Imagine Though – Flash Fiction

If I had a naira for every time an aunty asked, “So, when are we buying our lace for your wedding?” I’d probably be retired on a private beach in Dubai by now, sipping coconut water and not needing to work for the rest of my life.

Instead, I was sitting at a table in an event hall in Lekki, dressed in my aso-ebi and gele, smiling as Aunty Sade brought up the topic again.

Tunde and I have been “just friends” since secondary school. The kind of friendship that survived SS3 exams, JAMB wahala, university lectures, heartbreaks, NYSC postings, first jobs that paid peanuts, and ten solid years of navigating Lagos traffic after work when we carpooled. Third Mainland Bridge has seen plenty of our arguments, our laughter, our silent sulks, and our motivational speeches to each other about “this country.”

We were the ultimate duo. If you saw me, you saw Tunde. If you invited him, you budgeted for me. People joked about us constantly.

“Una never marry?”

“Are you people doing bestie-bestie till Kingdom come?”

We laughed it off every time. Because that’s what it was, simple harmless banter. We were sensible adults. We knew the difference between friendship and feelings.

Or so I thought.

Last Saturday was Ireti’s wedding. Our university classmate turned colleague. It was a proper owambe, with a live band and enough food to feed an army of thousands.

Tunde showed up in navy blue agbada that fit like it had been sewn by the best tailor in town. Even the cap was sitting on his head with intention. He looked like a Yoruba Angel. I stared for a second too long before catching myself.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, adjusting his sleeve.

“I’m just shocked you can look responsible.”

He laughed. That laugh. The one that starts small and then takes over his whole face.

We took our usual positions at our table, him making sarcastic commentary about the MC, me rating the aso-ebi styles of the other ladies and thinking of my next one. We looked through the food options and argued over whether we preferred the small chops or the grills. But something was different.

He kept leaning closer when he spoke. His hand lingered on my waist a second longer when we posed for pictures. When the band started playing old-school songs, he dragged me to the dance floor like he always did but this time, when he spun me, he didn’t let go immediately.

And I didn’t pull away.

Halfway through the reception was when Aunty Sade appeared. The General Overseer of other people’s business.

“My children!” she announced, settling beside us without invitation. “So when are we buying lace? Should I start saving small-small?”

We burst out laughing, like always. But this time, the laughter faded too quickly.

Tunde looked at me. A real look. Not the usual eye-roll-we-survived-another-gbeborun-aunty look. The kind that searches and waits.

I don’t know if it was the lights or the champagne or the way the saxophonist suddenly switched to a love song, but in that moment, it felt like the world narrowed to our table.

“Imagine though,” he said quietly.

“Imagine what?” I asked, my voice doing something strange.

“Imagine if they weren’t joking.”

My heart did a small somersault. The dramatic kind Nollywood would exaggerate with background music.

We’ve done life side by side for so long that I never paused to ask what it would feel like to do it hand in hand.

He knows how I take my coffee. He knows when I’m stressed before I say a word. He knows my father’s medical history, my irrational fear of lizards, my dream to start my own consultancy. He’s seen me cry over men who didn’t deserve the tears and hyped me up before every job interview like a personal PR manager. And I’ve done the same for him.

Maybe love doesn’t always arrive with fireworks. Maybe sometimes it arrives disguised as friendship and consistency.

Aunty Sade was still watching us, smiling like she had just made a prophecy.

For the first time, we didn’t laugh her off. We just looked at each other. I think I finally saw what she’s been seeing all these years.

The question is no longer whether we’re “just friends.” It’s whether we’re brave enough to stop pretending.