His mother’s name is Adanna.
We were married for six years. We met in our late twenties during a professional conference in Victoria Island — she worked in marketing, while I managed IT projects.
We ended up sitting at the same table during a networking dinner and kept talking long after the hotel staff began stacking chairs around us.
We dated for roughly eighteen months. I proposed one Saturday morning at Lekki Conservation Centre after planning every detail down to the minute.
We got married in a small ceremony in Ikeja with around sixty guests and a highlife band that played late into the night.
For a long while, our marriage worked.
Then slowly, it stopped working.
There wasn’t some dramatic scandal. No cheating. No explosive fight that destroyed everything overnight.
It was quieter than that —
two people gradually growing in different directions.
Two people who were wonderful at raising a child together but not very good at remaining husband and wife. It took us nearly two years to accept those were not the same thing.
The divorce papers were finalized at Ikeja Magistrate Court a year and a half ago. We share legal custody of Eke..
He stays with me during the school week in Surulere and spends alternating weekends with Adanna at her apartment in Lekki.
Surprisingly, the arrangement works well. The transitions are smooth, communication stays respectful, and arguments are rare.
We use a co-parenting app to organize schedules and a shared calendar for school events and doctor appointments.
What we don’t do is share dinners.
We don’t call each other just to talk.
We’re two people who once loved each other deeply and slowly turned into something more distant and careful.
And for a long time, I convinced myself this was the healthiest way to move forward.
Eventually, I became good at believing it.
Everything changed on a Friday in March.
