Bisola — The Mirror with a Crack You Can't See
"Love a man, not his résumé." — Bisola
African Proverb: "When the drumbeat changes, the dancer must learn a new step—or fall."
Mama said I was the "showroom daughter."
Beautiful in the way that made guests stop mid-sentence. Tall, with skin like dusk and lips always glossed. I didn't cry at birth, they say—I blinked, as though observing the world for what it owed me.
But behind the soft silk blouses and matching gele, I carried an ache I didn't have the words for. Not like Aisha's. Aisha's pain was quiet and noble.
Mine was loud—in my chest, in my laughter, in the way I kept falling for men who made my name sound like a compliment instead of a commitment.
I watched Aisha fold herself into a gold-laced cage, all in the name of legacy. I told myself I would not be her.
I would love. Loudly. Boldly.
But I forgot to ask if he loved me back.
His name was Fola.
Master's in Canada. Spoke French when he was angry. Designed smart homes for rich people in Ikoyi. He smelled like cardamom and coded brilliance. You couldn't stand beside him without feeling like the world had structure.
I met him at a tech conference. I was modeling for the event's opening night—standing in a dress too tight to breathe, balancing elegance and ease like I was born for it.
He walked up to me, tilted his glasses down, and said,
"I've never seen artificial light look so dull next to something real."
I blushed. God, I blushed.
Aisha warned me.
"He sounds like a man who falls in love with aesthetics, not women."
I laughed. "You're just not used to poetry in affection."
She looked at me, tired already. "Poetry is easy. Presence is not."
But I didn't care.
Fola made me feel seen. Wanted. Adored.
Until I realized—I wasn't being loved.
I was being used to decorate his life.
His love was selective, curated—like his Instagram page.
I was the girlfriend he introduced at product launches, but not to his mother.
The one he bought roses for, but never listened to when I cried.
He'd say, "You're emotional. It's what I love about you," but never stayed long enough to understand what triggered the emotion.
He called me "gorgeous."
But never "mine."
I gave him everything: attention, softness, celebration. I memorized his favorite quotes, proofread his pitch decks, even lied to Mama about why he couldn't attend Eid.
He gave me silence in return.
Until the day he called from Abuja, voice too steady.
"There's someone I think I might want to be serious with," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"I didn't think you were that invested. You never said you loved me."
I was quiet.
Because I had.
Not with words.
But in the way I rearranged my schedule. The way I stopped flirting with men who actually wanted to know me. The way I bought a silk tie for the first time, because he said it brought out his confidence.
I loved him.
But I had loved his résumé first—his vision, his ambition, his future.
And he… he only loved the way I looked beside him.
Aisha found me curled on the kitchen floor that night, crying into a dish towel.
She didn't speak. Just sat beside me, pulling my head onto her lap.
Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke:
"Men like that don't break you. They convince you to build them a throne with your own heart, then leave before they sit on it."
I asked her, "How do you stop needing someone who made you feel important?"
She answered,
"You remember you were important before they noticed you."
I don't remember how long I stayed on the floor, but when I got up, the room felt smaller.
Aisha was gone, probably to her room, and the night was heavy with that hush that only happens in Nigerian households when the fan's spinning but nothing else is.
That's when I heard it—soft feet, hesitant breath.
Haneefa.
The baby of all of us. Still wearing her mismatched socks. Still believing love was fireworks and forehead kisses.
She stood by the doorway, eyes wide like they had just tasted heartbreak for the first time through me.
"Bisola?" Her voice cracked like her throat wasn't sure if it had permission to ask.
I turned my head slowly, wiping my face with the sleeve of Fola's hoodie—how stupid that I still wore it.
She tiptoed in and sat on the floor beside me, copying the way Aisha had sat earlier, as if it was tradition.
"You don't cry," she whispered. "You never cry."
I laughed. It was a tired, worn-out sound.
"Even marble cracks," I said. "Especially when people think it's just for display."
She touched my hand. "Did he break you?"
I hesitated. "No," I said, "but he made me forget I was whole already."
She looked confused. "But you loved him?"
I nodded.
"But… he didn't love you back?"
I shook my head.
She frowned. "Then why did you give him so much?"
I was silent for a moment before I replied.
"Because sometimes, Hanee, we fall in love with a man's potential. His vision. His ambition. We forget to ask if he has space in that future for us."
She was still. Then she said something I didn't expect:
"So you loved what he could be, not what he was?"
I blinked at her. That child had wisdom folded in innocence.
"Yes," I whispered. "I loved how smart he sounded, how safe he seemed. But love isn't supposed to be admiration only. It's supposed to be reflection. If he can't see you—really see you—you're just a background in his spotlight."
She swallowed hard.
"Is that why you always wore makeup when he came around?" she asked.
I smiled faintly. "I wanted to be the version of myself he liked best. But now I think… I want someone who loves my Sunday morning face too. No lashes, no filters, just… me."
She looked down. Then she said something so soft it felt like a secret:
"I hope I don't forget myself trying to be someone's favorite."
I reached for her hand. "You might. But then you'll come back. You'll have us."
The door creaked open again.
"Us," a voice said—light, but clear.
We turned to see Chiamaka, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. She wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow.
She walked in, graceful as always, but her eyes were sharp.
"You two are taking up the only place in this house with decent ventilation," she said, trying to sound stern. But when she saw my puffy face, her tone softened. "Bisola… was it Fola?"
I nodded.
She sat beside me without another word.
Silence again. But this time, it didn't feel empty. It felt full. Like grief, and healing, and history were sitting with us.
Chiamaka finally broke it.
"He called me too," she said. "A few months ago. Asked if I knew you were 'serious about him.'"
My head whipped toward her. "He what?"
She shrugged. "I didn't answer. Because it wasn't my answer to give."
I clenched my jaw. "You could've warned me."
"I could've," she agreed. "But I knew you wouldn't have listened."
She was right.
Chiamaka looked at Haneefa then, eyes kind.
"Sweetheart," she said, "never chase a man who makes you feel like you have to earn your place beside him."
Haneefa looked between us—Aisha's grace, my heartbreak, Chiamaka's calm wisdom—and nodded slowly.
In her silence, I saw it: she was learning. Absorbing.
One day, maybe she'd need these lessons. Maybe she'd forget. But the foundation was being laid—quietly, brick by brick, in the spaces between our broken hearts.
Bisola leaned her head on Chiamaka's shoulder.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For showing up."
Chiamaka smiled. "Always. That's what we do, no? Fall apart… then rebuild each other."
And just like that, the floor didn't feel so hard anymore.