3.1 | Undead

3

February 14, 2017

Maryland, Lagos, Nigeria.

Bukola used to be my joy.

There was no explaining it, but whenever she was around, she brought me this happiness that couldn't be explained. Sometimes, I just didn't feel worthy of her.

She was always there whenever I needed her. Always. Anytime I wanted someone to talk to, rant to, or just be with, she was just one phonecall away. She stood by me, even before I hit fame.

Our relationship had been going strong for the past three years and today, finally, I was going to ask her to be mine. Forever. Because I couldn't see a life without her in it.

We'd spent Valentine's day together. We didn't go out. Just stayed at home and goofed around like children until our sides hurt from all the laughter and playing.

My problems began when we laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling together. I was busy thinking about a way to propose to her. The ring was situated in my back pocket and every muscle fiber in me itched to just pull it out and get it over with, but I restrained myself.

Doing it in the house would be too plain. Bukola didn't deserve plain. She deserved all the colorful things in the world.

So when I'd said, "I want to take you somewhere", I'd thought everything was going to go smoothly.

The Maryland Mall wasn't too far away from my apartment and I thought it would be the perfect place to propose. It was going to be like those k-drama episodes she loved to watch. They were annoying, and exaggerated every single emotion there was in the world, but Bukola loved them, and I was going to give her a live scene from one of them.

A little drama never hurt anyone, right?

Bukola smiled a smile that made my knees go weak. Her brown eyes seemed to shimmer with eagerness as she replied, "Okay."

She sat up and looked down to her outfit; a red short-sleeved gown that hugged her frail looking body. Her eyes flickered back up to mine. "Should I change?"

"No," I smiled, getting up myself. "You look great."

She grinned right back at me, no sign of embarrassment whatsoever. It was typical of her. She never felt the need to bear a bashful expression because of a compliment. She was bold, unlike most of the women I knew.

"Thank you. Though, I think I'll put on some makeup." She lifted her hand and pressed her thumb and index finger together, squinting to show effect. "Just a little."

I laughed then pressed a kiss to her cheek. I didn't know about her, but that action made my chest constrict. She made my chest constrict, but it wasn't a dangerous feeling. It was more comfortable.

"Go do your thing," I told her. "I'll wait in the car."

She nodded and hurried to the mirror, grabbing her purse on the way. I watched her for a moment, wondering if all women carried makeup around like that. Then, with a smile, I left the house and got into the car.

Once I shut the door, I said a prayer for goodluck. My palms were a bit sweaty and my heart beat was faster than normal.

Did all men feel this way just when they were about to propose? Was this normal?

With heavy breaths, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my closest friend.

To Douché: