Damilola – The One Who Burned the Dress
The scent of burnt fabric still lingered in the air when Haneefa followed Damilola back inside. But her sister walked like it didn't bother her, like she hadn't just set a memory on fire.
The kitchen was small, old, a little too warm, and yet Damilola moved through it like it was a ballroom. Her wrappers swung wide when she walked. Her bangles clinked like they had something to say.
"You look like thunder today," Haneefa said softly, unsure if it was praise or worry.
Damilola chuckled, pulling onions from the wooden shelf. "That's good, abi? At least I'm no longer the girl who waited for texts that never came."
She slammed the onions on the table and began slicing them with the precision of someone who had learned that love could turn into a knife.
"You know what I've learned, Hanee?" she asked without looking up. "Some men... they don't betray you because they found someone better. They betray you because they were never whole enough to carry your kind of love."
She paused, eyes narrowing.
"They say women love deeply. But the real problem is that we love with direction. Forward. Towards something. Towards marriage. Safety. Legacy. But some men?" She tapped the knife against the board. "They love in circles. Just enough to keep you dizzy."
Haneefa sat across from her, heart swelling. She had always known Damilola was bold, but today she was thunder wrapped in poetry.
"Did you love him?" Haneefa asked.
Damilola smiled bitterly. "I loved his promises more than I loved his presence. He was kindest when he needed forgiveness. He had a gift, Hanee—he knew how to sound like healing when he was the one breaking me."
She poured palm oil into the hot pan, and the kitchen hissed.
"Do you know what that does to a woman? To always be in recovery? To always be patching up the person who wounded you, because you love them more than they even like you?"
She looked at Haneefa then, and her voice lowered. "I became a nurse to his guilt. And you know what? That kind of carework kills you slow."
They were quiet for a moment. The onions browned.
Then Damilola spoke again, this time quieter.
"I remember the day I caught him. Not by accident. I knew. I had known for weeks. But love makes you delay truth. You tell yourself: maybe he's busy, maybe he's stressed, maybe you're just being dramatic."
She scoffed.
"Women always make excuses when we're not ready to pack our bags. But the truth doesn't wait. It stood in front of me, wearing red lipstick and my slippers."
She flipped the onions, calm now.
"I didn't cry. Not at first. I greeted her politely. I told him he could keep her. Then I went home and scrubbed my skin like dirt could be erased with Dettol."
"And then you burned the dress," Haneefa said.
Damilola nodded. "Not because I was angry. But because I refused to ever wear something that had heard him lie to me."
She leaned on the table, eyes gleaming. "Hanee, the dress was just cloth. But dignity? That thing can't be dry cleaned. Once it's stained, you burn the damn thing and start over."
Haneefa was quiet, trying to drink it all in.
"But you seem so fine now."
"I'm not fine. I'm becoming. Don't confuse that," Damilola said. "You don't go through fire and come out without smoke in your lungs. But what you do next—that's where power lives."
She walked to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out peppers.
"I don't want you to ever love a man more than he loves you," she said suddenly. "Don't fall for how he texts, Haneefa. Fall for how he returns your dignity when it's bruised. Don't be with someone who only gives you butterflies. Be with someone who gives you breath."
Haneefa whispered, "How do you know he loves you enough?"
Damilola turned, serious now.
"Because love doesn't make you question your sanity, your worth, your memory, your magic. Real love is soft on the mind. You'll know it, Hanee. Not because he says it—but because your spirit won't feel like it's in a cage."
Outside, the sun was slipping lower, painting the sky with gold.
And as Damilola reached for the bowl of bean paste, her voice became a murmur.
"Don't fight to be chosen. You are not a seat in a crowded bus. You are the whole damn road."
That night, long after the stew had simmered and the rice had softened, Haneefa lay in her room—not sleeping, just listening. Through the half-open window, the night hummed: a chorus of crickets, a far-off generator, the ghost of laughter from earlier.
She thought of her sisters—each one a book written in fire.
Aisha, the quiet storm, who had taught her that duty often arrives before desire learns how to speak.
Bisola, who stitched herself back together with silk thread and sharp wisdom.
Grace, who hummed when she cooked, but silenced men with a glance.
Fadilah, always the gentle one—but with iron in her spine.
Even Chiamaka, whose name she had heard that morning over a phone call—her voice low and urgent, speaking in metaphors as always. "Tell Haneefa not all open arms are safe," she had said.
But it was Damilola tonight. Damilola who had turned heartbreak into a weapon and war paint.
Haneefa sat up, wrapping her scarf tighter around her shoulders.
She found her sister on the veranda, barefoot, eyes fixed on the moon like it owed her something.
"Do you ever miss him?" Haneefa asked.
Damilola didn't flinch. "Sometimes. Not him—just the version of me that still believed him."
She shifted slightly and added, "I used to be softer. I would cry into the pillow so no one would hear me. Now? If I cry, I let the sky hear it. Let God and my grandmother and every woman who's ever been lied to hear me."
Haneefa sat beside her, the night air a little cooler now.
"How did you stop being afraid?"
Damilola looked at her and smiled, something old and sad in her eyes. "I didn't stop being afraid. I just got tired of shrinking. That's all. Some of us aren't healed—we're just too angry to keep bleeding."
She took Haneefa's hand then. "You're the last of us, Hanee. We've all fallen. One way or another. But we got up differently. Aisha bowed and found strength in surrender. Bisola snapped and rebuilt. Me? I lit the match. Burned the whole damn illusion."
A dog barked somewhere down the street.
Haneefa's voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm scared of ending up like... one of you."
Damilola laughed softly, not mocking—just knowing.
"Good. Be scared. But don't be unarmed. Learn from us. Take our stories. Sharpen them. You don't need to live the same pain to gain the same wisdom."
She stood and walked to the edge of the steps. The moonlight caught her gold anklet.
"Tomorrow, you'll go with Efe to the market," she said. "She's been waiting for you. Her lesson is quieter... but maybe more dangerous."
"Why?" Haneefa asked.
Damilola looked back, eyes serious. "Because not all wounds are visible. Efe knows what it means to be forgotten in love. That kind of grief doesn't shout—it folds itself into routine. She's going to teach you about the silence. The slow deaths."
Then, as if remembering something old and painful, Damilola muttered, "And maybe she'll finally speak the truth she's been hiding."
Haneefa rose too, heart aching in a way she didn't yet understand. She didn't know what Efe would say. But something told her—it would be the kind of story that didn't just wound, but changed the shape of a heart.
As they walked back inside, Haneefa glanced at the picture frames on the hallway wall. Eight girls. Eight storms. Eight stories waiting to be told.
Tomorrow would belong to Efe.
But tonight? Tonight belonged to Damilola—the one who burned the dress and never looked back.