How Did You Meet Your Significant Other? (A Story I Haven’t Lived Yet)
I don’t have an answer to this one yet — not a real one, anyway. But I’ve thought about it enough times, usually late at night after a long call shift or a chapter of my novel, that I figured I’d just write the story I hope is true one day.
It starts, of course, in the most unglamorous place possible: a generator repair shop in Benin City, because nothing tests character like NEPA taking light in the middle of harmattan. I’m there arguing (politely, I promise) with the technician about a quote that feels suspiciously inflated, when a voice behind me says, “Ah ah, oga, you don’t even know what you’re negotiating for.” I turn around, ready to be mildly offended, and there she is — arms folded, clearly amused, clearly right.
Her name, in this version of my life, is Amara. She’s an engineering student, which explains why she knows more about generators than I ever will, and she has this habit of tilting her head slightly when she’s deciding whether someone is worth her time. That day, apparently, I passed the test — barely.
We end up walking out together, and somehow the conversation moves from generators to God to why Benin City traffic feels like a personal attack. She laughs at one of my jokes — not politely, but the real kind, the kind that surprises even her — and I remember thinking, I would like to hear that laugh again.
What I love about this story, even in my head, is that it doesn’t start with fireworks. It starts with an argument about a repair bill. There’s something honest about that. Real love, I imagine, rarely announces itself with music playing in the background. It sneaks in through ordinary Tuesdays — through shared irritation at traffic, through someone correcting you and being right, through a laugh you didn’t expect to want more of.
In my faith, I’ve always believed that the people who matter most aren’t stumbled upon by accident. There’s a kind of quiet providence in it — two lives moving along their own paths, shaped by their own prayers, until one ordinary afternoon they cross. I don’t think I’ll recognize the moment while it’s happening. I think I’ll only understand it in hindsight, the way you understand a sunrise was beautiful after you’ve already looked away.
So no, I haven’t met her yet — Amara, or whoever she turns out to be. But I like imagining it happens somewhere unremarkable. A generator shop. A hospital corridor during a night shift. A church program where the sound system fails halfway through worship and we’re the two people who stayed to help fix it.
Maybe that’s the real answer to “how did you meet your significant other” — not a place, but a posture. Staying present. Staying kind, even when it’s inconvenient. Being someone worth stopping for, in the middle of an ordinary day.
I’ll let you know how it actually goes.
Want me to adjust the tone, make it shorter, or try a completely different fictional scenario