Hmm, let me just say this first, I’m not the kind of girl that knows when someone likes her. I’m always overthinking it. You smile at me too much? I’m wondering if there’s stew stain on my teeth. You text me good morning? I’m asking myself if you sent the same message to ten other people. You start calling me Simi baby? I’m already in prayer and fasting.
So when Olamide started getting close… I honestly didn’t know what to think. I mean, yes, he was always so thoughtful. Always checking in. Always noticing when my energy dropped, even through text. We could talk for hours about music, God, food, random childhood gist, and somehow, it never felt like too much.
He was always present.
But I kept asking myself, Is this just friendship? Or is he quietly gathering data to write me a love letter?
The shift happened one Sunday evening. I had just posted a picture of my amala and ewedu on my WhatsApp status and he replied with,
“So this is how you’ll be cooking and making someone fall for you, abi?” I didn’t even know how to reply. I stared at the message, blinked, then read it again. That was the first time he’d ever flirted clearly. Like, no mistaking it. That was a message with a mission. So I replied,
“Ah, but who is falling” Then… nothing. No reply. No “LOL.” No follow-up gist. Just radio silence.
I won’t lie. For a minute, I thought I had ruined it. You know the one where you suddenly start calculating hours like you're tracking your own heartbreak? I was like, “Wow. Did I read it wrong? Maybe I’m the clown. Maybe he’s ghosted me already. God, abeg.”
But two days later, he texted casual but clear, “Would you like to go out with me? Like… just you and me. No work talk. No random gist. Just vibes. A date.” I don’t know why my stomach did backflips. Maybe because of how simply he said it. No pressure. Just intention.
I said yes.
He picked me up on a Friday afternoon. Nothing dramatic. He smiled, said I looked beautiful (and meant it), and played ASA in the background while we drove.
Our date spot? It was a sip & paint. I actually laughed when I saw the setup. “Have you seen me try to draw before?” I asked. He grinned. “Don’t worry. I already know what you look like.” He really said that. This man eh.
The space was cozy, colourful, and filled with the kind of soft background music that makes you feel like a walking Pinterest board. There were other people there, but somehow, it felt like we were in our own world.
Me that was terrible at painting. Absolutely bad. My canvas looked like something didn't exist. He, on the other hand, was quietly focused, painting like he was used to creating beautiful things. I leaned over to check and I froze. He was painting me. My eyes. My smile. My natural hair. All soft brush strokes and quiet detail.
I turned to him. “Wait, is that me?” He smiled, still holding his brush. “Of course. You’re the reason I’m here.” I laughed. “You paint too?” He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “I try. I like creating things that feel like peace.”
That was when I finally asked how he ended up at the tech and creative conference. He smiled and said, “My younger sister was one of the organisers. I helped out with a few things behind the scenes and showed my support.” I nodded slowly. It made sense now. I had wondered what a man like him was doing at a creative event surrounded by volunteers and content creators. It also made sense why he kept listening to me the way he did. He always listened. Not just the polite “oh okay” kind of listening. But the real kind, the kind where he’d ask follow-up questions, remember things I casually mentioned, even come back later to say, “I was thinking about something you said…”
“You’re literally the expert,” he’d say when I’d raise my brow at his questions. “You always think through things. You see what others don’t.”
And the way he’d brag about me?
One time, during a voice call with a mutual friend, he said, “Simi is a whole strategy team by herself. Her brain deserves soft life.” I had to pretend I didn’t hear it, but my heart? Fully in blush mode.
We finished painting. He took pictures of our canvases. He said he’d frame mine. I told him not to disgrace me in public. He said, “Simi, I’ll hang it in my study. Just so I don’t forget what joy looks like.” And you see, that’s the problem. This man says things like that and just moves on, like he didn’t just drop a poetic bomb. He's so good with words.
When he dropped me off later that evening, he didn’t try to hold my hand. He didn’t lean in awkwardly. He just looked at me softly, “Today wasn’t perfect. But I didn’t want it to end.” I smiled, held my breath for a second, and said,
“Yeah… me too.”
I walked into my apartment, dropped my bag, and sat on the edge of my bed. Not smiling wildly. Not crying either. Just feeling full. Not from food though but because someone saw me and chose me. Quietly. Gently. Like art
Hmmm. Hmmm o. This is getting interesting..