BENEATH THE RUSTLING ALMOND TREE

 

Part 1: The Beginning of Us

The sun was gentle that morning, casting a mellow glow over Agodi Gardens. The scent of roasted corn wafted through the air, mingling with the sweet fragrance of hibiscus. Ibadan was awake, vibrant, yet slow in its rhythm, as if the city itself took deep breaths before surrendering to the day.

Bode always said that the city had a soul—a quiet one, battered and beautiful. He was the kind of man who carried storms behind a smile. Tall, lean, always in his kaftan with sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a book clutched in hand. He believed too much in poetry, in people, in possibilities.

Kunbi was different. The kind of woman whose laughter lingered long after the sound had gone. She had eyes like bottled secrets and a wit sharp enough to slice through Bode’s idealism. She sold handmade jewelry at Bodija market, though her dreams stretched far beyond the rusted stalls and bargaining voices.

And then there was Marvy.

If Bode was the storm, Marvy was the fire—reckless, impulsive, brilliant. He came into their lives like a monsoon, sweeping away boundaries, building bridges of moments. He was Bode’s oldest friend from university—same room, same hunger for something more. But where Bode sought depth, Marvy chased thrill. They balanced each other like dusk and dawn.

The three of them became something of a myth in their neighborhood. Always together—laughing by the roadside bukas, dancing in dimly-lit clubs off Ring Road, having deep, midnight conversations on Bode’s rooftop overlooking the city’s ancient brown roofs. There was nothing they couldn’t say to one another—or so they believed.

But beneath all the laughter and long walks, there were things unsaid. Things waiting to unravel.

 

 

 

 

Part 2: What the Heart Knows

It started, as most betrayals do, quietly.

Kunbi began to notice the way Bode looked at her—not just as a friend anymore. His glances lingered. His voice softened. And when he spoke to her, it felt like the world went still for a second. She’d always known Bode was different. He listened like her words were scripture, like every laugh she gave was a song he’d been waiting to hear.

She should have shut it down. She should have said something. But she didn’t. Because deep down, she felt it too.

They didn’t say it out loud, but it was there—in shared silences, the accidental touches, the way they held each other’s gaze just a second too long. It felt dangerous and holy all at once.

And then came that night.

It was after Marvy’s birthday. The three of them had gone to a lounge near Ventura Mall, danced until their feet ached, drank palm wine, and told stupid stories. But Marvy was distracted—he left early with some girl he met by the bar, his usual way of ending nights. Bode and Kunbi were left alone, walking under a bruised Ibadan sky.

“I feel like I’m waiting for something that never comes,” Bode had said, hands in his pockets, voice low.

Kunbi didn’t respond. She just took his hand.

And that was the beginning of everything they never meant to do.

For weeks, they lived in that strange space between love and guilt. Behind Marvy’s back, they became more than friends. Secret walks in Eleyele, kisses stolen behind market stalls, quiet Sundays in Bode’s one-room apartment near Mokola Hill. It was sweet. It was selfish. It was inevitable.

But Marvy was no fool.

He noticed the change—the way Bode avoided his eyes, the way Kunbi flinched when he touched her. One night, drunk and angry, he asked Kunbi outright, “Are you sleeping with him?”

She paused too long.

And that silence broke something that would never be fixed.

 

 

 

Part 3: Cracks in the Ceiling

The truth came out not in a shout, but in a whisper.

Marvy didn’t rage, didn’t fight. He just…left. Walked out of Kunbi’s small flat in Challenge and disappeared into the Ibadan night, leaving the door open behind him like a wound. She sat there, shaking, hands still smelling of onions from the ogbono soup she had just served.

When Bode came the next morning, she didn’t have to say anything. He saw it in her eyes.

“He knows.”

Bode didn’t say a word for a long time. Then he sat beside her, took her hand, and said quietly, “We did this.”

For days, Marvy was unreachable. His phone rang out. His Instagram, once a stream of wild energy—gym selfies, club nights, political rants—went cold. Even his mother, who ran a small tailoring shop near Oje, hadn’t seen him.

When he finally resurfaced, it was at Bode’s door.

Rain was falling hard that evening, flooding the alleyways, turning the red Ibadan dust into thick, bloody mud. Bode opened the door and found him there—drenched, eyes bloodshot, bottle of Seaman’s Gin in one hand.

“Let’s talk.”

They didn’t talk.

They shouted.

The kind of shouting that made neighbors pretend not to hear. Fists were thrown. Bode’s lip split. Marvy’s knuckles bled. The air was thick with grief, and every word was a slap.

“You were my brother,” Marvy yelled, voice cracking. “And you chose her over us.”

“I didn’t choose,” Bode said, tears mixing with blood. “It just happened. I didn’t plan—”

“That’s the problem. You never planned. You just let things happen. You let her happen to us.”

Silence stretched long between them. Then Marvy laughed—cold, bitter.

“She’ll leave you too. Just wait.”

And with that, he left.

 

 

 

Part 4: Things That Don’t Heal

The silence between Bode and Kunbi began as a crack, then widened like a sinkhole.

They still saw each other, still lay beside each other in Bode’s bed, but the closeness was gone. Where once there was laughter and warmth, now there was a dull ache—like a wound being picked at every day.

Bode tried to salvage it. He’d cook for her, take her to the old places—the bookshop in Jericho, the ice cream stand at Ventura—but everything felt like trying to glue together a shattered vase. No matter how carefully he pieced it back, it still leaked.

And Kunbi… she was drifting.

One afternoon, while rain beat down on their zinc roof, she said the words he always feared.

“I don’t think I love you the way I thought I did.”

Bode turned from the window, heart skipping. “What do you mean?”

“I think I was in love with the idea of you. Of what we could be. But all I feel now is... tired.”

“Tired of me?”

“No. Tired of us.”

She left two days later. Packed her things in a quiet hurry and moved to her aunt’s house in Iwo Road. She didn’t cry. She just kissed his forehead and said, “I’m sorry.”

And Bode?

He didn’t stop her.

Marvy came back into the picture a few weeks later. Not by choice—but by tragedy.

It was a Saturday when the call came.

Marvy’s younger brother, Dayo, had died in a bike accident near UI gate. Marvy had been the one raising him since their father passed. He was all the family Marvy had left.

Bode heard the news at a barber’s shop in Sango. He left mid-cut, hair half-trimmed, and went straight to Marvy’s mother’s house.

And there he was—sitting in the corner, holding Dayo’s schoolbag like a child might hold a teddy bear. His eyes were dry. Too dry.

Bode didn’t say anything. He just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

“I hated you,” Marvy said eventually.

“I know.”

“But I missed you more than I hated you.”

“I missed you too.”

They didn’t hug. Men like them didn’t. But the silence between them finally softened.

Grief has a way of making room for forgiveness.

But time, as always, had other plans.

One evening, months later, as the harmattan winds blew dust across Ibadan’s old roads, Bode received a voice note from Kunbi.

Her voice was shaky, distant.

“Bode… I’m sorry. I should’ve told you earlier. I’m pregnant.”

The world froze.

He replayed it four times.

Pregnant.

His mind ran wild. When? How? Why now?

He called. No answer. He texted. Nothing.

Then another message came through.

“It’s not yours.”

 

 

 

 

Part 5: The Last Rain in Ibadan

Bode stared at his phone for hours that night. Long after the lights went out in Mokola, after the clamor of danfos had died down and the streetlights flickered like tired stars. Kunbi was pregnant. And it wasn’t his.

He didn’t cry. He just sat still. Numb.

When dawn broke, he went walking. Past the rusted taxis, past the street preachers with megaphones, past the bakery with the same brown loaves they’d once shared. He walked all the way to Agodi Gardens—their old place. The almond tree was still there, leaves whispering secrets only the wind could understand.

He sat beneath it, remembering everything.

Their laughter. The fire in Marvy’s eyes. Kunbi’s head on his chest. That one moment in time when love made everything seem endless.

And now? All gone.

The next time he saw Kunbi, she was heavily pregnant, belly round beneath a flowing ankara gown. She looked beautiful. Tired. Older.

They met at a small amala spot near Orita. She’d asked him to come.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” she said, playing with her spoon. “I didn’t want to hurt you more than I already had.”

“Who’s the father?”

She looked down.

“Marvy.”

The world stopped again.

Bode blinked. “I thought… you two stopped talking.”

“It was one night. After Dayo’s funeral. We were both broken.”

He nodded slowly. No words came.

Kunbi reached out, touched his hand. “I didn’t plan it. But I’m keeping the baby.”

He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t hold her hand either.

“I hope he looks like you,” she whispered. “Gentle. Kind.”

And then she left.

Bode changed after that.

He withdrew. Stopped writing. Stopped showing up to his tutoring job. People stopped seeing him around. Marvy reached out once or twice, trying to make peace, but Bode never replied. He loved them both too much to hate them—but not enough to survive them.

And one rainy night, exactly one year after Dayo’s funeral, bode climbed the rusted stairs of Bower’s Tower.

Ibadan lay below him, glowing faintly, tired like an old song. The rain was soft, like tears from the sky. He stood at the edge, hands trembling.

No one knows what he was thinking in that final moment. Whether he saw Kunbi’s smile, or Marvy’s laugh. Whether he remembered their promises or their betrayal.

All they found the next morning was a notebook. Soaked through.

On the last page, in smeared ink, were four words:

“Forgive me. I tried.”

 

 

Epilogue

Marvy never forgave himself.

Kunbi named the child Bode.

And every year, on the anniversary of his death, she takes the boy to Bower’s Tower. They sit under the almond tree in Agodi Gardens. She tells him stories of a boy who loved too deeply. Who believed in friendship. Who wrote poems that smelled like Ibadan dust and rain.

And in the silence, when the wind picks up, the leaves still rustle with the memory of love lost too soon.

AROWOLO ADEYEMI OLASUNKANMI