Dance with me

Friday, 14 August 2026.

I picked a pair of jeans from the couch where clean and dirty clothes had been piled into a mountain over the past few weeks. I pulled them on, picked a polo from the hanger and slipped it over my head.

I couldn't find my hair brush, so I gave up searching, picked up a snapback and used it to cover the rough, bushy hair that used to be a low cut before neglect took over. I ran my fingers over the stubbles on my chin, evening them out as much as I could.

Life hadn't been fun lately.

Saying it was a matter of the heart made twenty-four-year-old me feel somehow, but yeah, it was.

Thank God I didn't take the hostel accommodation the law school provided. My roommate would probably have evicted me by now with the kind of mess I'd made of my room these past few weeks.

I rubbed the back of my neck, picked up my wallet and checked the cash inside before stuffing it into my back pocket. It would be enough to get me from Agbani to Awkunanwu.

My phone which lay neglected on the bed, rang.

And then the music began.

It was part of the pain now.

I hurried to the bed, got the phone and ended the call, but the song had already done its job. Before I could stop it, I was involuntarily transported back to when and where the music had first come to mean something to me.

Friday, 26th October 2024.

The evening started well.

By the time I arrived, the hall chosen by the Director of Socials and the rest of the organising committee had successfully been transformed into a royal court.

Apparently, the theme was The Royal Court, and everybody had taken it personally.

The hall had been dressed in the sort of elegance that made you instinctively sit straighter. The lecturers looked less like people who tortured us with assignments and more like members of an aristocratic council who had gathered to decide the fate of their subjects.

There were gowns, suits, dresses and enough regal energy to convince you that, at any moment, someone would announce, “His Lordship has arrived.”

The evening began with the awards.

One after another, the Dean of the Faculty of Law called forward students whose academic suffering had apparently produced tangible results and honoured them.

Kilibe went up three times.

Three.

I received one.

I wasn't even expecting that one.

Perhaps the faculty had decided that a quiet boy who was somehow maintaining a CGPA of 4.3 deserved at least one royal decree in his favour.

I knew I'd start getting bored once the lecturers left and the dinner gave way to dancing, drinking and all the nightlife law students seemed to recklessly entertain during law dinners.

So I ate my food without taking my time. That way, I could sneak out once the lecturers started leaving.

I couldn't let Chika harass me into staying.

I'd only come because Kilibe asked me to. It was her last law dinner in the university. The next one would be the Body of Benchers dinner in the Law School.

Come to think of it, the thought of having no Kilibe to take my lecture notes to for dissection was dreadful.

I should have known I had no brains for law when my uncle had to resort to paying just so I could be admitted.

My first CGPA was a dreadful 2.5 in 100 level.

Somehow, I'd managed to pull it up. After my 200 level, I was maintaining a 4.3 CGPA.

All thanks to God and, of course, Kilibe.

She taught me. Tutored me. Set quiz questions for me. Introduced me to study apps. Sometimes, she made studying feel less like punishment and more like something I could actually survive.

We met in CLASFON.

I'd joined the fellowship and introduced myself as a law student. As usual, people welcomed me, and a few law students from different levels offered to help if I ever had questions.

Kilibe was one of them.

After dismissal that day, she walked up to me and the other new 100-level students and collected our phone numbers.

Nothing dramatic happened.

At least, not then.

At the beginning of my 200-level first semester, she approached Chika, some of my classmates and me after fellowship and asked about our results.

The others proudly mentioned theirs.

I quietly excused myself.

Kilibe chatted me up later that evening and offered to tutor me.

She had initially offered to tutor me for a fee, which I gladly paid because my CGPA desperately needed divine intervention and human assistance.

But somewhere along the line, Kilibe stopped collecting money from me.

“You're my friend now,” she'd say whenever I tried to pay her. Although most times, I still managed to get through some money to her.

That was how we started talking.

And, somewhere along the way, she became the person I could take my notes to when a four-unit course looked like it had been written specifically to destroy my GPA.

I didn't know it then, but I would eventually start looking forward to seeing her more than I looked forward to understanding the notes she was teaching me.

Immediately the lecturers left, the party became exactly what I had expected.

On the table beside me, Iheanacho, the 100-level guy who somehow seemed to be everywhere, was downing champagne straight from the bottle while his friends gathered around him, hailing him and vibing to Diamonds by Rihanna, which was booming from the speakers.

Constitutional Law would definitely humble them in 200 level.

He might not even attend next year's dinner.

I wondered where Chika had gone. He'd left to find someone, while Seyi had gone to the restroom. The fourth guy at our table wasn't from our level, so he'd probably gone to join his friends.

Then—

“Heiiiiii!”

The entire hall erupted.

I looked towards the dance floor, which had been hastily set up after the lecturers left.

It was Chika and Funmi.

Dancing.

Chikaaa.

I knew that boy had a thing for that babe.

Fling or not, he had a soft spot for her. She doted on him too. By the way, who wouldn't want to be friends with seniors? There were always benefits to having friends who were your seniors.

I could relate firsthand shaa.

They danced as though they had rehearsed it beforehand. The way their bodies moved in sync, the harmony of their legs—

Something about it made me want to stay.

Maybe it was the music.

Maybe it was the atmosphere.

Or maybe I was simply beginning to realise that leaving early wasn't such a brilliant idea after all.

From where I sat, I started looking for Kilibe.

I couldn't find her among the dancers or the students crowding around the DJ, begging him to play their songs.

For a moment, I feared she'd already left.

But that was unlikely. Kilibe loved lively places so much that I could vouch she'd be the one to lock the doors after everyone else had gone home.

I searched again.

This time, I looked for a gel ponytail with plenty of fringe in front. I'm not even sure of what they call that hairstyle sef.

There.

She was near the middle of the hall, cheering Zainab, who had taken over the dance floor with Hawaa—the famous besties from 500 level.

Soon, the LAWSA President and Vice President joined them, and the noise from the students doubled.

I watched Kilibe laugh and suddenly wanted to be near her.

Then I reached into the breast pocket of my blazer, pulled out a pen, tore the label off a wine bottle on the table and scribbled something on it.

Earlier that evening, I'd helped the DJ mount his speakers because his guys were running late. He'd promised to return the favour someday.

Well...

He didn't have to wait for someday when he could just do it today.

I bypassed everyone crowding around the DJ and handed him the paper.

He looked at it, then mouthed, “One good turn.”

I smiled.

Adjusting my blazer, I waited.

I adjusted my blazer nervously and walked towards the centre of the hall, towards Kilibe.

The song playing was already winding down, so I picked up my pace.

By the time I reached her, the intro of the song I chose had started.

She leapt up like someone who had been waiting for the arrival of the main dish when she recognised the music.

Then she saw me.

The music had started.

Before I could act like the perfect gentleman and ask her for a dance, she grabbed my arms and shook me vigorously.

Omoo, I remember feeling my teeth rattle.

Then, raising her voice above the noise, she screamed,

“DANCE WITH ME!”

I knew she was literally telling me the title of the song playing, but I chose to interpret it as an invitation from her to dance to her favourite song.

“Oh yes, I would, my queen.”

I laughed and held out my hand.

Ademola Makinde had definitely done something to this woman with this song. She had loved it ever since it was released.

Oh yeah, I knew because I'd once had to sit through a study session with her while she played the song on repeat at a low volume.

I'd even caught her dancing to it in the classroom we normally used every Wednesday while she waited for me to arrive.

Surprisingly, she slowed down now, making hand gestures like Ademola Makinde himself, inviting me to dance before she finally took my hand.

Will you dance?

Will you dance with me? 🎵🎵

The music started.

By the time the song reached its bridge, we had become the centre of attraction.

When we heard the line where Ademola sang:

Hands locked, eyes closed,

Tonight,

we're writing our love story, baby. 🎶🎵

She locked her hands with mine and closed her eyes dreamily, like she was writing the love story in her mind.

I watched her for a moment, and hope rose somewhere in my heart.

Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to tell her.

Who knows? She might have been expecting me to ask.

I let myself sway with her.

For those few seconds, the entire hall seemed to disappear.

It was just us, the music and the rhythm carrying us along.

The dance ended with us holding each other in a hug, swaying gently to the last verse.

Just me and you.

With the world watching us.

Just me and you.

The spotlight is on us. 🎶🎵

“Your perfume smells nice,” she whispered against my chest.

She was still in my arms, sniffing hard, as though trying to take in the scent of my perfume.

Then her eyes widened when she raised her head.

I felt her stiffen in my hands.

She struggled a little, and I let her go immediately.

Then I noticed it.

The spotlight was literally on us.

Many had stopped dancing to watch us.

“Awwwwnnnn!”

The whole place erupted.

But the DJ came to our rescue. An old P-Square song came on and immediately diverted their attention.

The hall erupted with a new vibe, and everyone returned to dancing.

Except us.

“Omooooo! Ogheneakoro, you'll have to deal with one whole year of gossip. We've finally given them something to gossip about.”

She laughed as she spoke, raising her voice to make herself heard over the music.

“I'm so sorry to have dragged you into this mess. But I must confess, you're really a good dancer. Who would have expected that you, Oghene, as quiet as you, could dance?” she laughed.

I laughed too, bent towards her and whispered, not wanting to strain my voice.

“I don't mind being dragged. Anddddd, I can dance better than this when people are not watching. Do you want to recreate this dance?” I grinned and gave her a mischievous wink.

She stood on her tiptoes and shouted into my ears like she had plans to incapacitate my eardrums.

“You eeh, you and shy-shy. I'll like to recreate the dance shaa. Maybe you could teach me your moves. I no go pay you oo.”

“Of course, you're my girl. Why would I charge you? I enjoyed the dance, by the way.”

She mouthed a “Me too” while moving away from me to her seat where her bag was.

I loved Kilibe, but she never found out.

Every time I had to sit with her through the study sessions she had with me, I felt like I would burst if I didn't tell her how my heart went out to her.

But each time, we parted ways respectfully, usually after a strong, friendly handshake.

I started liking her sometime in my 300 level.

It began with little things.

Her dimpled smile.

Her long, slender fingers gracefully holding her pen.

The way her brows creased whenever she was trying to figure out how to deal with a problem question.

The little “Whoah!” she'd let out after solving one.

Her hearty laughter whenever she saw something funny.

Well, everything was funny to her.

Even the embarrassing sight of me wearing my socks inside out.

And for a long time, I wore my socks inside out just to entertain her.

A two-minute bout of laughter wouldn't hurt every time we met to study those tedious four-unit courses, even if the laughter was at my expense.

It all started with a crush.

After all, who wouldn't like a kind-hearted, brilliant, beautiful and Jesus-loving girl who was always smiling?

Chika teased me about being lovesick the evening I was consulting ChatGPT to suggest a suitable birthday gift for her that wouldn't give me away and make things awkward.

Actually, I never knew it was that apparent because she never noticed.

She didn't even attach any special feeling to the gift beyond the sisterly affection with which she thanked me.

So I kept admiring her in secret.

Besides, I didn't expect a 400-level lady to want to be in a relationship with a 300-level guy.

I liked her until I saw her crying.

And, for the first time, I felt the need to protect her.

She had lost her best friend from secondary school that weekend.

I didn't know.

She came to school the following week as usual, but I kept noticing that something was different.

Whenever we bumped into each other on campus, she had little or no smile on her face.

She even tried to act normal during our usual Wednesday study session.

She sat there with her pen, pretending to concentrate, but something wasn't right.

Eventually, I pried the pen from her fingers, got her to look at me and asked,

“Are you really okay?”

That was when I found out.

She told me what had happened.

Then she broke down.

She wept so much that she soaked both her handkerchief and mine.

I was frightened.

Her body shook as she cried, and I had no idea what to do with my hands.

Mehn.

Consoling a beaurifu, grieving woman is a lot of work, and you need to be a man to do that work.

I wasn't a man then.

Pardon the 22-year-old me.

Anyway, she apologised for wetting my handkerchief and hers for almost two weeks and even offered to replace mine.

I didn't understand why she was embarrassed about it.

She had lost someone she loved.

She was allowed to cry.

But somewhere in the middle of watching her grieve, something in me changed.

That was when I knew, mehnnn...

I loved this babe oo.

I knew telling her would change the dynamics between us, so I kept quiet.

I hoped she'd still be single by the time I graduated.

I had no idea that time wasn't something I could bargain with.

But the dinner was the only place where I gave her the impression.

I never told her directly.

I only allowed myself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, she understood.

August 14th, 2026...

I really don't know who to blame for this grief.

But I can't wish it on an enemy.

I would have accepted it in good faith if Kilibe had rejected me outright.

A rejection would have been better than this form of heartbreak.

Kilibe, didn't you say you enjoyed the dance with me?

Didn't you want to recreate it?

I wish I had told you all those times that I wanted to make you my wife.

I would have accepted a “no” over coming to pour dust into your grave.

Maybe then, at least, I wouldn't be here wondering forever what your answer would have been.

You died in an accident.

And I am still here, carrying a question that death refused to let you answer.

Kilibemmachukwu, I love you so much.

I really do.

What would you have me do now?

I slumped onto the floor of my apartment and wept.

I remembered the smell of her perfume from that night at the dinner because it was the closest we'd ever been.

The memory felt cruel now.

I had spent so much time waiting for the right moment to tell her I loved her.

I thought there would always be another day.

There wasn't.

And somewhere between the tears and the silence of my empty room, I made myself a promise.

If I ever recovered from the forever silence of never telling Kilibe how I felt, I would never again assume that the people I loved already knew.

I would tell them.

Before time decided to answer for me.