When Love Was A Lie

A small town beginning

The sun had barely risen above the low hills that wrapped around our small town, its golden fingers stretching through the mist like promises that never seemed to last. Life here was simple—at least on the surface. Everyone knew everyone, and every face held a story whispered over market stalls or in church pews. I grew up in this town, its narrow roads and crowded evenings weaving themselves into the fabric of my life. It was home, even when it felt like a cage.

My name is Matilda, the second child of Samuel and Janet. Our house sat on the edge of town, a modest two-bedroom structure painted cream but fading into the color of dust. My father was a man of quiet strength, the kind of man whose presence filled a room even when he said nothing. My mother, Janet, had a sharper edge, her voice always carrying authority. Between them, they raised four of us—Lydia, the eldest, calm and responsible; Esther, younger than me but full of fire; and Prince, the last born, still too young to understand the storms that would later tear our family apart.

It was an ordinary day when everything truly began, though I did not know it then. I remember sweeping the veranda that morning, watching the neighbors’ children run down the dusty lane with their school bags swinging. I was eighteen and full of the restless dreams that often come with girlhood in a small town. Dreams of love, of escape, of being seen.

That was the morning I first saw Emmanuel.

He was leaning against the wall outside the shop near our compound, tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of smile that made you stop, even when you tried not to. His skin caught the sunlight in a way that seemed unfair, and his eyes—dark, steady, and searching—looked straight into me. For a moment I froze, broom in hand, heat rushing to my face.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice deep but smooth, carrying an ease that made the words linger.

I managed a shy smile. “Good morning.”

He nodded, still looking at me, before turning back to the shopkeeper. I pretended to continue sweeping, but my hands shook on the broomstick. I had seen boys before, spoken to some at school or during festivals, but something about Emmanuel was different. He was older, maybe in his mid-twenties, and carried himself with a confidence that didn’t belong to the boys of our town.

Later that evening, Lydia teased me when she noticed my distraction. “Who is he?” she pressed, leaning against the doorway of our room.

“No one,” I said too quickly, which only made her laugh.

But of course, he wasn’t no one.

Over the following weeks, I began to see Emmanuel everywhere. At the market, buying yams with his mother. Near the well, chatting casually with the men who gathered there. Even outside church on Sundays, though he always sat at the back, his attention never leaving me. Eventually, the greetings became longer, turning into small conversations that left my heart fluttering in ways I had never known.

It wasn’t long before I learned that he came from a well-respected family in town. His father was a retired civil servant, his mother a woman known for her pride and sharp tongue. People spoke of them with a mixture of admiration and caution. Emmanuel himself worked with his uncle in a transport business, which explained the way he always seemed to have money, unlike most young men in our area.

Our conversations deepened. He asked about my dreams, my schooling, what I wanted from life. No one had ever asked me those things before—not with such focus, as though my answers truly mattered. I told him I wanted to study nursing one day, though I didn’t know how we could ever afford it. He smiled, his hand brushing mine for the first time.

“You’ll get there,” he said softly. “And I’ll help you.”

It was those words, more than anything else, that opened my heart to him.

By the time the rains came that year, we were inseparable. My sisters noticed, my mother noticed, even my father noticed. Samuel often sat quietly in the evenings, watching Emmanuel when he visited. He didn’t say much, but his eyes seemed to weigh everything, as though measuring whether this young man deserved a place in his daughter’s life.

One night, after Emmanuel had left, my father called me aside.

“Matilda,” he said, his voice heavy with meaning. “Do you love him?”

I looked down at my hands. “I think I do, Papa.”

He sighed, his eyes clouded. “Be careful, my daughter. Not every smile is as true as it looks.”

At the time, I thought he was being overprotective, like all fathers. I had no way of knowing his words were the first warning of the storm ahead.

Because even as Emmanuel held my hand, whispered promises, and painted futures where we built a family together, there was another truth hidden beneath his smile. A truth I would not discover until it was too late.

But in those early days, I let myself believe. I let myself dream of weddings, of children, of love that lasted. I let myself fall deeper with every meeting, every secret glance, every word he whispered in the quiet corners of our small town.

And so began the story that would shape the rest of my life. A story of love, betrayal, loss, and strength. A story of how sometimes, when love enters your life, it does not come as a gift—but as a lie waiting to unravel.