From the very first day he met her at a wedding in Sango-Ota, Sola knew there was something different about Shade. It wasn’t just her beauty though her smile could light up a power outage by Nepa, it was the calm way she spoke, the way her laughter seemed to quiet the noise around her. They danced only once that day, but her scent lingered with him like a strong Arabian perfume . He found himself replaying her words, her smile, her laughter until he couldn’t resist calling the number she’d written on his palm. Weeks turned into months. Calls became visits. Visits became long walks in the evenings. They spoke of everything their dreams, their fears, the pressure from family, and the quiet longing for peace in a noisy world. When Sola finally proposed, it wasn’t in a fancy restaurant or on a beach. It was on a Sunday afternoon, in front of his mother’s compound in Surulere, with jollof rice smoke in the air and children playing football nearby. He went down on one knee, his voice trembling, “Shade, you are the calm in my chaos. You are my missing rib, the piece that makes me whole. Will you walk this life with me?” Her eyes glistened. She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I’ve been yours from the first dance,” she whispered. Years later, when the world got noisy and life got hard, Sola would hold her close at night and remember that day the dance, the laughter, the children, the promise. And he’d whisper into her ear, “My missing rib,” just before she drifted to sleep.