Nigerians don’t write romance.

John had made himself clear. If she wanted to be a writer, she would have to do an overhaul of her plotline.

“Look around you, Sera. Nobody is reading a book to find out if two people who will ultimately fall in love or die trying, will fall in love or die trying.”

He was right, she knew, but she desperately didn’t want him to be. These were not the best times the country had seen.

It was 2015. The hope that had once carried the weight of the country’s future was long lost. The loud prayers of the religious leaders, as they commanded affliction not to arise a second time, had become the soundtrack of the nation’s plight, relegated to the background like the cries of the wounded that echoed in the north-east.

Literature had become a monolith of sadness that reflected the new reality. That was what Nigerians read. Or a newspaper.

Nigerians do not read romance.

Sera sighed. He was right.

*******

Sera picked up her coffee cup. The rich, sultry voice of Sade Adu echoed within the confines of her small but richly furnished studio apartment that was currently a mess.

She grimaced as she brought the cup to her lips and immediately set it down amidst the junk that surrounded her on the floor. She returned to the half-filled page of her manuscript poking out from her typewriter.

The scene she had been writing was one where the female lead, Titi, reached for her lover’s hand beneath the dinner table as her father delivered his retirement speech. In a sitting arrangement cleverly orchestrated by Titi and her mother, the forbidden love between Titi and Richard—her father’s Oyibo business partner—blossomed.

She’d been conflicted as to which direction the rest of the evening would take. A decision that would determine if, as she liked to put it, kasala would burst or if Baba Titi would remain oblivious to the love story developing within his coffers.

Well, she would never get to that bridge now.

She reached for her paper shredder amidst the chaos of books and files around her, stopping as her eye settled on the pink shoebox partially buried beneath a bundle of paper. In the corner, where the brand name had once been, she’d placed white tape over and labelled it correspondence. Forgetting her initial quest, she picked it up and hurriedly opened it.

It did not matter that she had read the letters last weekend. Every time she opened the shoebox, she was hit with the same wave of emotions, and yet the novelty never wore off. It was a feeling she liked to describe as butterflies in a garden—only each time she went back to the letters, a new butterfly was added to the flutter, creating a kaleidoscope of emotions both new and familiar.

Settling down comfortably, she straightened out the dog-eared corners of each letter, revealing the endearment scribbled consistently on the bottom right of each one he had ever sent: Love, Habibi.

Absentmindedly, she picked up her cold cup of coffee again and took a sip, pulling out a random letter from the stack. It was dated 15th January 2015. Eight months ago, shortly after they’d started dating, and yet it felt like a lifetime ago—because that was how it felt doing life with Odilanma. Like they’d known each other forever.

Dear Sera,

I miss you a lot. We’ve just concluded the New Year celebrations at the base, and I thought I should write to you now that I have the time. I miss hearing the sound of your laughter. I probably sound like a broken record because I complain about this every time I write, but when the men laugh, it grates my ears. Next time I come around, I’m going to make a tape of your voice. Singing, laughing, talking, crying even. I’ll tape it all.

Sera laughed. She’d made him a tape already. He wasn’t due for leave until November, so she’d carefully curated one and sent it to him, just in time for his birthday in March.

How is your story coming along? I hope John isn’t giving you as much trouble about it. If he is, you just have to say the word and I’ll deck him. As soon as I get back, that is. I miss you.

Abuja is nicer than Lagos. The air is clearer here, the sunsets are amazing, and the anxiety doesn’t wear me thin anymore. I want to bring you here someday when work is out of the picture. We still hear of the bombings in Borno every day. The men have become desensitized and now we all joke about it. Even Sarki. You remember him? His mother died in the bomb blast at one of the markets in December last year. He cried a lot until New Year’s, now he laughs with us. His new catchphrase is that Nigeria happened to him. It’s such a funny thing to say, but when I thought about it, I realized how much truth exists in that one statement, how Nigeria has become like a bad omen that ‘happens’ to its people. And when I pray at night these days, I pray that Nigeria does not happen to my loved ones.

Anyways, enough about Sarki. Have I mentioned that I miss you? November has never seemed so far to me. But I’ll endure till the end. For you. I love you.

P.S. Daddy said when next I write to you, to extend his love. Funny man.

Love, Habibi.

“I love you,” Sera whispered as she finished the letter, placing it back with the rest. While reading the letter, she’d made up her mind to finish her story. Whatever the outcome, she would accept it. Love was not an inconvenience; it was a glimmer of hope in dark times, and she would prove it.

*******

The air was light and airy, almost cold. Sera pulled her jacket tighter around her as she walked to her car with her groceries. She’d talked to John about not changing her story, and after minutes of trying to talk her into a safer approach to her debut novel, he’d given in. So tonight, she was cooking up a feast: Chicken Alfredo pasta with a glass of wine—or two. Maybe three.

In the spirit of celebration, she figured she would also write back to Odilanma. His last letter was already two weeks old, and she had been itching to update him about all the nothings that had been going on in her life lately. She was feeling giddy all over again as she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and remembered when she’d first felt like this.

She’d been on a brief holiday and had just come back to Nigeria to see her father. Her father, General Christopher Abubakar, was the Chief of Defense Staff, and she’d accompanied him to the Independence Day parade that Thursday.

Tall and dark, with an air of arrogance that came with being good-looking all his life, and a smile that charmed the pants off every woman within a twelve-mile range, she’d fallen for him instantly. From her seat beneath one of the canopies on the hot tarmac, she’d gazed upon his face throughout, barely paying attention to any other event. By the end of the day, she could trace his figure in her sleep. She’d memorized everything from his exquisite bone structure to the way every inch of his body moved to every command. Sera was in love.

After that day, she’d sought him out. His name was Odilanma Ogbeche, a sergeant first class in the Nigerian army, based in Lagos. Coming to him to declare her love was not only unconventional, but it was also met with resistance as Odilanma made it clear that he wasn’t interested—especially when he found out whose daughter she was.

A young non-commissioned soldier and the only daughter of a General. It made for impressive headlines, but it was not a road Odilanma was willing to take. He’d worked hard to climb the ropes of a flawed hierarchy, and he was not about to mess it up. Not even for the small but bubbly woman, with the carriage of a queen and the grit of a soldier, who showed up at the barracks every other day asking to see him, with her accent that was a crossbreed of her elite Nigerian background and her British schooling. He’d been enamored—a fact he had to admit to himself, albeit reluctantly—and yet he was a sensible son of the soil. His people did not throw away their futures for love.

The day he’d rejected her, he couldn’t have made himself clearer. She was a privileged child who could have anything she wanted. The only privilege he could afford was a place in the Nigerian Armed Forces, and even that was not a given. The more he spelt out the dynamics of a relationship that could never be, the more she shrank away, eventually withdrawing completely.

November drew near and Sera had to return to London to finish her last month as a student. Lagos had become unbearable, and a change of scenery would do a lot for her broken heart. She was packing that day when he showed up at her doorstep, flowers in hand. It was the best night of her life; one she would not forget in a hurry. They’d ordered in. Chicken Republic food had never tasted so good. In that one night, they said so much of what should have been said in the past month, baring their souls and making each other laugh. And then, they’d made love. Slow and aching at first, and then passionate and smouldering. It was a perfect dance to a perfect cadence, and when it ended, there were no more words to be said. They’d lain there, skin to skin, saying nothing and everything, even as the sun rose and the perfection of the night before seemed like a fever dream.

Sera would ask him later, in her first letter to him, what changed his mind that day. And he would later reply that there are some things that have no explanation, before signing off, Love, Habibi.

The sizzling pan of pasta smelled like heaven. Sera had just concluded the half-finished chapter. She’d started off with her letter but stopped halfway to cook. She poured herself a glass of wine and headed to the living room with her plate.

The TV was on the news channel. Gory images like the one she was looking at had become commonplace as bomb after bomb was dropped on innocent citizens in the north-east. The president had declared a state of emergency in states like Borno and Zamfara. She would not dwell on those tonight.

Picking up the remote, she flipped the channel to a food network she never watched, cutting off the newscaster as she detailed another bomb blast, orchestrated this time by a suicide-bomber. She quickly took a sip of wine to ease the guilt she suddenly felt and said a prayer for the lost lives.

“Comfort their families and guard their souls.”

She watched as the white woman on the screen prepared what she called a fish porridge.

Ndiocha. Odilanma would have said the word derisively if he was here. He was very critical of what he referred to as white people’s ability to concoct the strangest foods with the most polarizing ingredients and call it a delicacy.

She chuckled and ate the last bit of chicken on her plate.

Well, they didn’t go wrong with the Alfredo pasta, sha, she thought to herself.

Her eyes were already drooping as she finished off her third glass of wine, and she dozed off on the living room couch with the TV in the background.

*******

3:15 a.m.

Sera rubbed her eyes. Who in the world could be calling at this time?

She picked up her phone. Seven missed calls from Chetachi. She wondered what was so urgent that Odilanma’s sister was calling her at this ungodly hour.

Shaking sleep away, she called back.

“Sister Chet, good morning,” her voice was still groggy from wine and sleep.

There was no response from the other end.

“Sister Chet, are you there? What’s wrong?” She wondered if she was sick. And even then, she was not the right person to call. They lived in different states.

“My… didn’t know… they have killed me…” The voice that came through was barely audible and broken by sobs.

“Odii m. Nwa m.”

Sera’s heart began to pound.

“Our Odilanma? What happened?” There was a faint ringing in her ears.

“He’s in Abuja.”

“Ehen, Sister, he’s in Abuja. So what’s wrong?”

The sobbing on the other end of the line had become uncontrollable. Sera wanted to scream at her. Bad things didn’t happen in Abuja. It was the capital city.

She grabbed the remote from where it had fallen to the floor and switched to the news channel. There was nothing on the news. Of course—it was 3 a.m. Squinting, Sera read the notes that rolled slowly at the bottom of the screen.

Suicide bomb blast in Abuja army barracks in Garki. Many found dead, hundreds injured.

The sobbing in her ear grew faint as she calmly dropped her phone. The ringing in her ears reached a crescendo. Like a puppet controlled, she went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine, and picked up her pen to finish her letter:

…I finished a whole plate of Chicken Alfredo pasta today. Say what you want about Western cuisine, but they hit the jackpot with this one. I had three glasses of wine today, and as I write to you, I am on my fourth. It’s funny how effortlessly I love wine, sort of like how I love you.

Anyways, my manuscript is still under construction, but I promise that it will be the best thing you will ever read. Stay safe, my love. I love you.

Love, Habibi.

She crossed out the stay safe because he was safe. He had to be. Her phone rang again. It was her father.

“I’m sorry, Sera,” his voice came through.

The voice that replied was not one Sera recognized.

“Why? What are you sorry for?” she asked.

“Odilanma is dead.”

None of what happened next registered in her memory.

Not the cracked phone that lay in the middle of the living room floor.

Not the manuscript shredded into strips so thin that every single letter was halved.

Not the letter crumpled into a ball, wet with her tears, so that the blue ink blurred together in a sea of uncertainty.

Not the new A4 paper in the typewriter with the bold heading:

Nigeria Happened to Me Too.