Please don't copy, edit, or republish without permission.
Want to share? Just credit the author: Adebimpe Jumoke Obafemi.
Thank you!
TWO MONTHS BEFORE
Part 8 ; The Aftermath (The Part Nobody Talks About)
Breaking off an engagement two months before the wedding was emotionally devastating and logistically nightmarish.
The venue: We'd paid ₦500,000 as a deposit. Non-refundable. The manager was sympathetic but firm. "It's in the contract, madam.”
The dress: Half-sewn, half-paid. The tailor tried to be understanding, but she'd already bought all the fabric and lace. I lost ₦150,000.
The caterer: They'd already ordered supplies. Another ₦200,000 gone.
The photographer: Booked months in advance. Couldn't refund the deposit.
In total, I lost close to ₦1 million. Money I'd saved for years. Money that represented countless shifts, late nights, and sacrifice.
Gone.
Then came the calls.
I had to personally call each of my aunties and uncles who'd planned to travel from Lagos, Abuja, and Port Harcourt.
"Aunty, the wedding is off."
"What? Why? What happened?"
How do you explain in a phone call? How do you convince them you're not being rash when they've already bought their aso-ebi and booked their hotels?
Some were understanding: "Omolabake, if you're not sure, it's better to stop now."
Others were... less understanding: "But the dress is already made! Can't you just work it out?"
One uncle actually said, "Omolabake, marriage is not a bed of roses. You have to compromise."
I wanted to scream: This isn't about compromise. This is about survival.
But I just said, "I understand, Uncle. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
Church was the worst.
The first Sunday after the breakup, I almost didn't go. But I couldn't hide forever.
I walked in and felt every eye on me. People whispering and pointing. Some tried not to stare but failed.
During announcements, our names were supposed to be called for final marriage class registration.
They weren't.
The silence where our names should have been was deafening.
After service, some people avoided me completely. They literally crossed to the other side of the corridor when they saw me coming.
Others came up with fake sympathy: "Oh, Omolabake, we heard. Are you okay?" Translation: Give us the gossip.
A few were genuinely kind. One older woman, Sister Funke, pulled me aside and said, "Better a broken engagement than a broken life. Well done." She was one of the few.
Chris moved to another church within two weeks. I heard through mutual friends that he was telling people I'd broken off the engagement because I was "too controlling" and "had trust issues."
He painted himself as the victim. The good man who'd been wrongly rejected.
And some people believed him.
The months that followed were dark.
I'd wake up some mornings and forget, just for a second, that I wasn't engaged anymore. Then reality would crash back in.
I stopped going to weddings. I couldn't bear it. Every bouquet toss, every first dance, every "you're next!" comment, felt like salt in an open wound.
I avoided baby dedications too. Because someone always asked, "So when is yours coming?"
Work became my escape. I threw myself into my projects at ACE, stayed late, volunteered for extra assignments. Anything to avoid thinking about what I'd lost.
My weight fluctuated from the stress—I lost 10kg, then gained it back. But what grew more than my weight was my faith. I threw myself into prayer, into serving at church, into seeking God's face. He became my comfort. His word became my anchor. And slowly, I began to heal.
Except I hadn't lost anything real.
I'd lost an illusion.
But grief doesn't distinguish between real loss and imagined loss. It all hurts the same.
Six months after the breakup, I heard Chris got engaged to Sister Bimpe.
My friend showed me the Instagram post. The proposal photos looked eerily similar to mine. Same garden. Same sunset timing. Same pose.
He'd recycled our proposal.
Part of me felt vindicated. See? I was right. It wasn't just friendship.
Part of me felt like an idiot. How did I not see this sooner?
Part of me just felt... sad.
Sad for Bimpe because she had no idea what she was walking into.
Four months later, they were married.
Quick engagement, quick wedding. Like he was in a hurry.
I didn't go, obviously. But I heard about it. I heard it was beautiful. I heard that Bimpe looked happy.
I prayed for her that day. Genuinely prayed. Because I knew what was coming.
And about a year into their marriage, I started hearing whispers.
Bimpe had stepped down from ministry. She wasn't posting on social media as much. Seemed withdrawn at church and had gained a lot of weight.
I saw her once at a wedding we both had to attend. She couldn't look me in the eye.
And I understood.
She knew now.
She knew what she'd signed up for.
And my heart broke for her.
Because that could have been me.
Two years post-breakup, I'm still single.
I'm 30 now. The age I thought I'd be married by.
Some days, I'm at peace with it. I've rebuilt my life. My career is thriving. My relationship with my family is stronger than ever. I have good friends. I'm involved in church. I'm... content.
Other days, I panic.
The biological clock is loud. Very loud.
I attend another wedding and feel that familiar ache.
I watch my friends with their babies and wonder if I'll ever have that.
I field questions from well-meaning aunties: "Omolabake, you're not getting younger o."
Thanks, Aunty. I'm aware.
But here's what I know now that I didn't know then:
Being single is not a failure.
Being 30 and unmarried is not a tragedy.
Choosing peace over plans is not weakness.
I'd rather be 30, single, and whole than 30, married, and broken.
I'd rather wait for the right person than rush into a lifetime with the wrong one.
I'd rather trust God's timing than force my own.
And honestly?
I'm grateful.
Grateful I listened to my father. Grateful Pastor Mrs. Adeyemi pushed me to pray. Grateful God opened my eyes. Grateful I had the courage to walk away.
The aftermath was painful.
But nowhere near as painful as a lifetime of that marriage would have been.
So yes, I'm still single.
But I'm free.
And that's worth more than any ring.
© Adebimpe Obafemi
#TwoMonthsBefore #LessonsLearned #ChristianSingles #Back2Eden #SpiritualGrowth Please don't copy, edit, or republish without permission.
Want to share? Just credit the author: Adebimpe Jumoke Obafemi.
Thank you! 💕
TWO MONTHS BEFORE
Part 8 ; The Aftermath (The Part Nobody Talks About)
Breaking off an engagement two months before the wedding was emotionally devastating and logistically nightmarish.
The venue: We'd paid ₦500,000 as a deposit. Non-refundable. The manager was sympathetic but firm. "It's in the contract, madam.”
The dress: Half-sewn, half-paid. The tailor tried to be understanding, but she'd already bought all the fabric and lace. I lost ₦150,000.
The caterer: They'd already ordered supplies. Another ₦200,000 gone.
The photographer: Booked months in advance. Couldn't refund the deposit.
In total, I lost close to ₦1 million. Money I'd saved for years. Money that represented countless shifts, late nights, and sacrifice.
Gone.
Then came the calls.
I had to personally call each of my aunties and uncles who'd planned to travel from Lagos, Abuja, and Port Harcourt.
"Aunty, the wedding is off."
"What? Why? What happened?"
How do you explain in a phone call? How do you convince them you're not being rash when they've already bought their aso-ebi and booked their hotels?
Some were understanding: "Omolabake, if you're not sure, it's better to stop now."
Others were... less understanding: "But the dress is already made! Can't you just work it out?"
One uncle actually said, "Omolabake, marriage is not a bed of roses. You have to compromise."
I wanted to scream: This isn't about compromise. This is about survival.
But I just said, "I understand, Uncle. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
Church was the worst.
The first Sunday after the breakup, I almost didn't go. But I couldn't hide forever.
I walked in and felt every eye on me. People whispering and pointing. Some tried not to stare but failed.
During announcements, our names were supposed to be called for final marriage class registration.
They weren't.
The silence where our names should have been was deafening.
After service, some people avoided me completely. They literally crossed to the other side of the corridor when they saw me coming.
Others came up with fake sympathy: "Oh, Omolabake, we heard. Are you okay?" Translation: Give us the gossip.
A few were genuinely kind. One older woman, Sister Funke, pulled me aside and said, "Better a broken engagement than a broken life. Well done." She was one of the few.
Chris moved to another church within two weeks. I heard through mutual friends that he was telling people I'd broken off the engagement because I was "too controlling" and "had trust issues."
He painted himself as the victim. The good man who'd been wrongly rejected.
And some people believed him.
The months that followed were dark.
I'd wake up some mornings and forget, just for a second, that I wasn't engaged anymore. Then reality would crash back in.
I stopped going to weddings. I couldn't bear it. Every bouquet toss, every first dance, every "you're next!" comment, felt like salt in an open wound.
I avoided baby dedications too. Because someone always asked, "So when is yours coming?"
Work became my escape. I threw myself into my projects at ACE, stayed late, volunteered for extra assignments. Anything to avoid thinking about what I'd lost.
My weight fluctuated from the stress—I lost 10kg, then gained it back. But what grew more than my weight was my faith. I threw myself into prayer, into serving at church, into seeking God's face. He became my comfort. His word became my anchor. And slowly, I began to heal.
Except I hadn't lost anything real.
I'd lost an illusion.
But grief doesn't distinguish between real loss and imagined loss. It all hurts the same.
Six months after the breakup, I heard Chris got engaged to Sister Bimpe.
My friend showed me the Instagram post. The proposal photos looked eerily similar to mine. Same garden. Same sunset timing. Same pose.
He'd recycled our proposal.
Part of me felt vindicated. See? I was right. It wasn't just friendship.
Part of me felt like an idiot. How did I not see this sooner?
Part of me just felt... sad.
Sad for Bimpe because she had no idea what she was walking into.
Four months later, they were married.
Quick engagement, quick wedding. Like he was in a hurry.
I didn't go, obviously. But I heard about it. I heard it was beautiful. I heard that Bimpe looked happy.
I prayed for her that day. Genuinely prayed. Because I knew what was coming.
And about a year into their marriage, I started hearing whispers.
Bimpe had stepped down from ministry. She wasn't posting on social media as much. Seemed withdrawn at church and had gained a lot of weight.
I saw her once at a wedding we both had to attend. She couldn't look me in the eye.
And I understood.
She knew now.
She knew what she'd signed up for.
And my heart broke for her.
Because that could have been me.
Two years post-breakup, I'm still single.
I'm 30 now. The age I thought I'd be married by.
Some days, I'm at peace with it. I've rebuilt my life. My career is thriving. My relationship with my family is stronger than ever. I have good friends. I'm involved in church. I'm... content.
Other days, I panic.
The biological clock is loud. Very loud.
I attend another wedding and feel that familiar ache.
I watch my friends with their babies and wonder if I'll ever have that.
I field questions from well-meaning aunties: "Omolabake, you're not getting younger o."
Thanks, Aunty. I'm aware.
But here's what I know now that I didn't know then:
Being single is not a failure.
Being 30 and unmarried is not a tragedy.
Choosing peace over plans is not weakness.
I'd rather be 30, single, and whole than 30, married, and broken.
I'd rather wait for the right person than rush into a lifetime with the wrong one.
I'd rather trust God's timing than force my own.
And honestly?
I'm grateful.
Grateful I listened to my father. Grateful Pastor Mrs. Adeyemi pushed me to pray. Grateful God opened my eyes. Grateful I had the courage to walk away.
The aftermath was painful.
But nowhere near as painful as a lifetime of that marriage would have been.
So yes, I'm still single.
But I'm free.
And that's worth more than any ring.
© Adebimpe Obafemi
#TwoMonthsBefore
#LessonsLearned
#ChristianSingles
#Back2Eden
#SpiritualGrowth
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