief. "You fell for your bodyguard? What is this, a telenovela?"
"Life is a telenovela, sweetheart," she flipped her braids. "You just don't have the right writers yet."
I rolled my eyes, chuckling. "You're unbelievable."
She suddenly got quiet and asked, "What about you? Anyone in the picture?"
The smile faded from my face. I paused for a moment, then nodded. "There was. Alvin Tim. I broke up with him on his wedding day"
Her face dropped. "Alvin as in the one from Y- city with the Real estate tycoon dad?"
I nodded again.
Her eyes narrowed. "If I ever see that two-faced, donkey-hearted ingrate, I'm going to punch him in the throat. In public. On camera."
I laughed a little too hard.
Then Isabella shifted in bed and turned to face me directly. "Look, Kim, let me give you free wisdom. The only way to avoid heartbreak is simple: on ne met pas le cœur."
I sighed. "But I don't know how to go halfway in, Iz. When I love… I just do it all the way. It's always all or nothing."
She took my hand under the blanket and said softly, "Then do you. All or nothing. I'll support you either way. I've got you."
My eyes welled up. Not with sadness this time. Just… gratitude.
"Thanks, Izzie," I whispered.
But she wasn't done.
"No matter how far you want to run, I'll be right there cheering for you. Whenever you're tired, just tell me and I'll take over for you like in a relay match."
She grinned. "And if you're too slow to escape something, I'll rent the fastest car and run for you. That's a promise."
I couldn't stop the laugh bubbling up in my chest.
Then her expression grew soft again.
"Just don't run from me, okay?"
I looked at her — this chaotic, too-honest, wild, loyal human being I somehow stumbled into befriending — and smiled.
"I won't," I said.
And that night, under the covers and glow of a tiny bedside lamp, I didn't feel broken. I didn't feel guarded.
I didn't feel like I needed to run. Again