I've always believed that life can change in a moment. I just never thought my own moment would come in a tiny café on a random Wednesday afternoon.
My name is Amara. I'm 20, a commercial student trying to survive school, Lagos traffic, and family responsibility — all at once. My dad runs a small provision shop. My mom sells fabrics. Honest work, small profit. Enough to keep us going, not enough to handle emergencies. And right now? School fees felt like an emergency we didn't prepare for.
That afternoon, I was scrolling through my phone, pretending to sip a drink I could barely afford, when he walked in.
Tall, quiet, clean fade haircut, and a shirt that probably cost more than everything in my wardrobe combined. He didn't look flashy — just expensive in a subtle way. Like someone who didn't need to announce himself.
He sat at the table across from mine. Ordered coffee. Black. No sugar. Then his eyes lifted to mine for the first time.
"I hope you don't mind me asking," he said, voice calm but steady, "are you Amara Williams?"
I blinked. "Depends on who's asking."
He smiled slightly. Not the kind that reveals teeth — more like the kind that says, I expected that answer.
"My name is Damian Cole," he continued. "I have a proposal. One that could solve your current situation."
I leaned back, already suspicious. "Let me guess. I'll have to do something strange, abi?"
He reached into a slim leather folder and placed a paper on the table. The bold heading at the top made my heart stutter:
MARRIAGE AGREEMENT — 12 MONTHS
I laughed, sharp and unfiltered. "Oga, I'm stressed but I'm not mad."
"It's not madness," he replied, stirring his coffee slowly. "It's a deal. Purely contractual. You help me, I help you."
My humor faded. "Why me?"
"Because you need a lifeline, and I need someone I can trust to play a role convincingly. No emotional attachment, no public embarrassment, no drama. Just a mutual agreement."
"And the help you're offering?" I asked.
He tapped the paper. "Your tuition. Accommodation. And a monthly allowance to support yourself while you finish school."
My chest tightened. That was the exact weight sitting on my shoulders.
"And if I refuse?" I pushed.
He took a slow breath. "Then nothing changes. You leave here with the same burdens you came in with."
The truth of it hit too close to home.
I didn't sign anything that day. But I took the paper with me. Folded it. Slipped it into my tote bag filled with lecture notes and unpaid dreams.
He stood up before leaving, adjusting his sleeve casually. "You have 48 hours to decide, Amara. Sometimes help looks unusual. Doesn't mean it isn't real."
Then he walked out, the café door chiming behind him.
And just like that, my life split into a before and after.